A Child Is Missing (13 page)

“What else, Will?”

“He switches. Ah, see. I said
he.
The note starts out first-person plural, but it switches at the end to singular. ‘Otherwise I kill him.'”

“And?”

“Well, I guess the dominant person in this whole thing is really asserting himself. It is a man, not a woman. I feel sure.”

“I agree. See anything else, Will?”

For the briefest moment, Will thought he did. The feeling passed. “What next, Jerry? You said you had a tough call.”

“Which is, Do we give in or say no?”

“I don't envy you.”

Graham shook his head. “The guy who has the really tough call is the boy's father. He's good for the money—ten times that, if he needs it—and he can get a hundred thousand cash like that.” Graham snapped his fingers. “But I don't know what to advise him.”

“You mean, will the additional money get the boy back?”

“That's one thing. Plus, the longer they keep the boy, assuming he's still alive, the more of a liability he is.”

Will understood. “You're wondering whether to try to bring things to a head.”

“Something like that. Will, this is all between us, in this room. When this is over, I'll share everything with you, but for now…”

“Not to worry. Where was this latest message sent from?”

“A little postal station way off in a corner of Hill County, almost into Steuben. About the same distance from Long Creek as the post office where the last message was postmarked, only a bit west and south.”

“You think he—they?—are just trying to show how they can move around without being spotted?”

“I suppose. Toying with us. But of course, we don't have any way of knowing that the boy is with them. They could have left him somewhere. Alive or dead.”

The phone rang. Will stood up to leave, but Graham motioned for him to stay. Will only half-listened; he tried not to listen, in fact. Graham uttered one- or two-word answers to whomever he was talking to.

Will thought some more about Fran Spicer. What real difference did it make whether Fran had been drunk or not? Will thought, What am I? The guardian of the insurance company's coffers? So maybe some young redneck really was drunk that night and Fran's blood sample got switched with his. So what?

So it's rotten, that's what.

Tuning out the one-way phone conversation, Will thought about the two or three times he'd met Spicer's son. Mark, that was his name. An awkward boy, sullen and self-conscious. No doubt torn every which way by his father's on-again, off-again drinking and his parents' divorce. I'll bet he can't wait to grow up, Will thought. He thinks things will be easier then.…

Will knew something about warped father-son relationships. More than he cared to remember. Much more.

Will had no particular feelings one way or another about Fran Spicer's son. Compassion, maybe. There was that. Compassion for Fran, too. Suppose, just suppose Fran hadn't been drunk the night he died. His son shouldn't have to grow up and live his life with that. And Fran—what should his tombstone say? “Here lies a drunk who tried to climb out of the bottle but couldn't”?

No, it wasn't right. Will couldn't let it alone. If Fran had been set up somehow, he had to find out. If he couldn't uncover what had happened, he'd at least try to find enough to point the way for someone who could. Jerry Graham? Maybe he could do something, once this kidnapping thing was over with.

Meanwhile, Heather Casey might be helpful. Sure, Will thought. You're thinking of her strictly as a news source. Keep lying to yourself. What was it about her? Some sweetness that your wife doesn't have, your wife who's had to put up with your job as much as you have, who puts up with your depression and anxiety…?

The F.B.I. agent put the phone down. “There's a man with courage,” he said. “I told him he was in my prayers.”

“Who?”

“Jamie's father. He's made a decision, Will. The biggest of his life maybe, and I think it's the right one. Come on. I'm going to brief the animals right now. Present company excluded, of course.”

As Will followed the agent, he thought of a way to chase the truth about Fran Spicer. Of course, he thought. How simple. But am I cut out for it?

“We have just today received another note, apparently from the kidnappers,” Graham told the strangely hushed gathering.

“Like the others, it consisted of newspaper lettering.…”

In his practiced monotone, Graham summarized the contents of the note while camera shutters clicked. And then he said, “Jamie Brokaw's father has authorized me to say that we will not—repeat
not
—comply with this latest demand unless and until we have an indication that the boy is still alive.”

The room was quiet for several seconds.

“Agent Graham,” a reporter said, “do you personally believe Jamie Brokaw is still alive?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Sir, would Mr. Brokaw be able to raise the money, and if not…?”

“He could get the money easily. This is not about money. You there.”

“Sir, how does the boy's mother feel about complying or not complying?” a young woman asked.

“Mrs. Brokaw is under a doctor's care and under deep sedation at this time. Yes.”

“Sir, isn't it a pretty big gamble with the boy's life, stonewalling like this?”

Will studied Graham's face, saw that the skin was stretched tight over cold anger. “I am not the one who gambled with Jamie Brokaw's life. The kidnappers have done that. And I warn them that if any harm comes to the boy, I will not rest until I personally see them punished.”

“Do you favor the death penalty for kidnapping, sir?”

“My feelings on that are my own and are irrelevant.”

“And sir, what would you accept as an indication that the boy is still alive?”

“That's up to them. They could record the boy's voice.…”

“But then you'd have no way of knowing when the recording was made.”

“You didn't let me finish. Let them take a picture of the boy holding a copy of today's paper in front of him. They can figure out what to do.”

Will saw that Graham, exhausted and drained, was near the end of his string.

“Agent Graham?” The questioner was the same reporter who had asked whether the “stonewalling” was gambling with the boy's life. “Sir, what will you do if they cut off one of the boy's ears and mail it to you?”

Embarrassed for his profession, Will waited for Graham's temper to explode. Instead, the agent smiled thinly for a moment and said, “Your question is not only stupid, it shows an indecent lack of compassion. The rest of you can write that down and quote me and make it just as emphatic as you'd like. An indecent lack of compassion…”

“What do you think, Will? Is that going to get me fired?”

“I hope not, Jerry.”

“Hmmm. It might have in the days of J. Edgar. Oh, well. I've always wanted to go to Butte, Montana. The fishing's good, I hear.”

“What if nothing happens, Jerry? I mean, no sign the boy is alive and no … ear in the mail. Nothing. What then?”

“Then we're no worse off than we are right now. Do you want to have lunch later?”

“I'd better say no. I have to write a thousand words. Maybe fifteen hundred.” Thinking of Fran Spicer, he added, “And I've got some things to sort out.”

“Suit yourself. I'm going to get some soup and coffee.”

On their way out, they passed the reporter who had so angered Graham. He was tall, youngish, his face set in determination. Will envied him his toughness even as he found it despicable.

“Mr. Graham,” the reporter said. “You were right about my question. I'd like to apologize.”

Will was tired. Hours ago, he'd written almost two thousand words on the kidnapping. Then the computer had garbled much of the first five hundred or so, and he'd had to painstakingly go over it with the editors back in Bessemer. It had been so tiring, he'd felt physically exhausted by the time he was finished. And his spirits were sagging. He was depressed about Fran Spicer's death and sickened by the horrible turn the kidnapping case had taken.

Now he waited in the hospital coffee shop. It was easy to feel inconspicuous. The visitors who wandered in to sit fidgeting at tables had their own worries. The hospital staffers ducked in only to get coffee or candy bars from machines.

Maybe this is stupid, Will thought. Maybe he won't show up at all. All right: Give him another twenty minutes or so. Then go grab him, whether there're other people around or not.

Will was finishing his second diet soda when the man he was looking for came in. Will got up to intercept him, but he didn't have to hurry. The man, dressed in rather soiled whites, glanced at his watch and took a seat in the dim light of a corner table.

Will sat down across from him. “How's it going, Carmine? I saw your name tag. I called earlier to be sure you'd be working.”

The lab technician leaned back, studying him. “I don't think I know you.”

“My name is Will Shafer. I'm here because a friend of mine was in a bad wreck. They brought him here, where he died. Does that ring a bell?”

Carmine shrugged. “Not really? Who are you? Or
what
are you? An investigator?”

“Not officially. But I am looking into the circumstances of my friend's death. His name was Fran Spicer. He was supposed to have been drunk when he was fatally injured in a wreck a couple of nights ago.”

Will looked in the smooth olive face. He was looking for fear but didn't find it.

“You did the test,” Will went on. “The blood test to check his alcohol level.”

“So?”

“So I have my doubts about the accident and the blood test. Maybe you can help me.”

“How would I do that, man? And why? That's hospital business. Police business.”

Will studied the face. This should be where I see the lie in his eyes, or the weakness, Will thought. Instead, he saw just a cool stare. Was it cool because Carmine really did have the truth on his side? Or was he just tough?

“I've been wondering if there was something wrong with the test, Carmine. Is there any reason I should think that?”

“Think what you want, man. I know my job. I come in here and do my job.”

Carmine stood to leave, and Will blocked him. Now, Carmine's face went hard. “I have to go, man. I have a job to do. Think you're tough enough to stand in my way?”

Will studied Carmine's frame for a moment. He was shorter than Will but more athletic. And he was no coward.

“I'm not going to stand in your way, Carmine, I just wonder what happened, that's all. Did you switch blood samples? Is that it?”

“You're talking crazy, man. Keep it up and you'll find yourself in the psychiatric ward.”

“Was it for money? Did a lawyer pay you? Who?”

“Out of my way, man.” Carmine brushed by him, and for the first time Will was sure he saw Carmine's lips quiver, saw the fear shine in the eyes.

“That's it, isn't it, Carmine? I guessed right.”

The lab tech pretended to ignore him. Will walked alongside him, into the corridor, hissing in Carmine's ear. “Why? For money?”

Carmine stopped, stared at Will, who thought he saw something else now in Carmine's eyes.

“Your pupils are real big, Carmine. It must be tough, working in a hospital and having a habit, too. Like loving chocolate and working in a candy store. Yes?”

“Go suck out of a bedpan, man.”

“Good, good answer. I'm right, though. Someone paid you, didn't they? Or they have something on you, maybe. Or both.”

Carmine stopped, stared at Will, his eyes cold as a snake's. “You got something on me, go to the police, man. I live in this town, and I do my job right. Like I said, you keep talking that way, and you'll be in the nuthouse.”

Will didn't know what to say next.

Carmine saw the self-doubt on Will's face, and smiled almost tolerantly. “Your friend was a drunk, and now he's a dead drunk, man. That's how it is when you drink and drive. I'm sorry for your grief. Really. But I was just doing my job.”

“Bullshit. You switched the blood, his blood, with someone else's. Didn't you? Or did you just put something in it? Which?” Will was shooting in the dark, but he had nothing to lose.

“You're crazy, man. Keep talking, and I'll call security myself right now.”

“You shafted my friend. Who paid you? A lawyer? Someone else? Why?”

“I'm running out of patience, man. Keep it up, and I call security. I'm not kidding. You'd best be going.”

“I'm going, for right now.” Will was losing it; he couldn't keep his voice tough, because he had nothing to use against Carmine, and Carmine knew it.

“If you're smart, you'll be going for good, man. If I see you again, I won't just call security. I'll call the Long Creek cops, and they'll throw your ass in the can for harassing me. You'll grow old there.”

“You're the one who's going to grow old in a cell, Carmine. Someday. It's tough in state prison.”

Will thought he saw something flicker in Carmine's face. He knew he'd be ashamed of what he was going to say next, but he was playing for keeps. “Prison can be really tough, depending on the kind of man you are. That scares you, doesn't it, Carmine? Prison. What guys do to other guys in prison. Maybe you know about those things already.”

Carmine stood still, and Will saw his shoulders slump for a moment. Then Carmine straightened; he and Will had both heard the voices coming from around a bend in the corridor.

“I belong here, man. You don't. You're keeping me from doing my job. Get out of here, or I'll have you arrested.”

Will turned and moved toward the stairs.

“Your friend was a drunk driver, man. That's why he's dead, and that's why he scored high on his test.”