Kiss Me, Kill Me. Maggie Shayne
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at the bus, with its wild swirls and crazy colors, and said, “I take it that’s yours?”
“Mmm-hmm. You like it?”
“Is Scooby-Doo waiting inside?”
He smiled at her, a genuine smile that made her catch her breath as the dimples in his cheeks deepened. “I haven’t found a dog yet that likes to travel as much as I do.”
“So you’re a drifter.”
“If you want to call it that.”
She looked at him curiously. “Just what do you do, Gabriel Cain?”
“I’m a songwriter,” he told her. And then he got out of the SUV and walked toward his bus. When he opened the driver’s door she glimpsed a guitar resting on the passenger seat and a GPS on the dashboard. He lifted a hand to her just before getting in. “I’ll see you around, Carrie Overton.”
She paused, then got out and went over to his van. He’d closed the door, but the window was down. “Folks have been gathering at the old firehouse three times a day to go out searching for Kyle Becker, the missing boy. Next shift gathers at four. I’m sure they’d welcome another volunteer.”
He nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
He started his motor and put the bus into gear as music spilled from its speakers. James Taylor. Good stuff. Then he drove away and left her wondering why she’d delivered the spontaneous invitation.
A kind, intelligent, kid-loving hippie drifter who listened to James Taylor and drove the Mystery Machine.
He might not be her type, but she had to admit, the man was interesting. And damn good-looking. If you were into that long-haired, unshaven, bad boy look, anyway. Which she, she reminded herself sternly, definitely was not.
2
Carrie drove her son’s ridiculously ostentatious car away from the high school, and thought about Gabriel Cain and why his name sounded so familiar. He obviously wasn’t well-off, driving an old VW Bus around the way he did. A drifter, by his own admission. She’d always wondered what drove men like that. Her own father had suffered from what her mother had called itchy feet. She’d grown up hating it. Hating it. Just when she would get used to one school district and begin to make a few friends, her father would yank up stakes and make them move again. It had been traumatic to her as a child and even more so as a teen. But her mother had always put her father first, ahead of her own child. And she’d hated that, too.
She’d never understood the wanderlust.
And she was irritated that she was thinking about painful elements of her childhood just because some stranger had wandered into her E.R. To hell with that. She reached for the MP3 player’s controls, found the playlist titled Just for Mom and, smiling a little at her son’s thoughtfulness, hit the Play button.
Then, as the smooth, soothing guitar and deep, rugged vocals of country music legend Sammy Gold filled the car, she relaxed and enjoyed the rest of her drive.
Her modified A-frame was waiting, as peaceful as always. Sam and the ever-present Sadie sat on the broad front porch. As Carrie pulled the SUV up to the oversize garage, she saw that Sam had his legs extended, feet on a wicker footstool and an ice pack on his knee.
Frowning, she parked the SUV, hit the button to close the garage door, then hurried outside, across the drive and up the steps to the first level of her two-story wraparound deck.
“What happened?” Carrie dropped her medical bag and purse on the glass-topped wicker table, and crouched in front of her son to remove the cold pack.
“Nothing, Mom. It’s just a little swollen and sore from overuse. Coach said to ice it.”
“Coach didn’t go to medical school.” She poked and prodded at his swollen knee, then flexed it a few times, one hand over the kneecap to feel for any problems.
“So what’s the diagnosis, Doc?” Sam asked.
She tried not to smile and said, “It’s strained from overuse. Ice it.”
“Thank God for med school, huh?”
“Watch it, pal.” She smiled at his teasing, though, and finally turned to Sadie. “Hi, hon. How’s your day going?”
“Better now that you’re here. You wouldn’t believe how he’s been whining about the game.”
“Lost, huh?” Carrie asked her son.
“By one. One. On a penalty shot based on a bad call. You wouldn’t even believe—”
She held up a hand. “Yes, I would.”
Sam gave them both the stink-eye and tried to change the subject. “How’s Marty?”
“He’s fine, hon. No side effects. Just a nasty bout of asthma and a bump on the head to boot.”
“Good thing Marty’s got a thick skull,” Sadie put in.
“That’s what I told him.” Carrie sighed as she looked at her watch. “It’s almost time for the afternoon round of searching for Kyle. But maybe you ought to take tonight off, Sam. Rest your knee.”
“No way. I’m not going to stop looking until we find him.”
She thinned her lips but didn’t argue. “It’s your call, hon. But I really don’t think we’re going to find Kyle by trekking through the woods.”
“I know what you think,” he said. “And you know I think you’re wrong. Dead wrong. Kyle didn’t run away. He wouldn’t run away. Something happened to him—something bad.”
“I know you believe that—”
“And no one’s taking it seriously. Everyone’s assuming he just ran off, that he isn’t out there somewhere, needing help.”
“Regardless of what anyone believes, Sam, everyone is out looking. Bryan Kendall swears that he and everyone else in the police department are treating this like a missing person case, not like a runaway, just in case. So all the bases are covered.”
“Right,” Sadie said. “And we appreciate how much time you’ve been putting into the search, Carrie. Even though you don’t think it’s going to get us any results.”
“Thanks for saying so,” Carrie said. And she gave the girl a smile, thinking again how much she liked Sadie. She was tough and smart and not afraid to say her piece. Girls were growing up strong these days. She liked that, too.
Sam was still frowning, no doubt frustrated. Carrie wished she could make this better for him, but only bringing his friend back home would do that. Damn Kyle for worrying everyone like this.
“It’s three,” Sadie said. “If we’re going to be at the firehouse by four, we’d better grab a bite and get ready.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sam muttered.
Sadie met Carrie’s eyes, rolled her own. “The average halfback runs eight miles per match,” the girl said, “burning off a few thousand calories in the process. There’s no possibility that you are not hungry. So it’s obvious you’re saying that just to make sure we know how miserable you are. But honestly, Sammy, it doesn’t help Kyle one bit to play stubborn and refuse to eat. It only hurts you. So do what you want. Your mom and I are going to get some food.”
And with that she got to her feet and sauntered through the wide entry door into the house.
Carrie smiled. “I swear, son, you’ve got yourself a keeper there.”
He smiled back. “I know I do.” Then he tossed the blue cold pack to her and leaped off the chair to his feet, forcing Carrie to bite back a squeak of protest.
In a moment her son was through the door, catching up to Sadie and sliding his arms