Mittman, Stephanie

Mary
Grace O'Reilly sped
up Interstate 17 in Arizona in her rented Ford
Mustang as though her own life depended on it. It was always that way when she
was working. And she was always working. Hers wasn't what you could call a
nine-to-five job. It was more of an obsession, even if she'd never admit it.

Still
fuming from her lack of success in Los Angeles, she swerved around a
slower-moving vehicle and honked at the driver as she passed. There seemed to
be no one who understood the urgency of her mission.

When
she'd approached the Los Angeles Police Department, they had insisted that
without a court order, Benjamin Weaver's failure to be returned home couldn't
warrant an APB. His abduction didn't interest anyone at the various television
stations. Even the local paper opted not to report the story. It seemed that
until the divorce and custody were settled, Benjamin Weaver was fair game. And
although his mother, Marcia, was frantic, it seemed that everyone else had
agreed to
ignore the snatching. Everyone except Mary Grace, who refused to allow a
four-year-old to become one more MIA in a domestic war.

Sun
glinted off a blue sign that read "Food, Gas, and Phone. Next exit."
A soft curse escaped her lips. She'd promised to call the office back in L.A.
around eleven. She stole a quick glance at her watch: ten after twelve. Despite
her assurances that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, the
volunteers there would be worried about her. Pulling off the highway, she
followed the signs to a ramshackle souvenir shop huddled by the side of the
road. Its wooden porch needed only an old man with a Stetson hat pulled down
low over his eyes and a cheroot sticking out from between clenched teeth to be
confused with the back lot at Universal Studios. A soaring bird floated
overhead, apparently waiting for the store to finish dying.

Inside
it was dark and smelled faintly musty. It was over ninety degrees outside, and
had to be at least eighty-five in the store. There was no sign of a phone. In
fact, there was no sign of life, unless the mold growing in the corners of the
old refrigerated case counted. Despite the labels promising "Ice Cold
Coca-Cola" all over it, its shelves were stacked with dusty brochures.
They had titles like
Sedona: Power Vortex of the Western World
and
Where
the Navajo Legend Still Lives.

"Can
I help you?"

Mary
Grace spun around at the sound of a man's voice.

"Ma'am?"

"Your
case seems to be broken," Mary Grace said, gesturing toward the
refrigerator. "Have you got anything cold?"

He
gave the freezer a what-the-hell-is-that-doing-here
look.
"'Lectricity's out," he finally said. "Went out four, maybe five
weeks ago."

"How
about a phone, then?" she asked.

Like
herself, he wore jeans and cowboy boots, but he also sported a cowboy hat, a
knife on his belt, and a bandanna around his neck. No one had warned her that
Arizona was still the Wild West.

"There,"
he said, jerking his head toward the darkest corner of the shop. "Think it
still works."

It
was a rotary phone. Mary Grace couldn't remember the last time she'd seen one
of those. But it got her an operator, and the operator connected her to her
office.

"Child
Seek, Jan speaking. How can I help you?"

"It's
me," Mary Grace said. "I'm in Arizona now, so you can stop
worrying."

"Mary
Grace? I've got Mrs. Weaver on the other phone. Hold on, and I'll tell her
you've got everything under control."

"Just
patch her through, Jan. I'll tell her myself." She lifted the hair off the
back of her neck. The little phone booth was hot as hell, and she thought
something might have crawled into her shirt. She prayed it was just sweat.

"Mary
Grace," Jan cautioned, "I can tell her. You have enough to take care
of without Marcia Weaver crying long distance. I can handle it."

"Thanks,
Jan, but she'll feel better if she talks to me."

"Oh,
she'll
feel better. It's
you
I'm worried about."

There
was a brief moment of silence, and then Marcia Weaver's voice crackled over the
line. "Miss O'Reilly? Are you there?"

"Yes,
Mrs. Weaver. Can you hear me all right?"

"Oh!
Thank God you're there. I spoke to Jim's supervisor. I pretended I was the bank
and needed more information for his loan. It's not enough to be the mother of
his child. He said Jim was taking off a few
days. When I pressed him he said he
thought he might be calling in from the road. The road, Miss O'Reilly."

"I
knew it. I told you he'd drive, didn't I?" Mary Grace asked. Unless they
had access to a private plane, they never flew. It was too easy to trace.

Mrs.
Weaver went on about her soon-to-be ex-husband and how taking Benjamin out of
the state before the custody hearing was just like him. Then her voice became
choked with tears. "You
will
find Benjamin, won't you?"

"Yes,"
Mary Grace answered. "I will find him."

"And
you'll bring him back, right?" Mrs. Weaver was openly sobbing now, and
Mary Grace blinked her own tears away.

"I'll
find him," she repeated. If she couldn't bring Benjamin back, she'd stay
on Jim Weaver's tail until the lawyers could get some kind of court order to
get the boy returned. The important thing was to make sure that his father
didn't just take Benjamin and disappear off the face of the earth.

"Are
you all by yourself?" Mary Grace asked as the soft sobbing continued.
"I could ask someone from the office to keep you company while you
wait."

A
man's voice came over the line. "Miss O'Reilly?"

"Who
is this?"

"It's
Sid Lerner. Marcia's father."

"Yes,
Mr. Lerner. I'm two hours north of Phoenix, now."

"Please
find him, Miss O'Reilly. You don't know what it's like to lose a child. I hope
you never know such pain and heartache. I pray for you...."

Her
own tears began to fall.

"I'll
find him. I promise." She disconnected the call with her finger and held
the receiver against her chest for a few moments. She hated Jim Weaver and all
the
other fathers. Every stupid last one of them, putting what they wanted in front
of what they had to know was best for their kids.

When
she emerged from the phone booth, the storekeeper was waiting for her. He
looked her over and handed her a cold bottle of Coke. "Keeps cool in the
cellar," he said.

She
smiled her thanks. "Do many people come out this way? I'm looking for a
little boy and his dad."

"See
plenty of little boys and their pas. He yours?" He was staring at her
blouse. She looked down and saw the wet spots her tears had left on the faded
blue chambray. For a moment she thought of playing on his sympathies. But her
conscience wouldn't let her do it, no matter how much she would have liked to
claim any of the children she sought as her own. She wiped her cheeks.

She
pulled out a picture of Benjamin and showed it to the man. "I'm trying to
find him for his mama, who is crazy with worry over him. If you've seen him, it
could help a lot."

The
man studied the picture. In it, a boy of four or so was nearly strangling a
fluffy dog in a loving embrace. The man bit at the inside of his cheek.
"He's with his pa, you say?"

Mary
Grace nodded and reached for the photo. The man seemed reluctant to let it go.
"Anything might help."

He
shifted his weight, rubbed his chin, and wiped his hand on his jeans. "Day
before yesterday," he said, "couple of guys came in here. Hunters,
maybe. I remember a rifle rack in the cab of their pickup. Said they were
waitin' on a man with a kid. Showed me his picture. Asked if I'd seen him.
Could have been this one." He shrugged and handed her back the picture of
Benjamin, the boy's brown eyes smiling out at them.

"Do
you know where they were headed?"