When Time Is a River

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Brandy closed her eyes. Emily will be okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. The word bounced around inside her head until it lost its shape and meaning. But she kept thinking it anyway, believing, hoping, praying that if she thought it hard enough it would be true.

  “There is always the possibility the call was a prank,” Radhauser said.

  “Hardly anyone knows this, but Emily often calls me Band-Aid.”

  “Good. I’ll mobilize the officers.”

  “But the kidnapper said no police.” Brandy’s voice was unnaturally high.

  Christine’s gaze shot to Radhauser and hardened. “Why didn’t you tell us that? We’re going alone. Just the three of us. Like the kidnapper said.”

  “Statistically, the survival rate is much higher if police are involved.”

  Daniel took Christine’s hand. “I know you’re scared. But we should do what the police say. They’re the experts.”

  “How can you be so calm?” she snapped.

  “I’m trying not to panic. There’s a danger of panicking here.”

  Christine said nothing.

  Brandy stared at the poster on the kitchen table with Emily’s photograph. Have you seen this child? A panic that burned like acid seeped into her. No thoughts would come, no words. She just stood there looking at the Cheerios on the floor beneath Emily’s highchair.

  When Christine finally spoke again, the voice that came out of her sounded different from any one Brandy had ever heard before. It was tight and loud with fear. “What if the kidnapper knows the police are there and does something terrible to Emily?”

  “None of us will be in uniform or a marked car. We’ll look like ordinary Sunday shoppers.”

  “Pull cops from out of the woodwork,” her father said. “Whatever it takes to catch this bastard.”

  “Is the money a problem?” Radhauser asked.

  “No,” her father said. “But the banks are closed today.”

  “Don’t worry,” Radhauser said. “We’ve got stacks of money we confiscated from a drug raid last week.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the nearby Rogue Valley Mall, Brandy examined the face of her watch again. The hands didn’t appear to be moving. 5:25. 5:25. 5:25.

  Don’t look at them, she told herself. Think about something else. She scanned the wide and well-lit corridors, peered into the strollers of a dozen safe toddlers as their mothers pushed them, moving in slow motion in and out of stores. She listened to the high, eager voices begging for cookies, an ice cream cone. Heard mothers saying no and her own voice inside theirs, the many times she’d said no to Emily. And she fought the urge to shake the parents until they gave in. She turned toward her dad. “Is it okay if Emily sleeps in my bed tonight?”

  He held the shopping bag between his legs and studied the tips of his shoes. “We have to find her first,” he said without looking up.

  She glanced at Christine. With her head bent forward and her coppery hair a tangled mane around her shoulders, her stepmother looked like a little girl. The invisible belt around Brandy’s chest tightened. She touched Christine’s arm.

  Christine looked up, her eyes glassy and red. “I hope I can hold it together.” She puffed out her cheeks, letting the air out slowly. “Your father,” she whispered. “He’s so fucking composed.”

  Her father’s eyes were suddenly wide and on fire. “I’m not fucking composed,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m Emily’s father and I’m damn upset. Do I need to prove it to you, Christine? Pound on my chest and scream? Or would you rather me pull my hair out by the roots?”

  “Please,” Brandy said. “Can’t you be Ward and June Cleaver for one hour?”

  A silence fell over them.

  5:30. Brandy imagined Emily climbing out of the stroller and racing into her big sister’s outstretched arms. No, that’s not how it should go. She’d stand back and let Christine be the first one to scoop Emily up. In fifteen more minutes, they’d get Emily back. Brandy watched an ant furrow into a bright purple gumdrop that had rolled to a stop against the concrete trash container. The air around them smelled like chocolate from the Rocky Mountain candy store.

  Stationed throughout the mall, police officers in street clothes stood, their watchful eyes scanning.

  At exactly 5:45, her dad tucked the bag under the bench, took Christine’s hand and, just as Detective Radhauser had instructed, walked the long corridor to Mervyns. Though she wanted to run, Brandy adjusted the strap on her backpack and trailed along behind them. She played her role, the seemingly disinterested teenager shopping with her parents.

  Her dad and Christine were halfway down the escalator when Brandy panicked in front of the top step and stood, gawking at the moving staircase. She hadn’t been on an escalator in nearly fifteen years. She always took the elevator or the stairs toward the center of the mall. In her anxiousness to find Emily, she’d forgotten.

  Other shoppers walked around her. She forced herself to breathe from the bottom of her diaphragm. It was time to stop running from her fear and grow up. She had her little sister’s Pooh bear in her backpack. She had to get it to Emily.

  Envisioning the exact placement of her right foot, she planned her step with the appearance and descent of the next metal stair. Imagined her hands gripping the black rubber rails.

  But before she could move forward into the scene she’d visualized, two girls in leather skirts hurled disgusted looks in her direction. “It won’t eat you,” the shorter one said before her gaze settled on Brandy’s cheek. “On second thought, maybe it already did.”

  “At least I can blame my face on an accident. What’s your excuse?”

  With exaggerated steps, the two girls giggled, then stomped in front of Brandy and onto the same escalator stair without even a glance toward their feet.

  Brandy considered shoving them hard, but decided it might cause a scene and frighten the kidnapper away. If Brandy took off running, she could get to the center stairs in less than two minutes, but then it would take another two for her to reach the baby department in Mervyns. Four minutes was a long time. She wanted to be there when her family was reunited. She couldn’t let a couple of clueless dweebs stop her from getting to Emily.

  You can do it. An escalator required a simple and basic maneuver easily mastered by little kids, preteens in leather skirts, and old people. With her sister’s name ringing inside her head, Brandy plunged forward. Once on the stair, she closed her eyes and gripped the rails so tightly she couldn’t distinguish their vibrations from her own trembling.

  Near the bottom of the escalator, her dad turned just as Brandy opened her eyes. A look of panic crossed his face and he struggled to climb back up the steps. But blocked by a clot of descending shoppers, he stood near the last stair and waited. When she’d descended, he grabbed her arm and pulled her against his chest, then let her go. “Are you okay?”

  Brandy looked over her shoulder at the escalator—unable to believe she’d come down it. “I did it.”

  Her father smiled, grabbed her hand, and ran towards the entrance to Mervyns. Christine was already racing up and down the aisles in the baby department, shoving shoppers out of her way. “Emily,” she called. “It’s Mommy.” In her now frantic search for the stroller, she knocked over displays of ruffled dresses, little sailor suits with red stars on the collars. A store security guard restrained her. “You have to let me go. My baby’s been kidnapped.”

  Shoppers stopped what they were doing and stared.

  Brandy’s father caught up. He explained the situation to the guard who then released his grip on Christine, turned her over to her husband, and began to search the store.

  “What’s the matter?” Christine said to Brandy’s father. “Have I embarrassed you?” She jerked away from him and hurried over to Brandy, grabbed both of her arms. “Are you sure you got it right? Sure it was Mervyns and not Meier and Frank?” She sounded hysterical.

  Her father gently pulled Christine away. “The kidnapper could be watching
,” he whispered to her. “You have to get control over yourself. You may have already frightened him into hiding.”

  “I can’t get control over myself. My baby is missing.”

  Brandy’s father turned Christine to face him. “Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Get as hysterical as you need to. But I’m aiming for sanity here.” He stared at her and then his words fired like bullets. “And don’t you ever suggest I don’t care about my daughters.” He trembled as if he was about to explode, then slowly walked away. “I’d give my life for those girls,” he whispered.

  Brandy swallowed.

  Christine grew still. Her face contorted. “It’s not my fault,” she said, her gaze landing on Brandy.

  Under Christine’s scrutiny, the skin around Brandy’s scars began to itch. She shuddered, then shifted her gaze to the floor.

  They waited until a half hour after the stores closed. No one claimed the ransom.

  And Emily was still missing.

  * * *

  It was close to seven when Brandy’s father unlocked the front door.

  Christine stepped into their living room and froze. The drawers had been yanked out of the end tables, their contents dumped into a pile on the living room carpet. The sofa and chair cushions were strewn across the floor like gravestones. Books and Christine’s Precious Moments collection on the shelves next to their fireplace had been scattered about. Kitchen cabinets were open, things pushed aside in the pantry. Whoever had done this had been out of control, frantically looking for something.

  While Detective Radhauser searched the house for an intruder, Brandy stood in the entryway, staring at one of the bookcases as a row of dislodged encyclopedias tumbled like dominoes onto the floor.

  Radhauser returned. “I sure misread this one. The old lure-the-homeowner-away trick.”

  Brandy tried to track the meaning of what he’d said, then shifted her gaze to her stepmother.

  Christine sat on the sofa, confusion all over her face. She bit at her already bloody cuticles, then wiped at her eyes with her index fingers. She looked as if she could fall apart, like a soggy tissue paper. “What kind of a sicko would call and say they had Emily just so we’d leave our house?”

  Radhauser sighed and shook his head. “It’s a small force. I wanted every available…” He turned to Brandy’s father. “I’m sorry.”

  “I insisted you bring every cop,” her dad said. “The house doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except finding Emily.”

  “There’s no evidence of forced entry,” Radhauser said. “Does anyone outside the immediate family have a key?”

  Her dad shook his head.

  “Are you sure all the doors were locked?”

  “I’m compulsive about the doors, but the windows are another story.” He paused and looked at Brandy. “I’ve considered putting a door knob on her bedroom window.”

  Brandy cringed. She knew they’d find it unlocked.

  Christine had moved from the sofa to the steps leading into the living room. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  Radhauser told them to remain in the living room. He called a team over to fingerprint. Once they left, he asked Brandy’s father to search the house. “It could be a coincidence. There has been a series of break-ins in Ashland. Mostly stolen jewelry and cash.”

  “But the person who phoned knew that Emily calls me Band-Aid. If that person didn’t have Emily, then how—” Brandy was interrupted by her dad’s return. Her heart jerked against her chest as she waited.

  “The screen is off on your window,” her father said. “You might as well put a goddamn welcome sign next to it.”

  “I forgot,” Brandy said.

  Her father scowled at her. “I’ll check the house for missing items.”

  “When someone wants to get inside,” Radhauser said, “they find a way. A bump key. Or they break one of those panes on the kitchen door, reach in, and unlock the deadbolt.”

  A few moments later, her father reappeared in the living room. “Whoever it was didn’t steal anything that I can see. The layer of dust on Christine’s jewelry box hasn’t been disturbed.”

  “If it bothers you so much, hire a cleaning lady,” Christine said.

  Her father continued as if he hadn’t heard his wife. “Even though it appears they didn’t steal anything, they took everything out of Emily’s drawers, her closet and her toy box. They even took the pillows and comforter off her bed.”

  “Maybe I should take a look,” Brandy said. “I know Emily’s stuff better than anyone.”

  “Right,” Christine said. “You’re the one who pays attention. The one who knows how much Emily weighs and how tall she is. The one Emily clearly prefers. A regular Mary Poppins.”

  Brandy didn’t know what to say. “I’m only trying to help.”

  Christine started to cry. “You’re right. I’m a terrible mother.”

  Brandy hurried into her sister’s room. Just like her father had said, everything had been pulled out of Emily’s closet and drawers. Her toys were scattered around the room. And there was an odd smell in the room, something vaguely familiar, but definitely not Emily’s smell of apple shampoo and baby powder.

  Less than five minutes later, Brandy returned to the living room. “They took some of her stuffed animals,” she said to Detective Radhauser. “All the Winnie the Pooh characters. Tigger, Kanga and Roo. Piglet and Eeyore.” She didn’t mention the strange smell in Emily’s room or that she still had Pooh bear in her backpack. Christine would want him. And Brandy couldn’t let him go.

  Christine was still slumped on the steps, her face in her hands.

  Radhauser dropped a hand on her shoulder. “If the kidnapper did this, it’s a good sign. It tells us he’s concerned about your daughter’s wellbeing. That she’s alive. And being cared for.”

  Her stepmother spoke so softly that Brandy had to strain to hear. Christine’s voice came as close to heartbreak as anything audible. “And it tells us he’ll never give her back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In his years as a detective, Radhauser had attended more than his share of candlelight vigils for both the living and the dead. He’d thought it was important for him to be there, believed perpetrators often wanted to witness, first hand, the fallout from what they’d done. He’d always spent his time searching faces in the crowd, trying to read something in an expression or a gesture.

  But tonight, he’d asked Officer Sullivan to take charge for the few minutes Lizzie would be on stage. The Rainbow’s Edge Preschool was performing the opening song. Lizzie didn’t fully understand what was going on, but insisted she wanted to participate. “Emily goes to my school, Daddy, and she got lost. I want to sing so she can hear me and come home.”

  It was Lizzie’s first on-stage performance and Radhauser wanted to watch as a father, not a detective. Still, he couldn’t help looking around at the gathering crowd, examining every face, wondering if the kidnapper might be in the audience—knowing the urge to return to the scene could be strong. He spotted Sullivan and several other law enforcement officers dispersed among the throng.

  The clouds had disappeared and the night sky reeled with stars. Lithia Park had that smell of wet pine and mown grass soaked in rain.

  The Ashland High School Drama Club had set up a wooden stage in the grassy area near the playground. A movie screen in the background flashed life-sized photographs of Emily. Someone had brought in a piano and set up a sound system, with microphones across the stage and four giant speakers in the corners.

  In front of the stage, Christine knelt beside a pile of gifts that kept growing, encroaching on the area where the spectators stood. Friends of the Michaelsons and total strangers dropped off bouquets of spring flowers and storybooks left open to special passages. Burning candles encased in glass. Teddy bears and stuffed lambs with little signs printed in a child’s script, We Love You, Emily.

  Yellow ribbons wrapped almost every tree in the park. And flyers with Emily’s photo
graph clung to telephone poles and fence posts, graced nearly every window on the Plaza and Main Street. Two drama club students were posted at the park entrances, handing out votive candles and matches donated by area businesses.

  A muffled scream caught Radhauser’s attention and he spun around, his heart hammering. It was Christine.

  Both Sullivan and Radhauser raced toward her.

  She held a big Ziploc bag filled with chestnut-colored curls. The kind of ringlets mothers often clipped for a child’s baby book.

  “Where did you find that?” Radhauser asked.

  She nodded toward the piles of flowers and stuffed animals.

  Radhauser felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Did the hair belong to Emily? Why cut the child’s hair? Had the kidnapper wanted to change Emily’s appearance? There’d be no need to disguise a child you intended to kill. Leaving the hair at the memorial could be a sign of remorse.

  He turned to Sullivan. “Get me an evidence bag. And see if you can put a rush on a DNA comparison. We have Emily’s hairbrush.” This was huge. If it turned out to be Emily’s hair, it meant that the kidnapper had not left the area. It meant he or she was close enough to Lithia Park to leave Emily unattended. He remembered Emily had said she had two big friends. Maybe the kidnapper was working in tandem with someone else. But either way, it appeared this kidnapper had a conscience. And, with any luck, didn’t plan to kill Emily.

  Sullivan returned and bagged the evidence.

  Radhauser scanned the crowd. No one looked suspicious. Everyone looked suspicious.

  “Try to keep this away from the press,” he whispered to Sullivan and Christine.

  Cameramen from three local television stations had set up their equipment to video the vigil. Reporters from newspapers in Grants Pass, Ashland, Medford, and Portland milled through the crowd, asking questions of area residents.