Hidden. Tara Quinn Taylor
want you to stay,” he replied, just before his mouth covered hers.
And, really, that was it for them. Another bout of incredible lovemaking. Another moment when, injured as they were, they could each connect with another human being. Another moment of forgetting.
A brief moment of perfection in a life that wasn’t perfect at all.
6
San Francisco Gazette
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Tricia quickly checked the date above the headline as she stared at the newspaper box on the corner of Redwood and 30th Streets, a short mile down the road from Scott’s house in South Park. Seeing that today’s issue had replaced yesterday’s, she slid her quarters into the slot, pulled open the front and grabbed the double-thick Sunday edition. Scott was at work, Taylor asleep in his stroller.
The sweet scent of roses and carnations coming from the flower stand nearby reminded her of home—of fresh-cut flowers on the table. Color everywhere. Sunshine and blue skies.
Paper resting on the stroller’s canopy, Tricia pushed her small son toward Fern Street and the crossover to North Park. With the paper growing heavier with every step she took, Tricia knew she had to calm herself. Her hands were shaking, her knees weak, threatening to give out on her.
Balboa Park, San Diego’s pride and joy, had acres and acres of parkland, flower gardens, museums and even the zoo. It would be a good place to go. Its elegance—and sheer size—its buildings and businesses would provide her with the company she needed to alleviate her panic while still affording the privacy that had become a necessity. And when Taylor woke up, they could play on the swings. He loved that.
The thought of her son’s laughter as she held him on her lap and pushed them both as high in the air as she dared chased away some of the fear that seemed such a natural part of her these days.
Past pink hibiscus, pine trees, down streets with two-foot-high beige walls surrounding grassy front yards, Tricia slowly pushed the stroller, concentrating on the rhythm of the wheels crossing cracks in the sidewalk, on the soft April air, on the mustards and browns of Southern California homes and plants.
Whatever was in that paper would still be there in half an hour, when she was in a better state to comprehend it. Yesterday’s scare with the man in dress pants watching her on the beach had taken its toll. Or maybe it had been her immediate reaction—the way she’d walked off without a word, leaving her son playing with her lover in the sand—that was unsettling her so completely. Had she really changed that much? Hardened that much? Hurt so much that something vital inside her had snapped, allowing her to shut herself off and simply go?
Or was she just stronger now? Better prepared? Able to do whatever she had to in order to protect her son?
Had there really been someone watching her? Or was she becoming paranoid?
At the park, she pushed the stroller toward the yellow metal swing set just off a cemented common area, stopping at a stone picnic table beneath the shade of a palm tree. Brushing back damp hair from Taylor’s flushed cheeks, she adjusted the canopy above him, loosened the straps on his denim coverall and slid the brown sweater down over his chubby little arms. He didn’t stir.
Smiling, Tricia watched her son, followed the even cadence of his breath, and knew another perfect moment—a second when everything in her world was just as it should be. As it was meant to be. The love she felt for Taylor, the joy he brought to her life in ordinary moments—these things were larger than any evil that might lie in wait. That joy was worth any inconvenience, any pain she had to go through.
For now and for always. To have had these moments, raising the innocent little person who was such an integral part of her, made everything else worthwhile.
Satisfied that Taylor was fine for another few minutes, Tricia slid onto one end of the bench, setting the paper in front of her. There was no one around that early on a Sunday morning, so she didn’t have the peripheral protection of the crowds that would appear later, drawn by the museums, restaurants and shops. Still, she was out.
And alive.
There was nothing on the front page. Not even a teaser. Nothing in the whole first section. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything other than that Thomas Whitehead—or someone equally influential—was paying to have the news hidden somewhere inside the paper. Money couldn’t stop freedom of the press, but it sure had a way of making some stories less visible.
Pages shaking as she held them up, gaze moving more rapidly across each sheet as her heart rate sped up, Tricia turned a page. And then another.
Panic rose in her throat. Another day with nothing couldn’t be good.
Or maybe it could be, a calming voice said inside her mind. If, like Tricia, Leah was alive and well…
Page 25. Section E
Blood Found on Car Seat
Police found blood on the front passenger seat of Senator Thomas Whitehead’s Miata convertible on Saturday after obtaining a warrant to search from Judge Paul Kassar. The lab report, released late yesterday afternoon, compared the blood sample with records from missing heiress Leah Montgomery’s personal physician. According to the report, the blood found in Senator Whitehead’s Miata matched a DNA sample taken from Ms. Montgomery at twelve years of age as evidence in her parents’ divorce case and resultant paternity suit.
The senator was brought in for questioning just before 7:00 p.m. last night. He had apparently been at his mother’s home, where he was watching television with her. He told police that, while he was unaware of any blood on the custom-ordered black velour seat, Ms. Montgomery had been menstruating Monday morning when he’d picked her up for a quick breakfast before dropping her at her office on the top floor of the Madison building downtown. When asked by reporters why he hadn’t mentioned in his previous interview with police that he’d seen Ms. Montgomery on Monday, the senator replied that they’d asked only when he’d heard from her last. He blamed his oversight on emotional distress caused by the heiress’s disappearance less than two years after his wife’s.
Whitehead said that Ms. Montgomery had been wearing a yellow pantsuit during last Monday’s breakfast. When asked if he’d noticed any bloodstains as she got out of the car to go into the Madison Building, the senator answered simply, “no.” Restaurant sources confirm that the couple had a table for breakfast and that Ms. Montgomery was wearing a yellow pantsuit. According to waitress Tina Bellows, the couple appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation.
Forensics physician Adam Foster reports that the blood from Senator Whitehead’s car could be menstrual blood. There is no way to distinguish between a woman’s cyclic bleeding and blood from other parts of the body. Foster was also unable to determine exactly how long the blood had been in Whitehead’s car, but based on coagulation, suspected it had been there for several days. Ms. Montgomery has been missing since Monday.
A search of the senator’s house, offices and two other vehicles earlier in the week produced no reported evidence. Detectives Kyle Gregory and Warren Stanton, who are heading the investigation, refused to comment, but one police source told the Gazette that the Miata’s search was delayed because Whitehead had lent the expensive sports car to Ronald Atler, an attorney at his firm who’d eloped on Wednesday. County marriage records confirm that the marriage took place. Atler was unavailable for questioning.
The dirt under the swing set was clean, processed. Tricia liked the natural grass surrounding it, and the yellow flowering weeds springing up all over the ground. That something so fragile-looking could live so abundantly meant that life endured.
Or at least weeds did.
Holding her baby to her chest with both arms wrapped around his body and the swing’s chains, Leah pushed off, keeping the swing in motion. Taylor squealed, his tiny fingers grasping hold of her white sweater and a few stray strands of hair. She hardly noticed the pain. Didn’t care about anything so unimportant.
Leah