A Child Is Missing (2 page)

Fran Spicer was a general-assignment reporter. On a big metropolitan daily, a general-assignment reporter was supposed to be a star who could write tragedy, comedy, and everything in between, and do it fast.

But Spicer did not work for a big metro daily. He worked for the
Bessemer Gazette,
the only newspaper in a decaying Great Lakes rust-belt city. There were two kinds of general-assignment reporters on the
Gazette.
There were young ones who hoped to work their way onto beats, then go to a bigger city, and there were the old and tired ones. It had been a while since Fran Spicer was young.

He had spent the afternoon doing busywork—transferring notes from his pad to a computer, which he would never get that friendly with, and sorting out his files.

Spicer sensed a presence behind him.

“Any plans for the holiday, Fran?”

Spicer didn't like Ryan's tone. “Watch some games, I guess.”

“The publisher's been paying attention to the outside world again,” Ryan said.

“Always a bad sign,” Spicer said. Nope, he didn't like the way Ryan was talking.

“He's got a real burr up his ass. About that kidnapping over near Long Creek.”

Spicer was relieved: Ryan was going to tell him that the publisher wanted the
Gazette
to run a story on his favorite local charity, the Fund for the Protection of Children, using the kidnapping as a news peg.

“He wants us to send someone,” Ryan said.

“Where?”

“To Long Creek. To follow the kidnapping.”

“Are you serious, Ry? When?”

“Yesterday.”

Spicer knew what was coming next, but he didn't quite believe it. “Me?”

“You. Most of our people have family plans. Plus, you've been around a while. If I send some young smart ass, he's apt to get crapped on by those redneck cops over in Hill County.”

Spicer knew there was more.

“And,” Ryan went on, “I figured we could work something out on Christmas. You already got off Christmas Day, like I promised earlier. I think I can guarantee you the whole week off, through New Year's.”

“You
think
?”

“I can do it.”

“When do you want me to leave? And for how long?”

“Tonight. We'll play it by ear. You'd better get going. Looks like snow's on the way.”

“What about expenses?”

Ryan frowned. “Cashier's closed by now. Tell you what…” The editor took out his wallet and peeled off three twenties. “This'll help a little. Use your credit cards. Keep receipts. They're, uh, getting kind of stingy downstairs.”

“I know.”

“That's why I figured this could be kind of a personal arrangement between you and me. You get some extra time off, like I said, and you maybe down-hold it on the ex4penses.”

Now Spicer understood, and he could have predicted what Ryan said next.

“'Course, technically you're entitled to an extra day's pay at time and a half for working Thanksgiving,” Ryan said. “But I thought you could sort of forget that in return for all the Christmas and New Year's time.”

Spicer had to give Ryan credit; he seldom missed a trick.

“Okay with you?” Ryan said.

Spicer thought about it; maybe this Christmas he really would get the time to make things up with the boy. “Sure. I'll down-hold.”

“I appreciate it, Fran. But that doesn't mean you can't treat yourself to a nice meal tomorrow, if you can find one over there.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Ryan turned to go, then changed his mind. “You, uh, feel okay, Fran? I mean, up to it and all?”

They both knew what that meant. “Don't worry,” Spicer said. “I've been sober.”

“Oh, I know. I just meant…”

“I'll be fine.”

Spicer tucked several blank notepads into his battered briefcase, grabbed his soiled topcoat from the top of his desk. “I'll stop in the morgue and make copies of the clips we've had.”

“Here they are, Fran. Along with a printout of the latest wire story. Take a few minutes and brush up on the details.”

Spicer sat down at his desk again and began to read the clips. The boy was Jamie Brokaw, five-year-old son of Richard Brokaw and his former wife, Celeste. Brokaw had founded and still controlled a cable-television company and was one of the few wealthy residents of Hill County, deep in a pocket of rural poverty and rusted-out factories along New York State's Southern Tier near the Pennsylvania border. Jamie Brokaw visited his father on weekends.

Sunday night, as the boy was being driven back to his mother by the father's chauffeur, Anthony Musso, the car had been forced off the road by two men in a truck who had first set up a phony detour, complete with the orange cones used by highway crews.

The men had been masked and armed with shotguns. They had tied the chauffeur's hands to the steering wheel while they pulled the boy out of the car and spirited him away. The abductors had said they would be in touch with instructions on securing the child's release.

On Tuesday, a letter had arrived at the home of Richard Brokaw; it was a message spelled out in newspaper headline letters pasted to a sheet of common notebook paper. The message demanded fifty thousand dollars for the child's safe return.

It said that instructions for delivery of the money would follow.

The note said the boy would be killed if the ransom wasn't paid.

The envelope containing the message had been sent from a post office on the outskirts of Hill County, some miles from the community of Long Creek, near where the kidnapping had taken place. Investigators theorized that the crime had been planned sometime in advance. The authorities presumed that the abductors were familiar with the habits of Richard Brokaw—not surprising, since he was one of the richest and best-known residents of rugged Hill County.

Hell, Fran thought. He's probably the only rich guy in the county. No wonder his kid was the target.

The fact that the letter had been sent from so far away only created more trouble for investigators, who had no idea where the boy might be and where the kidnappers might have come from. In any event, because he had been missing more than twenty-four hours, the law now presumed that he might have been taken across state lines—meaning the FBI could enter the case under the so-called Lindbergh Law.

Fran read on, intrigued.

Detectives had refused to comment on whether they had ruled out the possibility that the kidnappers had had help from the inside. That would mean the chauffeur, Fran thought. But if they were suspicious of him, they'd zero in on him and sweat something out of him. Wouldn't they?

“Investigators said they had no reason to suspect that any disagreement between Richard Brokaw and his former wife had led to the kidnapping. The boy had been scheduled to return to his father's house for Thanksgiving. One investigator described the relationship between the former husband and wife as ‘cordial, especially where their son's welfare is concerned.'”

The latest story said the kidnapping had drawn dozens of reporters to Long Creek, “once a thriving rail, coal, and steel center but for decades a decaying rust-belt town” that wasn't used to that much attention from the outside world.

Sure, Fran thought. He had lived in the state long enough to know what that meant: Long Creek (and most of Hill County, for that matter) was isolated and didn't care much for strangers. And the cops were reputed to be a bunch of bad-tempered head knockers.

Well, Fran thought, I ought to be able to handle this. Hell, I was a pretty good police reporter once. He put on his coat and headed for the coffee shop. He would get a couple of sandwiches to eat on the way.

One of Ryan's assistants approached. “Don't give me any new problems,” Ryan said.

“Relax,” said the assistant, a tired-looking middle-ager. “I just need to bounce some schedule changes off you.”

“Yeah? Well, there's gonna be some more.” Ryan told his assistant about the encounter with the publisher.

“Shit,” the assistant said, “we're supposed to pinch pennies. By logic, that means covering a kidnapping a couple of hundred miles away with the wire services. Yes?”

“Yes. Only now, the publisher wants to play newspaper. So we're sending our own reporter.”

“Well, who're you gonna send?”

“He's sent already. Spicer.”

“Fran Spicer? Jeez, are you sure…?”

“How the hell can I be sure of anything?” Ryan snapped.

“I figured Spicer was our best bet to down-hold on the expenses and not screw up too bad. He still owes me, and he remembers. I didn't come down too hard on him the last time he went off the wagon, after all.”

The assistant frowned and nodded. “Did you ask Will Shafer?” Shafer was the executive editor.

“Hell, no. He's taking a long holiday. Publisher comes up to me and lays the problem in my lap, I gotta come up with something.”

“Hmmm. I just hope Fran doesn't stop someplace on his way there, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, I get your drift. Speaking of that, what do you say we head across the street for a little holiday-eve cheer.”

About the only thing that still worked reliably in Spicer's car was the heater. He was thankful for that as he drove into the evening, catching a look now and then at the pink and purple sunset in the mirror. He had driven through traces of snow on the outskirts of Bessemer, and there was no telling if there was more ahead. The weather was likely to deal a lot of surprises this time of year: sixty degrees one day, thirty the next.

What had Ry said about getting a nice meal on Thanksgiving? “If I can find one,” Spicer whispered. The sandwiches from the coffee shop had been filling without being satisfying.

The more he thought about it, the more pissed he was at Ryan, and himself. The editor had just assumed that he had no Thanksgiving plans. Well, he didn't—not exactly—but he
had
been looking forward to watching football. He liked to call Mark at halftime and talk about the game. A little father-son chat about football was good. At least his mother didn't try to stand in the way of that, the bitch. Fran was proud: His ten-year-old son had a better head for football than a lot of high school kids.

Up ahead, Spicer saw an exit sign and on a hill to the right a big sign for a gas station. He would stop now; no telling where he'd be able to get gas tomorrow.

He pulled up to a self-service pump, put ten dollars' worth into the tank, went inside to pay the attendant and use the john. Coming out, he saw a bar on the other side of the road not quite a hundred yards away. It was a low, dark structure. The cars out front were tacky-looking (Some are as bad as mine, Spicer thought ruefully). The very shabbiness of the place, especially its pink neon beer sign, was inviting. Spicer could almost taste the first jolt of peppermint schnapps, followed by that first long gulp of cold beer cutting through the sweetness.

Our Father, who art in heaven. Our Father…

Just in time, Fran got into the car and drove back onto the highway. He deliberately avoided looking into the rearview mirror.

The next time Fran felt the thirst, he was on the two-lane to Long Creek, just after he'd gotten off the expressway. It came without warning, as it usually did, although Fran thought it might have something to do with having seen the friendly-looking bar earlier in the evening.

With the thirst in his throat, he drove toward Long Creek. Once, he saw a white-tailed deer cross the road. He saw the creature's eyes in his headlights for an instant. Then the vision was gone.

Fran Spicer pressed on, into the gloom. The thirst was still with him, and his palms felt moist in his gloves. I'm getting such a bad case of nerves, I'll be lucky to sleep tonight, he thought.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought Ryan had been a son of a bitch. How many goddamn years had he been at the
Gazette,
and how many good stories had he done out of the courthouse and city hall and the school board? Too many to count. It was the things you couldn't control…

Our Father, who art in heaven.

He slowed down when he saw the liquor store by the road. He would be right in Long Creek in another twenty minutes or so. Probably need something to get to sleep with.

The cheap whiskey and port wine were displayed on a front counter.

“Cold out there,” Fran said. “Looks like snow.”

“You're in luck,” the owner said. “Five more minutes and I woulda been closed.”

The thirst was galloping now. Fran's heart was beating so fast, he was pretty sure he'd need help getting to sleep. He picked up a bottle of peppermint schnapps and a six-pack of beer. “Get me through the weekend,” Fran said, afraid that the owner had noticed the tremble in his voice and in his hands as Fran handed him a twenty.

But the owner, middle-aged and bored, scarcely looked at him as he rang up the purchase and slid the change over the counter.

“Thanks,” Fran said. “Have a good holiday.”

“You need any cups?” the owner said.

“No.” Fran thought that was a snotty thing for him to say, but he didn't feel like telling him off. Why bother?

It had been some years since Fran had been to Long Creek, and the stretch from the interstate was longer than he had remembered. He was getting too old for long drives; his nerves would really be shot by the time he got there.

He had the thirst, all right, but he was pretty sure he could hold out until he got to Long Creek. He would be tired by then. Sure, that would be all right, to have a couple of drinks to help him get to sleep. The sun never came up on a day he couldn't handle a story, especially a good police story, with a little something inside him.

Several minutes passed between the sets of headlights going the other way. Ahead, on the other side of the road, he saw a low concrete building: some kind of shop or garage. He could see a driveway leading around to the back. He slowed down, turned into the driveway, braked sharply.