Noah's Rainy Day (32 page)

Feeling Dad muss my hair, I grinned, arching my back in my excitement. I heard Dad kiss Mom and say, “The thermometer in my car said it’s three below zero out there. Maybe you should put long johns on Noah, a couple of extra layers today, just in case.” He removed his gloves and stocking cap before bending to kiss me on the cheek.

I smiled.

“Your appetite’s been good today. You didn’t eat a very good dinner last night. That’s not like you. Are you getting sick or something?”

I forced my smile to disappear. I wasn’t sick.

“No?” Dad asked as he removed his topcoat. “Then you just didn’t like the Christmas Eve dinner that Mom fixed for us?”

I froze my face, wishing I could say,
Not it at all. Mom’s a great cook.

“Where were you?” Emma said as she sprinted into the kitchen, curly red pigtails bobbing by her ears. She jumped into Dad’s arms and he dropped all of his winter clothing.

“Outside shoveling Mrs. Parrent’s driveway and sidewalks.” Kissing her and blowing raspberries on her neck, he paused only long enough to ask, “Miss me, Princess?”

Emma giggled.

As Dad put Emma down, Mom said, “Emma, will you please pour a glass of water for Noah?”

“Okay, Mom, but after that can we please, please, please go outside to play? Please?”

I lifted my eyes, in case Mom was wondering if I wanted to go, too. And I smiled.

“We’ll see. Maybe after lunch. It’s so cold. You’ll both have to dress in a bunch of layers, if you do.”

I squealed, wanting to go outside, too.

I heard Dad scoop up all his winter clothes and store them in the closet by the front door. After he kicked off his snow boots, he came back in and sat in the living room with Emma. I thought they’d forgotten about me until I felt Mom release my wheelchair brakes and push me out of the kitchen into the living room through all the scattered toys, boxes, and wrapping paper.

“Auntie Elizabeth is coming later this afternoon to take you two ice skating and then for a sleepover.”

Emma hollered, “Yippee! You didn’t tell us that. Thank you, Mommy. It’s the best Christmas ever.”

“So do you still want to play outside? If so you’ll have to head out soon so you’ll be ready to go when she and Uncle Michael get here.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Noah, we’re going to Uncle Michael and Auntie Elizabeth’s house. We’re going skating and to Fizziegoobers.”

“I never said anything about Fizziegoobers,” Mom said.

“I know, but Auntie Elizabeth always takes us there for dinner.”

“It’s Christmas. It’s probably closed. Even pizza joints get a day off sometime, Em. Auntie Elizabeth said she’s taking you skating at the outdoor ice rink and then taking you to her house in Louisville for macaroni and cheese.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Emma sang.

I smiled. Mac and cheese was one of my favorites.

“Go get your long johns on first, then redress and put your snow clothes on and I’ll bring Noah out in a minute. Stay in the backyard.”

Emma was gone.

Mom started tugging off my shoes and stripped me bare. She pulled on two layers of long johns, my heavy sweats, and two pairs of socks before putting my heavy socks and my snow boots on me. Then, she started dressing me in my snow clothes.

Dad said, “Emma told me that Noah saw a kid next door at the neighbor’s. That true, Noah?”

I smiled, not knowing Emma had told Dad already.

“She told you that? When?” Mom asked, pausing just as she lifted my left foot to fill a boot.

I could feel the fuzz of its lining against my toe through the sock.

“About five minutes before I stepped outside to shovel,” Dad explained. “I didn’t see any visitors. Or any little boot prints in the snow. I assume she meant Mr. Flicker and not Mr. Andrews.”

“Jason Fletcher,” my mom sighed. “And she told me that, too, but I told her to quit making up stories like that.”

“Like what? About Fletcher?”

“About make-believe friends. She’s getting too old for that. I mean, I know she’s not too old to play pretend, but to believe so strongly in her imaginary friends … it might cause rumors to get started about others.”

“Like Mr. Fletcher?” Dad asked.

I strained against the clothes she was layering on me, angry that she wasn’t looking at my face. So I could tell her the truth, that there was a child next door. That Emma wasn’t playing with another imaginary friend.

But she pretended I wasn’t there and kept talking to Dad. “He’s pretty private. No one around here knows much about him. I heard he was into photography or something. The one-hour-developer kind of store. He’s not very friendly though. And I told Emma that involving Noah and Mr. Fletcher in her make-believe world wasn’t right and could lead to trouble.”

“Noah, did you and Emma come up with this story?”

I raised my eyes and smiled.
I saw the child. Last night and this morning
.

Mom noticed. “See? They made it up. And now Emma’s got Noah in the middle of it.”

My smile faded. What did I do? I meant to answer Dad that Emma and I started that story and that I actually
saw
a child, not that we made up the story as pretend. By miscommunicating my “yes” with Dad, I’d already gotten Emma in enough trouble for the day.

Dad said, “Why would Emma do that?”

I figured I better let this one go for now. Besides, I was about to go outside and had a mystery to think about. I wanted to sit in the fresh air and puzzle through the case of the missing backpack. And maybe I’d see a mountain lion.

“Maybe she was trying to get him in trouble. We call him Mr. Creepy,” Mom admitted to Dad.

“Mr. Creepy? That’s not nice.”

He
was
kind of creepy. He kept his distance from me, but I assumed it was because the man was uncomfortable with me having cerebral palsy. Or being in a wheelchair. If I could talk, I’d tell him it isn’t contagious. Then I’d laugh.

“Yeah, when I was in our driveway shoveling, I saw Fletcher walk by the front window and close the curtains. I don’t think he saw me sneaking some peeks in there, but who knows. Why do you suppose Noah’s saying he saw a kid?”

Because I did!
Those are the words I shouted in my head, but only “Errrggh” came out of my mouth.

“Well, like I told Noah, he was probably mistaken, probably saw a shadow or Emma’s reflection in his window. But let’s not encourage Emma with her delusions of imaginary friends that involve others,” Mom replied, wrapping a heavy winter coat around my body. “Or rumors will start spreading like wildfire.”

But it’s not a rumor if I saw the child over there, is it?

My mom pulled gloves on my hands, then mittens; she put a stocking cap on my head and bumped me down the stairs in my wheelchair. Dad must have followed, because I heard the basement door open to the backyard and felt the cold air rush in on my face.

“Well, maybe we need to set up some play dates for Emma tomorrow or later this week with kids from her school. At nine, Emma really should be growing out of this imaginary world of hers,” Dad said. “Before it gets out of hand.”

It already had. And I was sorry I ever mentioned it.

“I bet Em would like that.”

I just wanted to go outside before I missed the mountain lions sneaking around in our backyard. And if I did see one, I certainly wouldn’t let Emma tell Mom or Dad. They’d never believe us.

Or maybe I’d just look for bears. Maybe I could ask one of them if they knew what happened to Clint, the kid who might be the owner of the missing backpack.

IT DIDN’T TAKE ME
long to do my analysis on the possible paths out of the airport that were out of camera range and to finish up my report to Streeter. Hopefully, that would help Jack narrow the video search.

I was hoping not to call DIA’s Concourse B home for much longer and was happy to have a few moments alone, curling up on the floor to take a quick nap. Apparently, my nap wasn’t all that quick, because when I awoke, it was nearly eleven in the morning, which meant I had slept for almost an hour. Groggy, I heard Streeter and Gates talking with one another in front of the computer screen.

I yawned and stretched, hopped to my feet, and rubbed my eyes.

Gates heard me approaching and turned toward me. “Merry Chri—what in the hell are you wearing?”

I looked down at my clothes. “Oh, Phil Kelleher from LoDo. And the shoes are Louis L’Amour.”

The men gaped.

“You know, red carpet? Louis Vuitton? Fancy shoes? Louis L’Amour? Storyteller of the frontier? I’m wearing boots? On the red carpet, movie stars are asked, ‘What are you wearing?’ Never mind.” I puffed out my reddened cheeks. “Okay, I borrowed these clothes from Phil.”

“You’re wearing Agent Kelleher’s clothes?” Gates asked. “Do I want to know what happened while I was gone?”

“Mine were filthy.”

“I don’t want to know.” Gates said, shaking his head.

“What are you guys looking at?” I asked.

“The results of the work you did earlier,” Streeter said. “I’m just now reading the email you sent to Linwood at 9:45 a.m.”

“Good!” I replied enthusiastically. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s thorough and the best chance we have to narrow down video footage quickly,” Streeter answered. “Tell us how you came to your conclusions on the best six cameras for Linwood’s team to search.”

For the first time, I actually felt like an equal with the chief and Streeter. “I had help. Jon Tuygen and Kyle Mills went to airport security where the videos were playing and watched my movements as I went from the family bathroom out into the main terminal. They talked me through what they saw and how to improve my movements to avoid cameras. I tried to imagine what I would do if I knew the airport as well as someone like Kevin Benson.”

“Tuygen and Mills? Bureau guys?” Gates asked.

I nodded. “I’d start in the bathroom and move to the nearest doors. Trial and error. There are six cameras that are key to monitoring the exits closest to the bathroom by the Buckhorn Bar and Grill. If the abductor took little Max outside to a car or to a bus, we’re guessing there’s an 85 percent chance he’ll be on one of those six cameras.”

“But not more than one,” Streeter said.

“Right,” I said, noticing that Streeter was studying me as I paced, his eyes locked on mine. “The cameras are positioned above the exits and there’s no way he could avoid the cameras. At least one of them. Unless he went out the door a great distance from where the boy was last seen, which is entirely possible. That’s where Jon Tuygen came in.”

Streeter asked, “He ran a probability analysis?”

“Statistics based on the camera diagram Jack provided,” I said. “Not foolproof, but the six cameras will at least narrow Jack’s search.”

Gates moved near Streeter, who was reading the screen. “Based on an 85 percent probability that the perp used one of those exits.”

I said, “Yeah, and on a hunch, we might want to steer Jack to the fourth and fifth cameras listed on Tuygen’s six-camera list to start with, based on those doors being closest to where Beulah drew the scent in short-term parking.”

“Great idea,” Streeter said.

“Where’d you find the statistics guy?” Gates asked Streeter.

“Jon Tuygen? He was a new office agent last year. He’s feisty and a numbers whiz,” Streeter said. “I like him. He fits in well with the team.”

“Kyle Mills is no slouch, either,” I added. “He talked me through the main terminal as if I were on a major heist or something, stepping over, around, and through what felt like invisible sensor beams, monitoring my every movement and correcting me so I could truly avoid the cameras, while noting how difficult it was for me to do so. Don’t let his offish persona fool you. Mills is meticulous.”

Streeter clicked on the email and closed the screen. “Good job. Now all we can do is to wait.”

I saw the two men glance at one another and sensed some bad news. “What did you guys find out about the nanny?”

Streeter pursed his lips. “We found her.”

“She was at a nearby airport hotel,” Gates said. “She was staying under your sister’s name, just like you suspected, Liv.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Streeter indicated a chair at the table, which I took. Gates and Streeter did the same. Streeter reached over and clicked the mouse. The photo I’d seen earlier of Judy Manning in Max’s file appeared. A woman in her early thirties, I’d guess. Mousy hair pulled back into a tight knot, an even tighter smile, white skin, and pretty eyes. Next was a photo captured from the video at Concourse B. And finally there was a live video stream from next door. Of what appeared to be Judy Manning’s mother.

“Wow, what happened to her?”

“Ask her yourself,” Gates said, folding his arms. “She’s next door waiting for us to interview her.”

“She doesn’t even look like the same person I saw on the trains last night. Looks like she’s aged twenty years,” I said, observing the dark circles under her eyes, the sallow skin, and the crop of wrinkles that had seemed to sprout overnight. “She looks like hell.”

“That’s not even what I wanted to show you.” Streeter said, clicking to the next image, to something on the screen that I didn’t quite understand. “These are photos sent from Jerome Schuffler of Judy Manning’s living room.”

“A bookshelf?” I asked. “But what is all this? These aren’t books.”

“They’re DVDs.”

“She’s a movie buff?”

Streeter’s gaze slid from mine to Tony’s. “Sort of. They’re videos of little Max. She took videos of everything he did. All the time. Since he was born.”

“There must be six dozen DVDs there,” Chief Gates said.

“Obsessed? That’s crazy.” I marveled at not only the sheer number of DVDs but also at the organization of them.

“Quite possibly,” Streeter agreed. “We’ll know more after we talk with her. I just wanted you to see this first. Agent Schuffler’s people recorded a walk-through of Manning’s apartment. The judge allowed the search warrant, believing time was of the essence, since Maximillian Bennett Williams II said Manning was the one who took the child to the airport yesterday morning.”

Tony speculated, “Maybe she never did. Maybe she did a bait and switch on us?”