She had been trembling, but now she began to shake violently.
‘You okay?’ Quade asked.
‘Yes,’ she lied.
Quade said nothing. With the emergency beacons flashing but without using the siren, they raced across the storm-lashed west side of the city. As they sped through deep puddles, water plumed on both sides, eerily phosphorescent, like frothy white curtains drawing back to let them pass.
‘She’d be nine years old now,’ Laura said. ‘My daughter, I mean. I can’t give you much more of a description, I mean, the last time I saw her, she was only three.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t see any little girl.’
‘Blond hair. Green eyes.’
The cop said nothing.
‘Melanie must be with Dylan,’ Laura said desperately, torn between joy and terror. She was jubilant at the prospect of seeing Melanie again, but afraid that the girl was dead. Laura had dreamed so often about finding Melanie’s corpse in one hideous condition or another. Now she suspected the recurring nightmare would prove to have been an omen. ‘She must be with Dylan. That’s where she’s been all these years, six long years, so why wouldn’t she be with him now?’
‘We’ll be there in a few minutes,’ Quade said. ‘Lieutenant Haldane can answer all your questions.’
‘They wouldn’t wake me at two-thirty in the morning, drag me out in the middle of a storm, if they hadn’t found Melanie too. Surely they wouldn’t.’
Quade concentrated on his driving, and his silence was worse than anything he could have told her.
The thumping windshield wipers could not quite clean the glass. A persistent greasy film distorted the world beyond, so Laura felt as though she was riding through a dream.
Her palms were sweating. She blotted them on her jeans. She felt sweat trickle out of her armpits, down her sides. The rope of nausea in her stomach knotted tighter.
‘Is she hurt?’ Laura asked. ‘Is that it? Is that why you don’t want to tell me anything about her?’
Quade glanced at her. ‘Really, Mrs. McCaffrey, I didn’t see any little girl at the house. I’m not hiding anything from you.’
Laura slumped back against the seat.
She was on the verge of tears but was determined not to cry. Tears would be an admission that she had lost all hope of finding Melanie alive, and if she lost hope (another crazy thought), then she might actually be responsible for the child’s death because (crazier) maybe Melanie’s continued existence was like that of Tinkerbell in Peter Pan, sustained only by constant and ardent belief. She was aware that a quiet hysteria had seized her. The idea that Melanie’s continued existence depended upon her mother’s belief and restraint of tears was solipsistic and irrational. Nevertheless, she clung to the idea, fighting back tears, summoning all the conviction that she could muster.
The windshield wipers thumped monotonously, and the rain drummed hollowly on the roof, and the tires hissed on the wet pavement, and Studio City seemed as far away as Hong Kong.
* * *
They turned off Ventura Boulevard in Studio City, a community of mismatched architecture: Spanish, Cape Cod, Tudor, colonial, and postmodern homes jammed side by side. It had been named for the old Republic Studios, where many low-budget Westerns had been shot before the advent of television. Most of Studio City’s newest residents were screenwriters, painters, artists, artisans, musicians, and craftspeople of all kinds, refugees from gradually but inevitably decaying neighborhoods such as Hollywood, who were now engaged in a battle of life-styles with the older home owners.
Officer Quade pulled to a stop in front of a modest ranch house on a quiet cul-de-sac lined with winter-bare coral trees and Indian laurels with heavy foliage. Several vehicles were clustered in the street, including two mustard-green Ford sedans, two other black-and-whites, and a gray van with the city’s seal on the door. But it was another van that caught and held Laura’s attention, for CORONER was emblazoned across the two rear doors.
Oh, God, please no. No.
Laura closed her eyes, trying to believe that this was still part of the dream from which the telephone had ostensibly awakened her. The call from the police actually might have been part of the nightmare. In which case, Quade was part of it too. And this house. She would wake up, and none of this would be real.