Amber Alert, page 7
I know how to do my job. I hold back the retort, knowing I’m not the only one for whom there’s a lot at stake. That man might be our only link to Rosie, as for now.
“I won’t embarrass you,” I say before I walk away to find my partner.
Chapter Eleven
Through the open door, Joan can hear Lloyd singing to Margaret. The little girl is laughing. She doesn’t know how to feel about this. She should be glad, but instead she can feel the sting of jealously—why didn’t Margaret react the same way to her earlier?
It’s all a matter of time, smooth sailing waiting for them after the rocky waters. He’s just lucky, she thinks. In time, they’ll be okay. Joan prays for it every day.
Margaret plays with the toys they gave her, but she still goes to bed with that dog every night. It’s the last piece of evidence connecting her to her old life, and she refuses to let go. Joan feels tempted to throw it out. She doesn’t have the heart to carry through with the idea.
She feels dispirited and disappointed in a way she can’t share with anyone, her fears refusing to leave her alone as long as Margaret keeps asking for “Mommy” and “Mama,” but never refers to Joan that way. The woman who gave birth to the girl couldn’t even teach her what to call her, why does she want to go back there?
There are happier moments too, when Joan is certain that every struggle and every challenge is worth the changes in her life. She is a mother now. It’s normal that this comes with sacrifices. They did their part in rescuing an innocent baby from hell, and she will love them as much as they love her, maybe not today or tomorrow, but sometime soon. Joan tries hard to push her doubts away, to believe that they deserved this choice, and that they made the right one.
She walks into the room, and Lloyd picks up Margaret.
“Say hello to your Mom,” he encourages.
Margaret looks as thoughtful as a two-year-old can be, but after that moment of consideration, she reaches out with her small arms. Joan takes her from Lloyd, the smile on her face instant at the feel of the warm weight in her arms. It feels right. All the years of struggling and soul-searching, prayer and guilt fall away just like this.
“Pony?” Margaret asks, making her laugh.
A diaper change is in order first, before they can sit down for another My Little Pony marathon. Margaret sits in front of the TV like in a trance, seriously listening to the cartoon characters’ chatter. The smell of freshly baked cupcakes that Marta made is wafting from the kitchen.
It’s a perfect day in a perfect family.
* * * *
“My husband and I are praying for you and Rosie. We can’t even begin to imagine what you must me going through.”
“I’ve passed on the information to all my friends on Facebook. We hope Rosie will be home soon.”
“Two dikes having a Child is just unnatural. Why dont you Fuck off and die!”
“Marriage is between a woman and a man.”
“We pray for Rosie.”
“My wife and I have lost a child, we know how you feel. We keep you in our thoughts and hope that the perpetrators are found and punished.”
“Stay strong. My wife and I want to have a child, and we admire you for standing up to prejudice and bigotry. We can only hope that we’ll be able to do the same.”
“I really hope you’ll be reading this, because it’s the sin that we hate, not the sinner. The child is in a better place now.”
“You are going to hell.”
Chrissie thinks she should probably have some sort of reaction, emotions ranging from gratitude to anger over the worst of insults, but she can only shake her head in disbelief. An inappropriate laughter wants to bubble up in her throat. She has to make an effort to keep it down.
A look at Rachel tells her she is just as stunned at the barrage of letters they have gotten, many of them supportive. Some sent money, which strikes her as hilarious, even though she knows they mean well. Money is the least of their problems at this point. The letters have started coming in from the day their desperate plea aired on TV. They will go to the police for processing.
In her job, Chrissie is interacting with many young people of different backgrounds on a daily basis. She knows some of them are married to their iPhone, some repeat whatever they’ve been told in their parents’ house, some of them ask the right and sometimes hard questions. She knows the world is far from perfect. Learning the extent to which some people think they should have a say in her life boggles the mind. They say many things in the heat of the moment, in an online discussion, but these took the time to sit down and pen long letters. Some use Bible verses to show their support. Some use them to damn her and Rachel for daring to create a loving family. There are pretty pictures of rose gardens and sunsets, a drawing even.
Who do they think they are?
Worse, it’s unlikely that any of the most clueless and offensive will ever be held accountable. All of them are bullies, some of them smart enough to hide behind religion.
It’s not the kind of religion Chrissie and Ann grew up with, or practice.
These days, it sounds like a radical idea: the central lesson in their home was about respect, for other people and their individual stories, to always question preconceived notions, not to judge.
An uncle of theirs once had other ideas. He sat Ann down at a family party for a long lecture about how she was destroying herself and the family with her “lesbian lifestyle.” Since it was Ann who wore her hair short at the time, and wouldn’t put on a skirt to save her life, people were quick to make up their minds, often the wrong way. Chrissie would never forget what their father did that night.
“First of all, Ed, you’re preaching to the wrong girl. Second, I don’t want you to talk to either of my daughters that way. I want you to leave my house right now.”
It was the first and only incident within their family. The rambling relative had in no way prepared her for the hatred that existed.
Chrissie wonders anxiously if Ann and the FBI agents had been right, that they had made a mistake by pleading with the kidnapper. In her mind, she knows she’s still deep in denial. Against all odds and time passing, she still wants to believe the story of a woman who is so desperate to have a child that she kidnaps another one’s. The man could be a boyfriend, husband, brother maybe, who is in on it.
Until the truth hits her in the face, the theory is a cold comfort. It helps her get up in the morning and try to uphold the semblance of a routine. Soon, she will have to get back to work. Chrissie has no idea how she is going to manage. She feels somewhat sorry for yelling at Ann the other day, but she can’t bring herself to apologize. It’s all too much of an effort.
“I guess we can say their grasp of grammar speaks for itself,” Rachel says in an attempt to get a smile out of her. Chrissie indulges her. If it wasn’t for Rachel, she might have given up, just let herself fall into that deep black sea of despair.
For sure, having strangers tell her that she is going to hell isn’t helping. You have no idea of hell, she thinks darkly. It’s when you have to go on day after day, not knowing if your child is alive. Maybe there’s a special place for people who wish other people bad in the name of God.
“Take this as a gift. We’ll keep you in our thoughts and prayers.” The woman who sent this letter included an angel wing pendant with a chain. After a moment of hesitation, Chrissie puts the chain around her neck. She can use all the good luck and wishes in the world.
“I have to mail some papers,” Rachel says. “Do you want me to bring something for dinner?”
Chrissie shrugs. She doesn’t care either way.
“Look at these letters.” Rachel tries again. “Look at all the reactions they brought out. There might be some assholes there, but everyone is paying attention. Either way, they give a damn about a child missing. That’s a good thing. Someone will remember Rosie.”
Yes, maybe, but it might take days, months, years even. Chrissie has held herself up for a while, but all of a sudden, she’s crying, and she can’t stop. Life will never be the same. Rachel embraces her, but she’s crying too. Chrissie doesn’t know how they will go on another day not knowing, let alone more than that.
* * * *
Joey has been giving me concerned sideway glances for the past hour, and he probably has reason to do so. It wasn’t the best idea to try and get back at Cal by asking for my partner to join me on this stakeout. On the other hand, I’m relieved he’s here. The implications of the new information are crushing, and I’m nowhere near able to deal with them yet. The world has changed in a heartbeat, from vague nightmares to an almost complete, terrifying picture.
Bobby Duncan is your typical escalating offender. Unfortunately, he’s also smart, and it took an agent risking his life to get hold of that information. As far as we know, Duncan hasn’t killed a child—yet. People like him feel entitled, and they do whatever it takes not to get caught.
Well, we’ll do whatever it takes to get to him.
“I wouldn’t mind some time alone in interrogation with that guy,” Joey says, referring to Duncan, not the mystery man, and I give him a smile.
“I like the way you think.”
“Seriously, those are the worst. It’s sick what they—”
“Yeah,” I say, interrupting him. He catches the hint of warning in my voice and refrains from finishing the sentence. The silence doesn’t last long.
“Why are we here?” he wonders out loud. “The description from the kindergarten teacher was pretty vague. We don’t even know if it’s him, let alone if he’ll show up here.”
“Stakeout one-o-one,” I mutter. “You never know if they show up, that’s why you stake out the place.”
“Funny. What I meant is…you think the agents keep you on the sidelines, because one of the kids is your sister’s?”
I don’t “think” they do. I know. Then again, Cal was right too. We need the kidnapper in order to fry the bigger fish.
“They are running the show,” I remind him. “You and I are just along for the ride.”
More cars are arriving, the run-down club starting to fill. Looking at the audience makes me want to shake this place upside down for illegal drugs. The woman in the short red dress is giggling as her heel catches in a grid. Her partner steadies her.
“Classy venue.”
“That’s right.” I start unbuttoning my blouse, halting at the startled look Joey gives me. “What? We’ll never get past that bouncer otherwise.” The satin tank top underneath will have to do with the jeans and boots.
“Davis didn’t say anything about going inside, did he?”
“Then you better not tell him.”
I might be playing with fire, but frankly, if it helps us catching the man who took Rosie, I don’t care. Joey watches me as I put on some lipstick I keep in the car for occasions like this only.
“Did you ever look at women that way?” he wonders, which makes me think he’s been giving this some thought.
“It’s not contagious, you know.” He was asking for it, right? Before he can come up with an apology, I say, “I look at men ‘that way.’”
A meaningful silence follows, on the edge of a bad decision, but then a familiar-looking man appears at the entrance of the club, greeting the bouncer with a high five. They have a short conversation. Mr. Thirty-Something disappears inside.
“Showtime,” I say, taking the hair tie out of my ponytail. “Let’s go.”
* * * *
Of course, the man we’re looking for would choose a place where smoking is still allowed. I wrinkle my nose as we go inside, thinking that the cloud of smoke we’re entering will stink up my clothes.
In movies and books, they often make you believe that the crooks can identify a cop at the first look. It’s not true. In here, we’re just a guy and a girl going out for drinks and whatever the man behind the bar has to offer. Sometimes, it helps to work the clichés a bit. I’m sure that Cal is aware of that fact, that’s why he wasn’t opposed to the idea.
Mr. Thirty-Something is flirting with a woman on the other end of the bar, buying drinks for her and her friend. He’s obviously here to party, not for business. After a while, he leaves his place. Judging from his gesturing and dangling his car keys in front of them, he is not going to the bathroom. I nod to Joey who is going to find out if these girls are still sober enough to remember the conversation, while I follow our suspect outside.
I’ll stick to the plan as promised, observing. We have a vague description of a witness, and his association to Duncan that is just as vague. He whistles to himself, lighting up a cigarette. That is interesting. Is he waiting for someone? Oh well, I’ll go with something old-fashioned.
“Hey. You’ve got one to spare?”
I notice that his gaze isn’t exactly on eye level.
“Sure.” He hands me a cigarette and lights it for me, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Awesome. Thanks.”
I flash a smile at him and walk the few steps around the corner, where I put the cigarette into an evidence bag, and then I wait. Something about this feels weird. It was too easy. He checks his watch, cursing to himself. Whoever he is expecting is obviously interfering with his entertainment plans for tonight. I think about the rounds of drinks he bought for the girls. If he has some money to throw around, does that mean he has been paid for a job lately? Duncan?
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pick it up.
“Not a good moment, Cal,” I whisper. “Our guy’s about to make some kind of deal. I have prints too.”
“Forget about those prints, we have an ID. Travis Boggs.”
I snort.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, sorry. Go on.”
“Thirty-six, several convictions but nothing whatsoever in relation to young children. Parole officer says he’s clean.”
“So why am I…wait. Somebody’s coming.”
“Don’t do anything. Wait for backup.”
The newcomer is all dressed in black, wearing a cap. He and Boggs exchange words, then Boggs turns to walk away, probably back into the club to get the girls. The other man draws a gun and without a moment of hesitation, shoots him.
I run to the fallen man, hanging up on Cal to call an ambulance, but one touch confronts me with a dire truth—I can’t feel a pulse. The man who quite possibly abducted Rosie, who could have told us where she is now, is dead.
There’s nothing I can do for him. I jump up and run after the man in the black sweatshirt.
The chase leads along a back alley. He turns back on a busier street, turning around once to fire. Yeah, like that’s gonna make me walk away. You wouldn’t be the first jerk to shoot at me. I’m catching up to him, but then there’s a group of twenty-something girls exiting a club, chatting and laughing. When I make it to the end of the street, he’s gone.
I punch the brick wall nearest to me in frustration, even though there’s nothing I can do. We didn’t even know if Boggs was going to show up tonight, let alone could we have expected for him to get killed. This may or may not have to do with the kidnapping, or Duncan. The pedophiles I’ve come across are mostly pathetic cowards, but for the ones pulling the strings behind human trafficking, murder isn’t a big deal. Then again, if Boggs had a long rap sheet, he’s bound to have made enemies over time. It makes me sick to think we’ll have to start over. Maybe Deb will be able to identify Boggs, but even if that’s the case, he can’t talk.
I ponder my options. There aren’t many, except going back and waiting for the ambulance and backup, as I’ve promised—but then I see the cellar door, five steps down, left ajar.
What if Boggs’ killer didn’t get that far and he’s still close, hiding? I intend to find out, but I’m not even halfway down the stairs when the sharp pain at the base of my skull strikes, and the ground underneath my feet vanishes.
Chapter Twelve
Chrissie has always worried just about everything. Was she interesting enough to attract a smart and beautiful girl like Rachel, was she good enough at her job to keep it, would she be a good mother? Those had been the bigger questions accompanying her, and of course, there were the more mundane, day-to-day concerns.
She was still struggling with grief, wondering how Ann did it, because her sister never talked about her feelings.
There had been one time in her life when she’d suspended all the worrying. From the moment she’d known, when she’d been pregnant with Rosie, Chrissie knew everything would be perfect. She had a supportive work environment and family, and the love of her life to accompany her through this journey. For the first time, she found certainty in herself. Of course, she hadn’t always been that relaxed after Rosie was born, but the experience lingered.
She tries hard to reach for that confidence, but in the present day, there is only sadness. They lie together on a blanket, on the floor in Rosie’s room, the nightlight the only source of light, soft and soothing.
“You never mailed your stuff,” Chrissie realizes out loud.
“It can wait. I’d rather stay here with you.” The hold on her hand tightens. The anxiety doesn’t recede much. It’s like a dull ache that refuses to ease up. Chrissie has no doubt it will be with her until they know for certain. She thinks of her parents, of death in general, and how life isn’t fair. People lose loved ones every day. It’s not something that happens to them specifically. It doesn’t mean she can’t be angry about it, or feeling that in the worst case scenario, she wouldn’t know how to go on. She wouldn’t want to.
She turns to Rachel, curling up against her, feeling guilty for her thoughts, like she has already abandoned her.
“What are we gonna do?” she asks to no one, because she knows, Rachel doesn’t have any more answers than she has. “There’s got to be something more we can do.”
“What else? We put Rosie’s picture everywhere.”
“Then why can’t they find her?”
“They will. They will find her eventually. We have to…”
