Speaking in Tongues (9 page)

“Good.”

Bett listened to Amy again. She frowned in concern. “Tate . . . She said that Megan told her somebody’d been following her.”

“Following? Who?”

“She doesn’t know.”

Okay, hard evidence. The latent prosecutor in Tate Collier awakened a bit more. “Let me talk to her.”

Tate took the phone. “Amy? This is Megan’s father.”

A pause. The girl finally said, “Um, hi. Is Megan, like, okay?”

“We hope so. We just want to find out where she is. What’s this about somebody following her?”

“She was, like, pretty freaked.”

Not real helpful, he thought and asked, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I mean, her and me, we were sitting around watching this movie, I don’t know, on Wednesday, I guess, and it was about a stalker and she goes, ‘I don’t want to watch this.’ And I’m like, ‘Why not?’ And she’s like, ‘There’s this car with some older guy in it and I think he’s been following me around.’ And I go, ‘No way.’ But she’s like, ‘Yeah, really.’ ”

“Where?” Tate asked.

“Around school, I think,” Amy said.

“Any description?”

“Of the guy?”

“Or the car.”

“Naw. She didn’t tell me. But I’m like, ‘Right, somebody following you . . .’ And she’s like, ‘I’m not bullsh—I’m not fooling.’ And she goes, ‘It was there yesterday. By the field.’ ”

“What field?”

“The sports field behind the school,” Amy answered.

“That was this last Tuesday?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I guess. She looked pretty freaked. And she says she told some people about it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Some guys. She didn’t tell me who. Oh, and she told Mr. Eckhard too. He’s an English teacher at the middle school and he coaches volleyball after school and on the weekends. And he said if he
saw it he’d go talk to the driver. And I’m like, ‘Wow. This is totally fuck—totally weird.’ ”

“His name’s Eckhard?”

“Something like that. I don’t know how to spell it. But if you want to, like, talk to him there’s usually volleyball practice on Saturday afternoon, only I don’t know when. Volleyball’s for losers, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tate said. It had been the only sport he’d played in college.

“You think something, like, happened to her? That’s way lame.”

“We’d just feel a little better knowing where she is. Listen, Amy, we’ll be around to pick up her book bag in the next couple of hours. If you hear from her give us a call.”

“I will.”

“Promise?” he asked firmly.

“Yeah, like, I promise.”

As soon as Tate pushed the End button on Bett’s phone it buzzed again. He glanced at her and she nodded for him to answer it. He pushed Receive.

“Hello?”

“Um, is this Megan’s father?” a man’s voice asked.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. McCall . . .”

“Actually it’s Collier.”

“That’s right. Sure. Sorry. This is Dr. Hanson.”

“Doctor, thanks for calling . . . I have to tell you, it looks like Megan’s run away.”

There was a pause. “Really?”

Tate tried to read the tone. He heard concern and surprise.

“We got some . . . well, some pretty angry letters from her. Her mother and I both did. And then she vanished. Is there any way we can see you?”

“I’m in Leesburg now. My mother’s had an accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But if Bett and I drove up could you spare a half hour?”

“Well . . .”

“It’s important, Doctor. We’re really concerned about her.”

“I suppose so. All right.” He gave them directions to the hospital.

Tate looked at his watch. It was noon. “We’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“Actually,” Hanson said slowly, “I think we
should
talk. There
were
some things she told me that you ought to know.”

“What?” Tate asked.

“I want to think about them a little more. There are some confidentiality issues . . . But it’s funny—I’d expect any number of things from Megan, but running away? No, that seems odd to me.”

Tate thanked him. It was only after hanging up that he felt a disturbing twist in his belly. What were the “any number of things” Megan was capable of? And were they any worse than her running away?

•   •   •

His precious cargo was in the trunk. But while Aaron Matthews would have liked to meditate on Megan McCall and on what lay ahead for both of them he was instead growing increasingly anxious.

The fucking white car.

He was cruising down I-66. He’d planned to stop at the house he’d rented last year in Prince William County—only two or three miles from Tate Collier’s farm—and pick up some things he wanted to take with him to the mountains.

But he couldn’t risk leading anyone to that house, and this car was just not going away.

It was raining again, a gray drizzle. In the mist and rain he couldn’t see the driver clearly though he was now certain he was young and black.

And because he followed Matthews so carelessly and obviously he sure wasn’t a cop.

But who?

Then Matthews remembered: Megan had a black boyfriend. Josh or Joshua, wasn’t it? The boy that Dr. Hanson had suggested she leave—if Megan had been telling the truth about that bit of advice, which he suspected she might not have been.

What was going through the young man’s mind?

As a scientist, Matthews believed in logic. The only time people acted illogically—even psychotics—was when they were having seizures. We might not be able to
perceive
the logic they operated by and their actions might be illogical to rational observers but that was only because they were not being empathetic.
Once we climb into the minds of our patients,
he wrote in his well-received essay on delusional behavior in bipolars,
once we understand their fears and desires—their own internal system of logic—then we can begin to understand their motives, the reasons behind their actions, and we can help them change . . .

So, what was this young man thinking?

Maybe Megan had planned to meet him at the office after the appointment. Maybe he’d just happened to see her car, being driven by a man he didn’t recognize, and followed it.

Or maybe—this accorded with Matthews’s perceptions on the frighteningly powerful dynamics of love—he’d been waiting at the office to confront the doctor about the breakup. Maybe even attack him.

Thanks for that, Dr. Hanson, he thought acerbically. Should have broken
your
hip, not Mom’s . . . Rage shook him for a moment. Then he calmed.

Did the boy have a car phone? Had he called the police and reported the Mercedes’s license number? It was a stolen plate but the number didn’t belong to a gray Mercedes and that discrepancy would be reason enough for the cops to pull him over and look in the trunk.

But no, of course, he hadn’t called the cops. They’d be after him by now if he had.

But what if he’d called her
parents?
What did Tate Collier know? Matthews brooded. What was the man thinking? What was he planning to
do?

Matthews sped on until he came to a rest stop then he pulled suddenly into the long driveway, weaving slowly through the tractor trailers and four-by-fours filled with vacationers. He noticed that the white Toyota had made a panicked exit and was pulling into the rest stop after him. Fortunately the rain was heavy again. Which gave Matthews the excuse to hold an obscuring
Washington Post
over his head as he ran to the shelter.

They were trotting through the rain to Tate’s black Lexus when his cell phone buzzed.

As they dropped into the front seats he answered. “Hello?”

“Tate Collier, please.” A man’s voice.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Collier, I’m Special Agent William McComb, with the FBI’s Child Exploitation and Kidnapping Unit. We’ve just received an interagency notice about your daughter.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“I’m sorry about your girl,” the agent said, speaking in the chunky monotone Tate knew so well from working with the feds. “Unfortunately, I have to say, sir, based on the facts we’ve got, there’s not a lot we can do. But you made some friends here when you were a commonwealth’s attorney and so we’re going to open a file and put her name out on our network. That means there’ll be a lot more eyes looking for her.”

“Anything you can do will really be appreciated. My wife and I are pretty upset.”

“I can imagine,” the agent said, registering a
splinter of emotion. “Could you give me some basics about her and the disappearance?”

Tate ran through the physical details, Bett helping on the specifics. Blond, blue eyes, five six, 128 pounds, age seventeen. Then he told McComb about the letters. Tate asked, “You heard about her car?”

“Um, no sir.”

“The Fairfax County Police found it at Vienna Metro. It looks like she went to Manhattan.”

“Really? No, I didn’t hear that. Well, we’ll tell our office in New York about it . . . But do I hear something in your voice, sir? Are you thinking that maybe she
didn’t
run away? Are you thinking there was some foul play?”

Tate had to smile. He’d never thought of himself—especially his speech—as transparent. “As a matter of fact, we’ve been having some doubts, my wife and I.”

“Interesting,” McComb said in a wooden monotone. “What specifically leads you to believe that?”

“A few things. Megan’s mother and I are on our way to Leesburg right now to talk to her therapist. See what he can tell us.”

“He’s in Leesburg?”

“His mother’s in St. Mary’s Hospital. She had an accident.”

“And you think he might be able to tell you something?”

“He said he wanted to talk to us. I don’t know what he’s got in mind.”

“Any other thoughts?”

“Well, Megan told her girlfriend that there was a car following her over the past few weeks.”

“Car, hm? They get any description?”

“Her girlfriend didn’t. But we think a teacher at her school did. Eckhard’s his name. He’s supposed to be at the school later, coaching volleyball. But I’d guess that’s only if the rain breaks up.”

“And what’s her friend’s name?”

He gave the agent Amy Walker’s name. “We’re going to talk to her too. And pick up Megan’s book bag from her. We’re hoping it might have something in it that’ll give us a clue where she’s gone.”

“I see. Does Megan have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone else who’s had much contact with the girl?”

“Well, my wife’s fiancé.”

Silence for a moment. “Oh, you’re divorced.”

“That’s right. Forgot to mention it.”

“You have his name and number?” McComb asked.

Tate asked Bett, who gave him the information. Into the phone he said, “His name’s Brad Markham. He lives in Baltimore.” Tate gave him Brad’s phone number as well.

“Do you think he was involved in any way?” the agent asked Tate.

“I’ve never met him but, no, I’m sure not.”

“Okay. You working with anyone particular at the Fairfax County Police?”

“Konnie . . . That’d be Dimitri Konstantinatis.”

“Out of which office?”

“Fair Oaks.”

“Very good, sir . . . You know, nearly all runaways return on their own. And most of the ones that don’t,
get picked up and
sent
back home. A little counseling, some family therapy, and things generally work out just fine.”

“Thanks for your thoughts. Appreciate it.”

“Oh, one thing, Mr. Collier. I guess you know about the law. About how it could be, let’s say, troublesome for you to take matters into your own hands here.”

“I do.”

“Bad for everybody.”

“Understood.”

“Okay. Then enough said.”

“Appreciate
that
too. I’m just going to be asking a few questions.”

“Good luck to both of you.”

They hung up and he told Bett what the agent had said. Her face was troubled.

“What is it?” He felt an urge to append a “honey” but nipped that one fast.

“Just that it seems so much more serious with the FBI involved.”

•   •   •

How foolish people are, how trusting, how their defenses crumble like sand when they believe they’re talking to a friend. And oh how they want to believe that you
are
a friend . . .

Why, if wild animals were as trusting as human beings they’d have gone extinct ages ago.

Aaron Matthews, no longer portraying the stony-voiced FBI agent, protector of children, hung up the phone after speaking with Tate Collier. He almost felt guilty—it had been so easy to draw information out of the man.

And what information it was! Oh, Matthews was angry. His mood teetered precariously. All his preparation—such care, such finesse, everything constructed to paralyze Collier and his wife with sorrow and send them home to brood about their lost daughter . . . and what were they doing but playing amateur detectives?

Their talking to Hanson could be a real problem. Megan might have said something about loving her parents and never even considering running away. Or, even worse, they might become suspicious of Matthews’s whole plan and have the police go through Hanson’s office. He’d been careful there but hadn’t worn gloves all the time. There were fingerprints—and the window latch in the bathroom where Matthews had snuck in was still broken. Then there was Amy Walker, Megan’s friend. With a book bag that
probably
didn’t have anything compromising but might—maybe a diary or those notes teenage girls are always passing around in school. And this Eckhard, the teacher and coach. What did he know?

Reports of a car following her . . .

Much of Matthews’s reconnaissance had been conducted around the school. If the teacher
had
walked up to the car he might easily have gotten the license number of the Mercedes; Matthews hadn’t changed the license plates to the stolen ones until yesterday. And even if Eckhard didn’t
think
he’d seen much, there were probably some prickly little facts locked away in the teacher’s subconscious; Matthews had done much hypnosis work and knew how many memories and observations were retained in the cobwebby recesses of the mind.