Noah's Rainy Day (19 page)

“Makes sense,” I said. “But will this list be helpful if this was a random abduction?”

“Doubt it,” Streeter said. “Random abductions don’t usually involve predators traveling long distances, especially with no cover and no control, like a passenger on a very public plane.”

Gates said, “And if this was a planned abduction, by a parent or someone trying to ransom the child considering the parents’ celebrity status, they would have to know who the escort would be and research the escort’s background to know a girlfriend was involved and that she could be used to distract him. That’s pretty complicated.”

“Didn’t you or someone say the father hired the escort?” I asked, wondering if the Max I knew would be capable of abducting his own child.

“That’s what the deputy told us in the original phone call about the missing child. But hiring an escort means when a child is dropped off by the parent to fly, the airline assigns an employee on duty to stay with that child until he’s delivered to the responsible party at the other end, according to BlueSky’s Toby Freytag,” Gates explained. “It’s not like the father would dictate who escorted the boy to LA from NYC.”

Streeter and I exchanged a glance. Max dictated who would be working this case. So it certainly wasn’t out of the question that he’d dictate who would escort the boy from the airline.

“What? What’d I miss?”

Streeter said, “The father has connections. Although you called me in to this case, my boss also called.”

“The call you took when we were getting in our cars outside my house?” Streeter nodded.

An unexpected flutter tickled my stomach. I was relieved to know that Streeter had been spending Christmas Eve at Chief Gates’s home rather than holed up alone. Or with someone else. Who’d bought him cologne.

“If the parents are flying in here on private jets, why do you suppose they stick their five-year-old on a commercial airplane with an escort?” Gates asked. “Would you take that risk, if you were little Max’s uber-rich parents?”

Streeter shrugged. “Maybe their private jets were busy. Maybe they were concerned about limited pilot air time. Maybe they didn’t want to risk seeing one another.”

“Or maybe Max is simply the cheapest son of a bitch you’ll ever meet,” I said.

“Max? You know this guy?” Gates asked.

My cheeks burned. “That’s what Streeter was trying to say. He muscled our bosses into me working the case. Look, I don’t know what Max’s game is here, but we need to grill the shit out of him to find out. All he’s done is given me more reason to believe he had something to do with this abduction, the kidnapping of his own child, and that this was planned, calculated.”

Gates and Streeter continued to stare at me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Cause he didn’t ask for the best to be assigned to his son’s abduction. He asked for me, a brand-spanking-new Quantico puke,” I admitted.

“How do you know the richest man in Manhattan?” Gates’s eyebrow arched, an unspoken accusation in his tone.

“Not me, my sister. They almost married. Years ago.”

Gates rested an elbow on the arm that wrapped around his thin waist, his hand rubbing his mouth. “So why you?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. Why pick the least-experienced agent in the country?”

“Maybe he trusts you,” Gates said.

“Doubt it,” I said. “It’s not like there was any love lost between the two of us.”

“We’ll ask when Melissa and Max Williams arrive,” Streeter said reassuringly. “Kelleher is setting up next door and preparing a list of pertinent facts to help us with our interrogation of both the father and mother. We’ll add the private jet question to the long list we already have.”

“He’s cheap. Bottom line,” I repeated.

Gates cued up the short videos of the boy; Streeter and I gathered behind him to watch.

The child had thick blond hair, brilliantly green eyes, and a smile that was almost as infectious as his laugh. Even if someone wasn’t fond of children, he or she would notice this one. He was a beautiful boy, full of life—running, jumping, mugging for the camera, talking and laughing at the videographer. His voice was high-pitched, but not tiny. He spoke with conviction and confidence, with the power of innocence.

“Little Max,” Gates said in a sad tone.

They stared at the screen until the last video went black.

“No matter who’s behind this, how could little Max just disappear?” I started to pace again, feeling the soreness in my ribs with every step.

“The guy at the bar said he had watched the child for several seconds before he disappeared, and said the boy was precocious, energetic. I think he used the words ‘a handful.’ The witness has kids of his own and said with that boy’s energy, he could see the boy slipping away from anyone,” Streeter explained, walking toward the cold, dark windows.

“And no one saw little Max,” I said puzzled, walking toward Streeter and standing a few steps behind him. “It’s Christmas Eve. Is it possible the airport was less crowded earlier and—”

“No,” Streeter interrupted. “On the contrary. DIA has been swarming with people all day long. The airport security said it’s one of the busiest travel days of the year.”

“Christmas Eve? Don’t these people have families?” I asked, remembering the crowd Beulah had maneuvered through, just to follow the scent trail.

Gates lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. So, it’s Christmas Eve. Little Max is all decked out. He must stand out, even in a crowd. He’s got a white shirt, little hunter-green velvet beret, matching bow tie, knickers and little black suspenders, thick blond hair in a page-boy-style haircut, and a big grin. How could anyone not notice this kid? I would have noticed a cute kid like that, alone in the airport.”

“Was he alone?” Streeter challenged.

Rising to the challenge, I theorized, “And if he wasn’t alone, would people notice if he was with his mother or with Max? Even the witness said he just assumed the mother had him. Is this some wild publicity stunt, a pathetic grab for headlines and sympathy? Maybe about money?”

“You know him. Is he that kind of person?” Gates asked.

I shrugged.

There was another knock on the door. Gates shouted, “What!”

“Chief? The Williams parties are here,” the officer named Lou said, offering me an apologetic smile.

“Parties?”

The officer said, “There’re a bunch of them. Toss in a football and whistle, and you’ve got yourself a game. Agent Kelleher is getting them set up next door. Give him a few minutes and he’ll be ready.”

Gates nodded and Officer Lou stepped out, closing the door. Gates and I both turned our attention on Streeter.

“Let’s make them wait. We’ll get the cameras rolling in there and have Phil stall for us. Getting them onto our schedule may make them a bit more forthcoming. Liv, take Beulah out to the priority grid and see what you can find. Tony and I will go through the ticketed passenger list and interview Benson’s girlfriend. When you get back, then we’ll interview the Williams party next door.”

“Kindling to see if sparks fly?” Gates asked.

“I want to send a strong message that this is my investigation. Making them wait won’t kill them,” Streeter said. “See what you can find, Liv.”

“Cross your fingers,” I said. I walked to the corner where Beulah slept. “It was nice to get confirmation that Beulah had tracked the exact scent trail Kevin Benson described, although I’m not sure if she was tracking Benson or the boy, given that Benson was carrying the backpack. So I hope that Max and Melissa Williams brought something more personal we can use.”

“Or that you find something in the priority grid from the bathroom where Beulah stopped tracking,” Streeter suggested.

I crouched to pet Beulah, and she stretched and yawned. “And Chief Gates?”

“Tony, please.”

“To your earlier question on whether I think Max is capable of kidnapping his own son? I don’t know him that well. But what I do know about Max is that he’s an asshole. I can’t say that knowing Max is an asshole makes me believe he’s capable of kidnapping his own son.”

Streeter raised a single brow of encouragement. “Let’s find out when you get back.”

Noah

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE!

I can’t wait for Santa to come. I’m staying awake all night to see Santa, hopefully to see an elf, and definitely to find out what Auntie Liv and Beulah have been up to. I’m sure Mom will make coffee for Auntie Liv no matter what time she comes home. I’ve practiced hitting the football button a couple of times to make sure I can record Santa’s movements. I hope I can get him to talk to me. It takes me a few seconds but when I concentrate, I can land my fist or wrist against the pin.

I’m so glad Auntie Liv bought this for me. And that she gave it to me while we were alone today. I love her. She gets me. And she believes in me. I know Beulah and I are both going to be sad when Auntie Liv finds an apartment in Denver, but it’s been like a big sleepover party every night since she’s been home from Quantico.

Special Agent Liv Bergen.

So exciting!

I’ve been lying here all night thinking about the fifth grader who lost his backpack at school. The case of the missing backpack is what Auntie Liv called it. For the life of me, I can’t remember ever hearing about anyone
at Pennington Grade School losing a backpack this year. Well, except once early in the year when some kid left it on the bus. I forgot to ask Auntie Liv the color of the backpack. Maybe that would jog my memory.

I want to ask Emma about it, but I don’t want to tell her why I’m asking. And I don’t like to lie. Lying makes my stomach hurt. The only time I lie is when I’m trying not to worry my mom. Like when she asks me if I slept through having a dirty diaper in the middle of the night, I lie. If I tell her the truth—I don’t want her to lose any more sleep at night than she already does—she’d tell me I was being silly and then force herself awake to check on me throughout the night. She’d never get a good night’s sleep. And I think that’s silly.

Besides, why would I want her to learn how good I’ve gotten at spying, like how I’ve gotten so good at pretending to be asleep? CIA agents have to be good liars and even better at pretending. I bet they taught Auntie Liv that as an FBI agent sometimes you have to pretend, like they will teach me when I work for the CIA. I have to start somewhere. And thanks to Auntie Liv, I have this new football pin. So cool! Best Christmas ever! Almost makes me forget that I have CP. And definitely makes nighttime a lot less scary.

Nighttime is my favorite because when I sleep, I dream. And in my dreams, I run. I chase bad people, like spies from other countries. And I run away fast when they’re chasing me. Then in my dreams, I sit back in my wheelchair and pretend I can’t walk. It makes me the best spy ever because when you live in a wheelchair it’s like an invisibility cloak.

Dreaming is the best part of sleeping and there’s something else I like about the nighttime. At night I sleep deep. Not like naps during the day. And when I sleep so soundly that my dreams come alive, I can’t feel the constant pain in my arms, legs, hands, and feet from bunched up muscles. At least, not as much. The deep-in-my-bones pain is always there, like an annoying sister, constantly reminding me of who I really am, but it’s still pain, all the same.

Even when I can’t sleep—pain being a best friend and keeping me awake—I love the night because it’s so quiet and I can think.

But nighttime can also be the scariest time, too. Like waking up after a nightmare and having to lie in the dark trying to figure out what’s real
and what’s pretend and not having someone to talk to about it. Or feeling a seizure coming on and knowing I’m all alone.

It’s not always scary when I lie awake at night. Sometimes it’s just lonely. And I hate being lonely. In the daytime, I’m rarely alone. I don’t mind being alone, though. A lot of times when I’m alone, I never find the time to be lonely. I’m busy spying, listening hard to all the activities that are happening in the nearby halls at school, the gossip between friends at the next table during school lunch, or the secrets that float around the playground.

I should write a book.

Just because I can’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t listen. So I know way too much and could really tell some crazy stories if Emma ever agreed to be my five-finger interpreter. Until then, the secrets are safe with me. Alone time affords me that special time to actively listen.

To everything.

Everyone around me is interesting and funny. I never tire of listening to Emma play her make-believe games with her dolls. I get excited about being a spy and listening through the vent to adults talking over coffee in the kitchen. I listen close to the tone of my father’s whistle while he fixes a broken screen or replaces a lightbulb, to guess how frustrated he is. I’m usually hoping he’ll curse, which makes me laugh. I sing along in my head with my mother as she sings songs when she’s doing the laundry or baking cookies and bread. I strain to hear the sounds in the neighborhood—the dogs barking, the cars creeping by, the kids in far off yards hollering as they play—and to guess what all the neighbors might be doing in their houses.

But at night, everyone’s asleep. And it can get lonely waiting for the sun to come up or scary on the nights I think I hear things I shouldn’t. When I can’t sleep, I try to lie in bed and think about the day to come and not about my empty stomach or my dirty diaper.

My parents keep the monitor so close to my bed that I know if I breathe too loud or make a noise, they’ll be by my side in a flash. I hate to wake them. They both work so hard and need their sleep. Even on the scariest of nights. Sometimes when I get really, really bored I make a noise on purpose but I always feel guilty when I hear my mom’s groggy voice asking if I’m all right or when I feel my dad’s rough hands slide beneath me and hold me close to his neck, rocking me back to sleep.

The older I get, the less I want to wake them. I know how being awakened feels and it’s not fun. It’s annoying. All the times I’ve spent in the hospital when things haven’t worked out so great with my body, those hospital people are like vampires. Never sleeping, keeping the lights on all night long, and waking me up over and over to check my pulse and take more blood.