wood-burning stove inside. The smell of its smoke was a pleasure. Even the exhaust fumes from passing cars and buses were welcome.
“Michael?”
It took him a moment to register that someone was speaking to him. Then he blinked and glanced over his shoulder to find Brittany Hurley staring at him curiously. The girl looked even younger than her nineteen years, and was not as dim as most people assumed. She was sleeping with the boss's son, after all.
“Are you all right?”
He gave her a smile and tapped one finger against his temple. “Just cogitating. Working on the new campaign.”
Brittany flashed him a cheerleader's smile. “Oh, cool! No wonder you looked so far away. But aren't you cold?”
“That's what double cappuccino is for.” He toasted her with his cup and took a sip, pleasant enough to be courteous, but just wanting her to go away.
Miraculously, she did, cooing that she would see him back in the office. It occurred to him that Brittany was the perfect combination of sweetheart and slut for the Newburyport Premium campaign. As he returned his attention to the cars rumbling through downtown Andover, he knew he would use her as a mental model for the sketches he was supposed to be working on. That was good. Having a picture of her in his mind would help keep the other image out.
The image of the lost girl. Scooter.
Come find me.
The words came back to him, and for the first time he realized that they were really what had driven him out into the chilly air. The coffee, the walking, the crisp breeze, they were all helping to clear his head after all. Subconsciously or not, he had been obsessing about her. Michael was an intelligent man. He understood why. In the condition he had been in on Saturday night, and with what little he remembered of the house, and the circumstances of his leaving her off there, he felt responsible for anything that might have happened
to her.
There was only one solution for that.
He was going to have to find her.
A sudden gust of wind whipped up, blasting amongst the shops and restaurants, and his cheeks stung with the cold. Michael tipped back his coffee and took a long gulp, the heat of it warming him from within. His upper lip curled and he glanced down at the cup. It tasted bitter to him, suddenly. He tossed it unfinished into a nearby trashcan and turned back toward his office.
There was work to be done, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to focus on it until he got this other thing out of his head.
A trio of women had gathered on the sidewalk in front of him, physically different but all glowing with health and affluence. Friends, he thought, who had been out and about on various errands and run into one another by happenstance. They laughed about something or other, and there was a brightness to their eyes and a warmth in their features that made him smile, helping to further dispel the shadow of the weekend.
Upstairs, Michael ignored the bustle at Krakow & Bester and went into his office, turning to the computer. Stray puzzle pieces drifted around in his mind and he tried to put them together. All he knew of the girl was her description and a nickname. But he had seen her home, had driven her there himself. No matter how inebriated he had been, he felt certain that he could put together the bits and pieces of memory from Saturday night and figure out where she lived.
The place to begin was where that surreal evening had begun. The masquerade had been held at the Wayside Inn in North Andover. Michael did a quick Net search for the place and found it had its own Web site. There was no map, but it did give him the exact address. With that, it was a simple matter to call up a map of the area with the inn as its center point. It was too broad, so he magnified the image.
Old Route 12 was there, a thin red line running through the Merrimack Valley. The road had long since been supplanted by more modern streets, but Old Route 12 had been relied upon by locals
“Michael?”
It took him a moment to register that someone was speaking to him. Then he blinked and glanced over his shoulder to find Brittany Hurley staring at him curiously. The girl looked even younger than her nineteen years, and was not as dim as most people assumed. She was sleeping with the boss's son, after all.
“Are you all right?”
He gave her a smile and tapped one finger against his temple. “Just cogitating. Working on the new campaign.”
Brittany flashed him a cheerleader's smile. “Oh, cool! No wonder you looked so far away. But aren't you cold?”
“That's what double cappuccino is for.” He toasted her with his cup and took a sip, pleasant enough to be courteous, but just wanting her to go away.
Miraculously, she did, cooing that she would see him back in the office. It occurred to him that Brittany was the perfect combination of sweetheart and slut for the Newburyport Premium campaign. As he returned his attention to the cars rumbling through downtown Andover, he knew he would use her as a mental model for the sketches he was supposed to be working on. That was good. Having a picture of her in his mind would help keep the other image out.
The image of the lost girl. Scooter.
Come find me.
The words came back to him, and for the first time he realized that they were really what had driven him out into the chilly air. The coffee, the walking, the crisp breeze, they were all helping to clear his head after all. Subconsciously or not, he had been obsessing about her. Michael was an intelligent man. He understood why. In the condition he had been in on Saturday night, and with what little he remembered of the house, and the circumstances of his leaving her off there, he felt responsible for anything that might have happened
to her.
There was only one solution for that.
He was going to have to find her.
A sudden gust of wind whipped up, blasting amongst the shops and restaurants, and his cheeks stung with the cold. Michael tipped back his coffee and took a long gulp, the heat of it warming him from within. His upper lip curled and he glanced down at the cup. It tasted bitter to him, suddenly. He tossed it unfinished into a nearby trashcan and turned back toward his office.
There was work to be done, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to focus on it until he got this other thing out of his head.
A trio of women had gathered on the sidewalk in front of him, physically different but all glowing with health and affluence. Friends, he thought, who had been out and about on various errands and run into one another by happenstance. They laughed about something or other, and there was a brightness to their eyes and a warmth in their features that made him smile, helping to further dispel the shadow of the weekend.
Upstairs, Michael ignored the bustle at Krakow & Bester and went into his office, turning to the computer. Stray puzzle pieces drifted around in his mind and he tried to put them together. All he knew of the girl was her description and a nickname. But he had seen her home, had driven her there himself. No matter how inebriated he had been, he felt certain that he could put together the bits and pieces of memory from Saturday night and figure out where she lived.
The place to begin was where that surreal evening had begun. The masquerade had been held at the Wayside Inn in North Andover. Michael did a quick Net search for the place and found it had its own Web site. There was no map, but it did give him the exact address. With that, it was a simple matter to call up a map of the area with the inn as its center point. It was too broad, so he magnified the image.
Old Route 12 was there, a thin red line running through the Merrimack Valley. The road had long since been supplanted by more modern streets, but Old Route 12 had been relied upon by locals
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