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paper."
"A guy like what?" Amanda asked.
Owens fidgeted on his stool for a moment, then looked over at her. Jesse
watched in the mirror behind the bar as the old man whispered one word,
"Mobster."
Jesse's eyes met Amanda's in the mirror. He'd seen her tense at the word,
some of the color draining from her face.
"Which mobster?" she asked in a small strained voice.
"That Crowe fella, but you didn't hear that from me," Owens said and
pounded on the bar with his empty glass. "If that couple was willing to take
the baby, I don't see no reason to tell anyone about 'em. 'Specially someone
like him."
"You're sure it was J. B. Crowe?" Amanda persisted.
"The one that's in the paper today," Owens said, sounding scared. "You
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think I don't know who I talked to? You think I don't know about that
underworld stuff?"
"What did you tell him?" Amanda asked, a tremor in her voice.
"Don't know nothin'," the old man muttered, swaying a little on the stool.
"Nothin' 'bout that couple that found the baby. Nothin' 'bout no baby. Nothin'
at all." He winked at her, then his head dropped to the bar and he began to
snore loudly.
The bartender came down to take Owens's glass. He didn't say a word but
Jesse noticed how he also didn't meet his eyes as if he didn't want to get
involved.
Behind them the door banged open. A man in a sheriffs uniform filled the
door frame. He was large, his expression displeased. "I heard there might be a
problem over here?" he said eyeing them.
The bartender shook his head. "No problem here, Sheriff Wilson."
Sheriff Wilson let his gaze run over Jesse, then slowed as it took in
Amanda. The only sound in the room was Hubert "Huey" Owens's loud snoring.
Jesse got to his feet, figuring now was as good as any time to talk to the
sheriff. But the man's wide face closed over. He tipped his hat to Amanda,
then turned around and left as if in a hurry.
"What was that about?" she asked after the door had banged shut behind the
sheriff.
"Beats me." Nor did Jesse plan to take it up with the sheriff. At least not
now. He followed Amanda out of the bar. "Thanks for your help in there. You
were good," he admitted grudgingly.
"No problem," she said and walked over to the curb. "Wanna tell me about
it?"
"Not really," he said. "Not yet."
She nodded.
"Also I wouldn't take too much of what the guy said to heart," he told her,
knowing all that mobster talk had upset her. "The baby was only a few hours
old. Of course it was a local girl's. And that stuff about him recognizing the
mobster from the paper "
"Jesse."
Something in her tone stopped him. He joined her at the curb and saw that
she was staring down at one of the newspaper racks. The Dallas Morning News.
Looking out from the front page was J. B. Crowe. He'd just been given some
humanitarian award in Dallas.
Chapter Eleven
An icy chill ran up his spine. Could J. B. Crowe have been in Red River?
Asking about the baby? Asking about Jesse? But why?
He grabbed Amanda's arm and ushered her quickly across the street to the
van. It wasn't until they were both inside that he said, "Right after I went
to work for your father, he made a business trip." He heard the fear in his
voice. "Do you know where he went?"
She shook her head. "I just know he was upset when he got back. What's
going on?"
Jesse started the van. "I wish I knew." At the town's only gas station, he
called Dylan from the pay phone outside. He'd forgotten that Dylan said he
would be on another case and out for a while. Dylan's sister Lily gave him the
news, though. The fingerprints had come back on the photocopy of the newspaper
article Jesse had given Dylan. There was a second set of prints on the paper.
J. B. Crowe's.
Jesse stood for a moment in the phone booth, his heart pounding. J. B.
Crowe had been up here two weeks ago asking about a baby left by the road
thirty years before. Then he put the photocopy of the newspaper article under
Jesse's door. Why?
Inside the classic old filling station, Jesse asked directions to Woodland
Lake Road and the old Duncan place. The attendant eyed them warily as he
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pointed east, seemingly glad when the van pulled away from his pumps.
They quickly left the small town behind, the road running red to the
horizon. Not far out, they picked up a creek. It twisted and turned its way
through the brush beside the road, the day already growing hot and no shade
except for a small puddle beneath the occasional tree they passed. Behind the
van, dust boiled up into the faded blue of the Texas sky, the landscape as
bleak as his reason for driving out here.
He tried to steel himself at the thought of seeing the spot where he'd been
abandoned. A building appeared ahead. The old farmhouse sat on the hill,
weathered and gray, a faint sign on the fence, Duncan. The old Duncan place.
He drove past it, wanting to see the curve in the road beside the creek a
quarter mile farther where, according to the newspaper article, the baby had
been found.
A golden Texas sun beat down on the red earth and van as he coasted down
the hill. Crickets chirped from the bushes beside the creek and in the
distance a hawk cried as it circled overhead.
He could see the bend in the road ahead, the wide spot next to it and the
creek.
He slowed the van, trying to imagine what had happened in the hours, the
days, the years before he was left in this lonely, desolate spot.
Braking, he brought the van to a stop, killed the engine and slowly opened
his door. He could feel Amanda's gaze on him. She had said little since they'd
left the bar. As he walked toward where he imagined he'd been left that night,
he heard her open her door and get out.
There was a low spot beside the creek and road the width of a car. He
stepped into the shade of the largest of the trees, his heart hammering in his
ears. This had to be the place. He could see it, the darkness, the car coming
up the road, stopping and the door opening as someone lowered the cardboard
box to the earth. The door of the car closing quickly. The sound of the engine
dying away in the distance.
It sickened him, frightened him and made him angry and grief-stricken all
at the same time. Why? Why would his mother have done such a thing? If she
hadn't wanted him, why not leave him on someone's doorstep?
Because she hadn't wanted anyone to know she'd given birth to him. She
hadn't expected him to survive. She hadn't expected someone to find him. Then
why the note? And the gold chain with the odd-shaped heart?
He closed his eyes, breathing in the unfamiliar scents, listening to the
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