Читать книгу Full Contact - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 11

JAY HAD NEVER BEEN ONE to leave well enough alone. He had this cursed inability to turn his back and walk away. Even after the trait had landed him eighteen months in prison, he continued to let it drive his actions. And now he couldn’t leave Ellen Moore to handle the fallout of their afternoon session alone.

But she’d disappeared—had been out of the parking lot before he’d been able to grab the keys out of the locked drawer in his table. Although he’d driven around the entire town, he hadn’t spotted her.

Jay knew better than to ask people if they’d seen her. Or to hope they would direct him to her. She was a daughter of Shelter Valley. He was the outsider.

He called Shawna, knowing the counselor would have a hell of lot more luck at locating Ellen than he would, but reached her voice mail and left a message for her to phone him as soon as possible.

He had nothing to do this afternoon except wait for that call and tend to the one aspect of his life that he’d left completely alone.

His father had deserted him and his mother. The man was weak and irresponsible. He’d loved his mother enough to marry her, but not enough to stick around after she’d had Jay. And Jay had seen nothing worth pursuing in that situation.

Then Kelsey Johnson, now Kelsey MacDonald, had contacted him a month ago. They had known each other in college. He’d had sex with her. She’d married one of Jay’s ex-frat brothers. And twelve years later, she confessed he had a son.

A delinquent son. One her husband was tired of dealing with. Apparently, MacDonald had known all along that the boy wasn’t his. So out of the blue, Kelsey wanted Jay to take responsibility for Cole.

A man couldn’t very well expect to father a troubled teenager when he had his own father issues. Jay didn’t trust fathers. Or families.

He had no idea how to be the first. Or to be a part of the second.

To make matters worse, Jay, who knew what it was to be abandoned, had unwittingly put his own son in the very same position.

Damn Kelsey for putting him in this position.

The idea that he had a son was not sitting well with him. Despite having had four weeks to come to terms with the news, to make the plans that uprooted his entire footloose and fancy-free, lay-on-the-beach-whenever-he-wanted-to lifestyle, the existence of a boy with Jay’s blood in his veins still seemed completely unrealistic.

He sat at his computer, intent on searching various databases he had access to for any mention of Jay Billingsley, Sr.

He had a copy of his mother’s birth certificate and death certificate, which had been listed in her maiden name—his aunt’s doing. She’d wanted to eradicate any mention of the man who’d deserted her baby sister.

Jay had his own birth certificate, too. But he couldn’t connect Tammy Renee Walton to Billingsley. He couldn’t find any record of his father at all. Not even on his own birth certificate. Even though they had been married, his mother had chosen to list her maiden name and leave the father blank.

He knew the man’s name was Jay Billingsley. He knew he’d worked at a car dealership in Tucson—as a salesman his aunt had said—that had long since gone out of business.

With those three pieces of information, it should be easy enough to trace the guy. Jay had always thought he could find his father in a matter of hours if he’d really wanted to do so.

Apparently not.

This morning, when he’d attempted to access his mother’s marriage license, he’d been told there wasn’t one. The records clerk who had been helping him suggested that his parents might have been married in another state.

Just damned fine.

Like the majority of U.S. states, Arizona was a closed record state, which meant that without the man’s name on his birth certificate, Jay had no legal way of accessing his father’s records—other than those that were public such as birth date, marriage or death. He couldn’t find any public records for the man in Arizona.

For all he knew, Jay Billingsley, Sr. could have been born in another state, as well.

Maybe he’d died at some point, too.

Jay had other avenues to check. He hadn’t developed the reputation he had for ferreting out the most hard to find facts in order to solve cold cases without learning a few hundred tricks.

But he hadn’t expected to need them this time. He’d figured he’d make a few simple inquiries, do a stake-out—similar to the one he’d done that morning—then, depending on what he found, plan his next move.

Typing usernames and passwords on various internet public document reporting agencies Jay searched U.S. marriage, birth and death records.

Surprised as hell, Jay came up with another dead end. Jay Billingsley, Sr. had obviously lied to Tammy about his real name. That could explain why the man had taken off without a backward glance.

Had he been in trouble?

A member of the underworld?

Living a double life with a wife and family elsewhere?

Or simply a scumbag con man?

Trying a different tactic, Jay gathered the articles he’d located this morning. He opened a can of soda and sat back to spend the time before preparing his poolside dinner of grilled shrimp with news stories from the Tucson Citizen and the Arizona Daily Star dating back thirty-two years ago.

Maybe a birth announcement would shed some light on the latest irritation in his life. Or maybe a piece of school sports trivia would. He already had the few brief pieces that had been printed about his mother’s death before the records had been sealed from the press.

There was no mention of his father having been on the scene at any time. During his years-long investigation to find his mother’s killer, he’d looked for any mention of his father. The only family listed had been his mother’s sister—the aunt who had raised Jay. The same woman who had told him that his father had abandoned Jay and his mother before she’d been murdered.

It was conceivable the man might not even know about the heinous crime that had robbed Jay of any semblance of a normal life.

He’d known about Jay, though. That much was quite clear. Billingsley, Sr. had put it in writing, giving sole custody of his son to Tammy Walton Billingsley. Jay’s aunt had kept the letter in a lockbox. Jay had it now.

But just because his father wasn’t mentioned at the time of his mother’s death, didn’t mean that the man hadn’t made the news in some other fashion. Jay had done the obvious—searched for any mention of Jay Billingsley—so now he was going to do the more tedious part of an investigator’s job. Read through layers and layers of unrelated detail attempting to find that one piece of information that would click with something he already knew but didn’t yet know was pertinent.

The man had lived in Tucson. That much was certain. His aunt had also mentioned—let slip was more like it—that his father had had some later ties to Shelter Valley.

The sooner Jay found his father, the sooner he could contact Cole’s mother and determine exactly how the next phase of his own life would unfold. It wouldn’t be a white picket fence in a small town—or anywhere. He knew that much. But if Cole’s mother had her way, the kid could end up living with Jay.

He picked up a sheet of paper with a shrunken news paper page copied to it. He took in the details of reported life in Tucson, Arizona. On January 13 some thirty years ago, Dr. Paul Fugate, a botanist and park ranger, left his office to check out a nature trail and never returned. Thumbing through pages, Jay found many references to the search for the bearded National Park Service employee, but couldn’t find any reference to the man being found.

Could the man’s disappearance have anything to do with his father? Could the man be his father? Sure…except for the name, and the age.

But what if his aunt had been mistaken about his father? What if Tammy Walton had been involved with, married to, an older man?

At his computer he typed the name Fugate into a secure database for public records. There was nothing linking Tammy Walton to any Fugate.

He searched the name Paul Fugate—and found an article dated 2010 about a memorial service for the man who had never been found. His wife, a woman who looked to be near seventy, had been in attendance.

Another dead end.

Jay’s day had been filled with them.

As his thoughts trailed over the past several hours, the obstacles he’d encountered at every step of his day, in his mind’s eye, Jay saw a set of eyes. Brown. Filled with panic.

His newest client.

He’d catapulted her into a very bad day.

When he’d given Shawna his word that he’d do all he could to help Ellen Moore, Jay’s goal, his purpose, was to help her feel better.

And because that hadn’t happened during their first encounter, he was worried about her. Did anyone outside of him, Ellen and Shawna know about the session? Would she seek help? Or comfort?

From what Shawna had told him about the woman, he suspected not.

He’d seen Ellen jogging the other day at four o’clock. It was almost four now. A person suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder often relied on the sameness of routine and schedule to maintain a sense of security. And that person might exercise religiously to relieve stress.

He knew at least a portion of her route and could figure out the rest. The town wasn’t that big.

Still, it was Friday. She probably had plans. A beautiful woman like her—she probably had a date.

Taking the chance that she’d take her run regardless of later plans, Jay decided to find her.

ELLEN HEARD HIS MOTORCYCLE as she turned the corner past Tory’s house. He must live nearby.

She stopped. But she didn’t even think about turning back. Or trying to avoid the man who pulled up to the curb beside her and turned off his engine.

In fact, she walked toward the bike, studying the chrome while she willed her heart and her breath back to normal range. If he’d come looking for her, she would deal with him.

If he hadn’t, then she’d extricate herself from the awkward position with the dignity and class that were her trademark—or so she’d been told dozens of times.

Dignity and class had been embarrassingly absent when she’d bolted from her appointment with Black Leather earlier.

“Nice bike.” She walked around it, pretending she knew what she was looking for. Or at. It was a motorcycle, all right. And it was shiny.

“Thanks. You ride?”

“Nope.”

The seat behind him had a backrest and arms.

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve never been on a motorcycle?”

Was the concept really that hard to comprehend?

“No, I’ve never been on a motorcycle.” Proud of the even tone of her voice, Ellen forgave herself for feeling like a backwoods hick thanks to his incredulity. “You might have noticed, there aren’t a lot of biker types in this town.”

The jeans he’d worn at the clinic looked different astride his bike. He’d donned the black leather vest, too.

In her bike shorts and running T-shirt, Ellen wore far less than she had before. But standing on the curb—her curb in her town—she felt twice as covered. Because she had fresh air on her skin, the air of Shelter Valley wrapping her in a loving cocoon—and she was wearing the gazes of anyone in town who passed by, or watched through a window.

“Have you ever had a massage?”

“No.” He wasn’t going to unnerve her. She’d had time to realign herself.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” The answer came quickly…and rang true. Surprisingly true.

“I came looking for you.”

Ellen held her ground. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“I thought it was. You were obviously upset when you left.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d had a breakdown. Wouldn’t be the last. But they were fewer and further between.

“As you can see, I’m fine now.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“I’m not coming back.”

“I don’t intend to talk you into it.”

“Then what’s the point of talking about it? We tried something. It didn’t work.” She was fine. Healthy enough. No one was perfect. She didn’t need help. She only needed to focus on who she was—Ellen Moore, social worker, activities director, mother of a five-year-old bundle of energy who was away for the entire month visiting with his father and the model girlfriend.

“I’m not good with failure.”

He was Black Leather. A man who had popped into her thoughts on more than one occasion since he’d roared into town—quite a shock, considering she was a woman who avoided thoughts of men because of accompanying feelings of fear, revulsion or inadequacy.

“Has anyone asked you to leave town yet?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

“They will.”

“They’ll be disappointed.”

She didn’t think so.

And she hoped so.

“Do I offend you?”

“No.” He fascinated her. In a distant sort of way. A train wreck sort of way.

With both hands still on the handlebars of his motorcycle, Black Leather sighed then looked straight at her. “I’d really like a chance to sit and talk with you,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. Gentle. “I think I might be able to help.”

No didn’t spring immediately to her lips, which unnerved Ellen a little bit. “How?”

“I’m not sure.” He shrugged and she appreciated his honesty. “Obviously there are a lot of things about you, about your situation, I don’t know. I agreed to see you with only a minimal amount of information but I now think that was a mistake and a disservice to you.”

“That’s not your concern.” He was a biker massage therapist. And not long for this town.

“I think it is. Most particularly if I have inadvertently made the situation worse.”

Two cars she recognized had driven past. Becca Parsons again. Ellen often passed the mayor during her run since Becca left work at the same time each day in order to have time in the pool with her kids before dinner. Ellen had been in high school when Becca had finally, after more than twenty years of failed attempts, carried a baby to term. The whole town had watched that pregnancy, but no one more than Ellen’s mother—best friends with Becca since grade school.

The other car that passed was Keith Nielson’s, Bonnie’s husband. Josh would have been at Little Spirits, Bonnie’s day care, waiting for Ellen to pick him up. If he was in town…

“I have to go.”

“Can we set up a time to talk about what happened today?”

He really seemed to want to help. Seemed to believe he had something to offer.

Was she honestly ready to give up? To accept who she was, as she was? To be forever held hostage to a past she couldn’t change?

She looked at Black Leather. She wasn’t afraid of him.

“Do you ever braid your hair?” It was longer than hers. And absolutely none of her business. “Nope.”

She wanted out of the cage her past had trapped her in. She wanted to be able to date. Marry again. She wanted her son to be able to hug her without having his arms wrenched away.

She’d been through counseling—individual and group. She’d exhausted all of the conventional channels and, seven years post-attack, was still struggling to accept being touched. Shawna thought this man could help her.

As a social worker, a counselor, Ellen knew that a huge part of the success—or failure—of Jay’s therapy rested with her. If she was going to do this, she had to be open to him. Completely. No matter how hard that might prove to be.

Considering this afternoon in the clinic, she didn’t think she could be that open.

But she knew something else. If she didn’t at least explore the possibility one more time—by speaking with him—she’d feel as though she’d given up on herself.

“Can you meet me tomorrow morning? Around ten?” Her stepfather, David Marks, was expecting her to help with the church bulletin before that.

“Yes. Where?”

Ellen suggested the Valley Diner.

“You want to be seen in the middle of downtown, sitting at a table with me?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

She wished she could explain to herself why that was.