A Child Is Missing (26 page)

“Bless you.”

Will composed the top several paragraphs of his story, trying to convey the emotion without slopping it on with a paintbrush. But as he wrote, he found himself focusing again and again on the unknown.

He could hardly wait to question Jerry Graham—alone, if possible. The more Will thought about it, the less sense it made. The stunted snowman near the hermit's cabin—didn't that show that the hermit had been playing with the boy? The more Will thought, the less sure he was about anything—except that Jamie Brokaw was safe and well.

After a while, Will heard more commotion outside. Graham had returned, and the briefing was about to start. Will looked at his watch; he had time to get some answers.

He took a seat near the rear, listened to Jerry Graham review the basic facts, then sat bolt upright as Graham said, “I'll be turning the case over to Chief Howe at this point, since my presence is no longer needed now that the victim has been recovered safely.”

Without thinking, Will stood up. “Agent Graham, what about all the loose ends here? The other kidnapper, the overall conspiracy.… How can you say you're done here?”

Graham's face was tight and hard. Then he flashed his teeth and said, “I appreciate your pointers on how I should do my job.” That brought snickers at Will's expense. “The FBI is called in on cases like this when a kidnapping victim is missing for more than a day. Our job is to secure the victim's safe return. This we have done. And since it's clear that the victim was not taken across state lines, there really is no need for the FBI to be here any longer.”

“But—?”

“Of course,” Graham went on, “we'll be happy to assist the Long Creek and Hill County authorities if they call on us in their pursuit of suspects besides the one, as-yet-unidentified, white male. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. It's been nice working with you.”

Graham smiled, gave a half wave, and exited. Will wondered whether he was the only one in the room who was puzzled. More than that: He was disappointed in his old friend.

For a few minutes, Will listened to the police chief parry questions. Satisfied that he had all the essentials, Will left the room through a back door. He didn't have much time to spare now, but there was something he had to do.

The door to Graham's office was open. “Will! Don't you have a paper to write for?”

“In a minute. What the hell's going on?”

“I don't follow.”

“Bullshit. Come on, Jerry. I played your game.…”

“It was no game.”

“You know what I mean, damn it. I helped you. Or I tried to. Be straight with me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why are you bugging out?”

Graham leaned into the hall, looked both ways, and closed the door. “I've been called off the case. That's off the record.”

“It is only if I agree. By whom?”

The nerves in Graham's face did a dance. “Can't say.”

“Washington?”

Graham seemed about to say something, then backed off.

“Someone around here?”

“I can't, Will. I won't. People with more clout than I. That's all I'll say. Can we just leave it?”

“Maybe I'll call FBI headquarters.”

“Don't.”

“Just to rattle the cage, if nothing else. It's a stupid decision.”

“Not mine to make, Will. Or yours.” Graham's face was tired and sad. More than that: He looked old.

Will was tired of arguing, and he was getting short on time. “I have to go file my story, Jerry. I guess I should thank you for your help.” Will did owe his old friend.

“One last time I'll trust you, Will. My remark to that reporter about his ‘indecent lack of compassion' cost me with my superiors. That and the breakdown in surveillance on the ransom drop. That's between us. Please.”

“Ah, Jerry. Go public with that crap, for God's sake. Get the press on your side. Hell, you already have me on your side.”

“I can't, Will. I wish I could. Sorry we're not going to get a chance to visit more. I'm out of here.”

“Maybe next time.”

“For sure. My best to Karen.”

Will couldn't remember Graham's wife's name. He shook hands numbly with him, went back to the briefing room, and saw that reporters were jostling to get at the telephones. Will knew he had all the facts he needed—or at least all he would get—and he decided to go back to the hotel to write.

He called Bessemer to soothe the nervous editors. Then, in an act of sheer willpower that he was able to bring off simply because he had to, he suppressed the disappointment he had felt over Graham. Instead, he relived the visceral thrill of the pursuit, the joy of Jamie Brokaw's recovery. Those were the emotions he needed to write his story the way he wanted it. He didn't worry much about the order of events: Organization had always been one of his strengths.

When he was done, he pressed the button to transmit by phone to Bessemer. After a short while, the phone rang. “Just a few questions for now, Will.”

“For now?”

“Well, you'll be able to polish a bit for second edition, right?”

“Right. Right.” He had forgotten the routine. God, he hoped his energy would hold out.

As the editors in Bessemer went over his story, Will followed on the electronic copy in his computer. Will agreed, mostly, with the changes that were suggested, and he didn't feel like arguing.

“Terrific job, Will.”

“Thanks.”

He made the changes for second edition, called the hospital to be sure the hermit was still alive, gave the hospital's phone number to the editors in Bessemer and suggested that the hospital be called just before the final deadline.

Belatedly, Will realized that he'd had no dinner other than the half sandwich and coffee Raines had given him. No matter. All he wanted to do was get into bed and close his eyes.

Twenty-five

The mood at police headquarters the next morning was quiet and sullen. A notice on the bulletin board said there would be a briefing in about forty-five minutes. Around him, Will heard grumbling. As he downed the coffee and toast he'd grabbed at the diner, he wondered whether any of the grumbling was out of envy for him. He hoped so.

Pretending to be bored, he picked up snippets of talk.

“Guy was still alive when I checked the hospital ten minutes ago, but it's touch and go.…”

“Old man's gotta be worth, what, five million? Ten? Cable TV is a gold mine.…”

“Would he want to live around here if he's that rich?”

“Hey, man, with money like that, you can live where you want 'cuz you can buy what you want.”

Will didn't like the tone of the conversation: too much cynicism, too little compassion from reporters who were too young. It didn't surprise him that most of the reporters were much younger than he was. A lot of papers in small and medium-sized cities liked to keep their staffs young: low payroll, low benefits. Will understood that kind of bottom-line philosophy—had practiced it, in fact, when the publisher decided it was time to economize.

With a little guilt, he realized that if Fran were covering this story, he'd be regarded as an old hack by some of the reporters here. Would he have fallen off the wagon?

“…including the best shrinks in the world to straighten out the kid's head.”

What? Will had heard something that put an idea into his head.

Affecting his best hangdog manner to inspire sympathy, he found the same cop who'd helped him before and once again got permission to use the phone at an out-of-the-way desk.

He dialed the hospital and asked for Heather Casey. “Can you talk for a moment?”

“Hi. Sure, for a minute.” She sounded rushed.

“I won't quote you and I won't get you in trouble. Promise.”

“How can I help?”

“I heard that the guy from the woods is still with us, but that he might not be for long. Can you verify?”

“That's true. He's very critical. Just a second, Will.…” He heard her talking to someone else. “…intensive care now; they just wheeled her.… Okay, I'm back. Sorry.”

“He's under heavy guard, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“And the boy.”

“He may go home later today. His father is pushing for that, and there seems to be no reason not to discharge him. That's not from me. Okay?”

“The child is all right, then?”

“I haven't seen him myself, but I've heard he is. Children can be very resilient.” Her voice sounded a little less rushed. “I know they're trying to keep their questioning as gentle as possible—the investigators.”

Keep her talking, he thought. “My wife says kids are amazingly resilient. Did I tell you she does some work with troubled teenagers?” He felt a flash of guilt for talking about his wife—using her, in a sense—with Casey. “So the boy is all right psychologically?”

“That really isn't my area of expertise. But I think so.”

Now Will sensed that she wanted to say something. “What is it?”

“I've been thinking about that terrible business with Carmine.”

“What about it?”

“It seems odd to me, his dying like that. He had a habit, sure, but…”

“But what? Addicts die all the time, unfortunately.”

“Granted. But he'd taken a very large dose. If he was used to taking that much, it's hard to imagine his being able to hold down a job. Or do anything except shoot up and scrounge for money.”

“Well, maybe he took more than he was used to.”

“A lot more, maybe. Which made me wonder.”

“Whether someone forcibly gave him a superjolt.”

“Yes. It would make sense, wouldn't it? If someone wanted to get rid of him, I mean. This is just me talking. I wouldn't say this to anyone else.”

“I appreciate your trust.”

“We all have to be so tight-assed and careful around here. Mr. Brokaw is a very powerful man. He's quite rich, he's given money to the hospital, and he's sat on the hospital board. Everyone around here is so…”

“Why do you suppose the father is pushing for the boy's release?” A true shot in the dark.

“Why, to have his little boy with him, I'm sure. He's very protective.”

“But I thought the mother had custody.”

“She's—I hear that she's under heavy medication at home right now. So for the time being, the boy would go with the father.”

“Was Richard Brokaw's divorce bitter? Was there a nasty custody fight?”

“I really have to go.”

“I appreciate your time.”

“What surprised me most—not just me, some of the other nurses, too—is that the boy, well, he's been asking about the man in the woods. Asking if he can see Mr. Woody, as he calls him. Asking about the dog and whether he can see it again.”

“Asking if he could see the man in the woods … does that tell you anything?”

“It makes me wonder. I just don't know.”

“It makes you wonder how bad the guy is. Maybe even whether.…”

“Of course, that may not mean anything. The child said he was given a furry bear to play with, by the mean men, not the strange one from the woods.”

“Do you have any idea who he is?”

“No. Listen, I wish I could take longer, but I have to go. Take care.” And she hung up.

Will sat still for a long moment, trying to quiet his mind. Too many things at once: the kidnapping and all the questions that hadn't been answered, and Fran Spicer's death. Ah, Fran. Look at the trouble you're causing me, old friend.

A furry bear. It was a little tidbit he could use in his story, the kind of fact the others wouldn't have. But it might get Casey in trouble. Then I won't use it. I won't even tell the editors. No need for them to strain their intellects.…

“Shafer?”

Startled, Will looked up and saw Raines standing by the desk.

“You sly dog, Shafer. Getting your own private desk here.”

“Someone took pity on me.”

“Still want to have a chat?”

“Definitely.”

“Let's have a beer this afternoon.”

After arranging to meet Raines at the same tavern he and Jerry Graham had been to, Will went to the press briefing. He was thankful that it was anticlimactic, and that other reporters asked the big questions, for which there were no answers. The wounded suspect hadn't been identified; the hunt for other suspects was on; the boy was doing fine; and obviously the ransom money was still missing. And no, there was still no explanation how the kidnappers had managed to get away safely with the cash despite the surveillance.

Will called his office, said he'd have a follow-up story that would have as many questions as answers.

No, Will said; there seemed to be no chance for pictures of the boy, and no chance that he would be able to talk to him.

“In that case, Will, maybe you should head home tomorrow.”

He had no reason to disagree, yet he felt a sense of disappointment. He seemed to be against a stone wall on Fran Spicer's death. But maybe he could get something from Raines.

Will saw him at a corner table. Raines was wearing khaki pants and a green flannel outdoor shirt.

“I almost didn't recognize you out of uniform,” Will said.

“This'll be my uniform when I leave this hole. Soon, I hope.”

“You have plans?” Will signaled for two beers.

“Nothing definite,” Raines said. “Except to get out of Long Creek. Go out west, maybe.”

“I'm glad we got a chance to talk. I'm going back to Bessemer tomorrow.” Raines looked surprised, so Will went on. “The kidnapping story is winding down, so it doesn't pay to have me here. And my paper is watching the bottom line. I've been trying to eat cheap. But this beer is on the
Gazette.”

“Good. So you don't really have any time left to pursue that stuff about your friend.”