The Last Time She Saw Him (11 page)

“Come on in,” Navarro instructs and beckons me with his fingers.

The three steps it would take to walk inside the room feel impossible, but I force myself forward. My natural reporter’s instinct fortunately kicks in, and I scan the scene of the crime. The clothes I laid out for Will to wear today are still sitting on the changing table. The outfit is a yellow T-shirt that says B
EST
L
ITTLE
B
ROTHER IN THE
W
ORLD
, and a pair of blue cotton shorts.

Burton runs her freshly manicured, red fingernails across Will’s bookcase and then sits down in the white wicker chair where I read to Will each night before he goes to sleep. I feel a hard lump begin to form in my chest as I recall how we would rock back and forth, Will’s green eyes fighting to stay open, until they finally shut tight for the night.

“Your baby’s name is Will, correct? That’s such a sweet name. Do you have anything of his that I can touch?” Burton asks me.

I hesitate for a moment, not wanting her to handle anything that belongs to my child. Navarro gives me a stern nod, and I know I have to comply. I pull one of Will’s favorite stuffed animals from the bookcase. It’s a plush brown puppy with a white spot over its right eye. I reluctantly hand it over to Burton, and she gently squeezes the toy between her fingers.

Burton rises suddenly from the rocking chair, closes the blue gingham curtain across the window with a quick snap, and turns off the Winnie the Pooh lamp on Will’s dresser. Now in near darkness, she walks back to the rocker and closes her eyes. Burton sways back and forth and hums in a soothing monotone. I struggle to stay silent through a good five minutes of her nonsense and am about to break when Burton finally snaps out of her internal séance.

“Your son is alive,” Burton utters in a voice now tinged with an uncharacteristic rasp.

“Of course he is,” I answer.

“Will is nearby, not too far from your house. I see a farm setting with woods that surround the lot and a cherry orchard.”

“The entire state of Michigan is cherry country,” I answer, clearly annoyed. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Burton disregards my heckling and stays rapt in her self-induced hypnotic state.

“The woods are thick around the property. Will’s not in the main house. There’s another building. It’s older, smaller, and far off in the woods. There’s a red star on the roof and a lake running across the back of the property. The person who took Will knows you. There’s a deeply disturbed and violent anger that brews inside of them. They did this as payback.”

I feel goose bumps spread like tiny pinpricks down my arms.

“Someone else is coming through now. It’s a little boy. The child is not your son. This boy is older. Does the letter B mean anything to you?”

“Did you tell her about Ben?” I whisper in Navarro’s ear.

Navarro keeps his eyes on Burton and shakes his head no.

“The boy keeps talking about game six of the 1977 World Series. The boy is very agitated. He says he has something very important to tell you. He keeps calling you ‘kid.’ ‘You need to listen to me, kid.’ What is it you want to tell Julia?” Burton asks.

I get an overwhelming sensation to run out of the room as fast as I can, but my legs are frozen in place. Just like in a bad dream when a runaway truck is heading straight for me, I am cemented in place, staring at the truck’s oncoming, screaming headlights.

Burton lets out a loud gasp, and I feel my hand rush up to my throat as Will’s stuffed dog slips through Burton’s fingers and lands on the floor.

“There’s a darkness coming. It’s coming back for you again, Julia,” Burton cries out. “You’re in grave danger, you and both your children.”

CHAPTER 7

T
his time, I’m not the one who is chasing the story. It’s the story that’s chasing me.

Press conferences usually are familiar territory. I know how to drill through the canned nonsense from the talking heads on the podium and hammer away at the question until I get a real answer. My sources might not have always agreed with me or appreciated my doggedness, but I earned their respect by always being accurate and fair. So I was the one they called on amidst a sea of raised hands to ask the first coveted question. But this press conference is going to be much different. My professional reputation doesn’t mean shit.

As David and I drive to Will’s media event in downtown Detroit, I gnaw anxiously on my fingernails, a habit I kicked ten years ago for David, until they are ripped raw and bitten down to the quick. My hands throb over the self-inflicted assault, but Anita Burton’s words sting worse. I shove my wounded hands under my legs so David won’t see, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are fixed on the straight shot of I-75 that will take us to the police station and the 11
AM
press conference where we will be the big show.

David drums his index fingers along the steering wheel in a nervous beat. The repetitive rhythm begins to get under my skin, and I start to feel like a caged animal desperately needing to find an escape hatch.

“What happened with Anita Burton?” David asks, finally breaking the ice between us. “You looked as white as paper when you came out of Will’s room.”

I swallow my stubborn pride, ready to admit I was wrong about the charlatan psychic, when a digital billboard flashes a giant picture of Will, gap toothed and smiling, across its screen.

“Jesus. It’s Will’s Amber Alert,” I cry out.

Will’s face flashes by and I spin around in the seat and stare in longing and shock at the empty wooden back of the billboard frame. All my hard-fought reserve finally gives, and I begin to cry, softly at first, until the scream I had forced to silence finally erupts, and I slam my fist against the passenger side door.

“Hold on. Everything is going to be okay. You told me that, remember?” David says. “The Amber Alert is going to help us. Someone saw Will. Someone out there knows something about his disappearance, and this will remind them and tip their conscience.”

I press my cheek against the cool side of the window and force myself back to the other side of sanity.

“That’s our little boy up there. Will’s face shouldn’t be frozen on a highway billboard. He’s supposed to be safe and home with us.”

“Are you going to be okay?” David asks and reaches his hand across the seat to rub my shoulder.

“I have to be. I’ve been trying so hard to keep it together. I feel like if I give in too far, even for a second, I’m going to lose it completely and never come back.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened with Anita Burton? We can wait if you’re not ready.”

“No, I do want to talk about it. I have to admit, I made a mistake. I went in to her visit thinking Burton was a major bullshit artist. I witnessed the fine art of the con from my dad and I was so sure Burton was from the same ilk, but she said some things I couldn’t explain away.”

“Like what?”

“Burton claimed Will is alive. But I know that already in my heart. She also said the boys and I are in grave danger.”

I feel the car gradually decelerate as David eases his foot off the gas pedal.

“Why didn’t you tell me this until now?”

“Because we haven’t had a second alone since Burton left. Plus, I can handle myself, and I won’t let anything happen to Logan.”

“We’ll both look out for Logan. But you need to protect yourself, too. Whatever is going on, you’re at the core of it. Cahill’s letters said you needed to be punished.”

“I’m not worried about me,” I answer.

“You should be.”

“Anita Burton also said some things about my brother.”

A silence fills the car for a good ten seconds as David analyzes this new bit of information.

“If Navarro didn’t brief her already, Burton could’ve found old news stories about Ben,” David rationalizes.

“I have no doubt Burton researched me and manufactured some highly probable guesses. But there is one thing she couldn’t have known. She said a little boy came through and was talking about game six of the 1977 World Series. On the night Ben went missing, he and I talked about whether the Yankees would make it to the World Series that year. Reggie Jackson was a new hotshot on the team, and Ben didn’t like him. Not one bit. Ben said the only way Jackson would win his respect was if he nailed a bunch of home runs in the Series.”

“Mr. October.”

“That’s right. The month after Ben disappeared, the Yankees played the L.A. Dodgers in the World Series. Reggie Jackson nailed three consecutive home runs in just three swings during game six, and his unbelievable performance cinched the Series. There’s no way Anita Burton could have known about my conversation with Ben from a newspaper article. That was one of the last things Ben and I talked about that night. We’re the only two people who know that story, and my brother’s been gone for a long time.”

“That’s hard to explain based just on facts.”

“For the past thirty years, I wanted more than anything for Ben to let me know he was okay. Dead, alive, or somewhere in between, I begged him to give me a sign. But he never did. If it was somehow possible, I know Ben would’ve reached out to me. He loved me more than anything.”

“Do you believe what Burton said about Ben?”

“I’d like to, but I can’t. I always thought people who believed in that kind of stuff were suckers. But it’s funny. I keep getting reminders of my brother all of a sudden. Right before Anita Burton showed up, Logan found a Mary Jane candy in his treasure box. Did you put it there?”

“It wasn’t me,” David answers.

“Ben and I loved Mary Jane candies. They were our favorites. After he disappeared, I could never eat one again. I guess I’m the one who’s the sucker this time. A little part of me wanted to believe the candy Logan found meant something, that it wasn’t random.”

“Kim is always sneaking the boys surprises. I bet it was her. But your feelings are understandable. If you look at it from a psychological standpoint, all these sudden reminders of your brother and your childhood could be a string of coincidences linked together that may hold a bigger meaning. Like synchronicity. Carl Jung came up with the concept.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Jung theorized synchronicity is a significant coincidence of physical and psychological phenomena that are acausal connected,” David explains. “Essentially, Jung said synchronicity is the coming together of inner and outer events in a way that can’t be explained by cause and effect and is meaningful to the observer.”

“That’s a lofty explanation.”

“Okay. Do you think the coincidences you’re experiencing are random or have a greater meaning?”

“Like some sort of cryptic hint from the universe? You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“A lot of people do and there’s nothing wrong with that, like Jung did. He believed synchronicity is more likely to occur when a person is in a highly charged state of emotional and mental awareness.”

“I’m definitely in a highly charged state right now. But it makes sense. Anita Burton’s reading and the Mary Jane candy are just coincidences. I want to believe they have a greater meaning when they really don’t.”

As we pass the exit sign for Midtown Detroit, I push away my thoughts about Burton and throw David a curveball.

“I need to make a pit stop before we go to the press conference. Take the next exit.”

“What are you doing, Julia?”

“I need to stop by my old newspaper. Don’t park in front. I don’t want anyone to see me. You can park in the back by Bill’s office.”

“Bill Gilroy? Your city editor from the paper you worked at when I first met you? Does Navarro know about this?”

“I need to make sure the story about Will’s abduction gets as much coverage as possible. So just trust me on this one.”

David takes a quick right onto River Street.

“Why Bill?” he asks.

“Because he’s the only newsman I can trust right now. I won’t be long, I promise.”

“You’ve got ten minutes. I don’t want to be late. I hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“Believe me, I do.”

David parks the car in the back of the building, and I consider my carefully calculated decision to leak to Bill the background story on Ben before the press conference. My former city editor will quote me as an unnamed source close to the family so I won’t get in hot water with Navarro, who is dead set against publicizing the story about my brother’s abduction, at least for the moment anyway. But I know the angle about the possible tie-in with both abductions will generate more interest and emotion in the story. And the bigger the story, the more coverage and the more people who will know about Will’s kidnapping. That’s what I have to guarantee.

I hustle along the rear of the newspaper so no one will see me until I reach the sole window in the back of the solid concrete building. I look through and see Bill on the phone, red-faced and giving hell to someone on the other end. Bill is a high-strung, aggressive newsman, but underneath his brash exterior, he is a decent soul with a good heart and unlike the way I feel about most people, I trust him.

I rap hard on the window to get his attention. Bill glowers in the direction of the interruption, and his dogged look softens when he recognizes me. He quickly ends his phone call and jumps up from his desk. The back door to the newspaper swings open, and there’s Bill looking exactly as I remembered, bald, skinny, and still smelling like an overfilled, dirty ashtray.

“Julia, gosh come on in. To say I’m sorry about what happened to your son would be stupid, so I’m just going to say, I’m sorry. I mean . . .”

Bill is impossibly awkward when it comes to human interaction unless it is a heated debate with an angry source. So I put him out of his quickly growing misery.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know you feel badly. We’ll just concentrate on getting the story out.”

“Sounds good. Let’s head down to the back office, where no one is going to see you or bother us,” Bill says in his usual rapid-fire delivery and takes off down the corridor ahead of me.

As I follow Bill, I peer over the partition into the newsroom. For a second, I am surprised at the longing I feel tugging at me as I look at my old desk. Bill’s latest crime reporter is now its current occupant. I stare at the back of the twenty-something young man’s head as he huddles over his computer. I feel a pang of righteous indignation as I judge him for camping out in the newsroom instead of hustling out on the street, especially with a breaking story that could go national. But he’s most likely a rookie, fresh out of journalism school. Knowing how newspapers are downsizing and compensating with cheap labor these days, the kid is probably making barely enough to pay off his student loans and buy groceries. And the higher-paid newsroom veterans were the first casualties in the series of newspaper lay-offs, so there are very few experienced reporters left to teach him the ropes.

“Jason’s a nice kid,” Bill says without turning around. I always thought true newspaper people harbored a sixth sense—either that or they are brilliant at making smart deductions based on the human psyche, ego and all. “I’d move him over to the business desk in a heartbeat if I could convince you to come back here.”

I let Bill’s offer go unanswered. He ushers me into a vacant room that used to belong to the former copy desk chief, Andy Whittington.

“Andy and twenty other poor bastards got axed when corporate decided we had to downsize again because of declining revenues,” Bill says and pulls out a cigarette from his back pocket and tucks it behind his ear. “Newspapers are dying and no one cares enough to save them. You took a sabbatical at the right time. Consider yourself lucky.”

Bill instantly realizes his faux pas and smacks the top of his bald head with an open palm.

“I didn’t mean you’re lucky. Your son is missing. Ah, geez.”

“Don’t sweat it. You got your tape recorder?’

Bill pulls out his old-school notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket instead. I begin to feed him the story about Ben’s abduction, and Bill scribbles furiously until each page of his notebook is full.

“Remember, I’m an unnamed source close to the family, right?” I remind Bill.

“Got it. The cops are being tight-lipped with details again, huh?”

“Yes, call it Navarro’s filter from hell,” I say.

Navarro insisted the cops will control the message at the press conference and answer all questions about the case, but I need to be sure there is full transparency, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize Will or the investigation. I know the fine line I need to straddle. I can’t let the cops mess this up with the press. My gut tells me Navarro is going to try and spoon-feed the media a bunch of useless non-information spun to the point that it means nothing at all. When that happens, the press will find a way around it and write their own story.

I need to be sure I write this one.

* * *

I climb back inside the car, and I can already feel the tension from David, who is heated and flip-flops between gunning the engine and slamming on the brakes as he bobs and weaves through city traffic.

“You said you’d be ten minutes, and you were in there talking to your old boss for almost half an hour,” David snaps. “We can’t be late to the press conference. How would that look?”

“Like we didn’t give a damn about our own kid,” I answer. “We won’t be late. We’ll get there right on time. I just needed to share something with Bill. You need to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“You can’t keep me in the dark about things.”