by Tish Cohen
The sight of them struck Elise with joy, horror, hope, dread, and everything in between. She was terrified to ask what finding them might mean.
“They’re hers,” was all Matt said.
“The area is taped off. It’s being heavily combed right now by forensics,” Dorsey told them.
Elise’s hand slipped beneath Matt’s arm. She needed support if she dared to ask, “Is this good or bad?”
Before Dorsey could answer, Cass spoke for him. “I’d say it means nothing more than someone didn’t want to carry around eye-catching evidence.”
Elise looked at her, shocked by this know-it-all insertion into their moment. Then turned to Dorsey. “What can we read into this?”
“I’m afraid Cass is right. Right now we’re at neutral. Turquoise crutches are going to attract a lot of attention with all the buzz in the media.”
“And the testing?” asked Matt, staring at the photo.
“From our initial findings, it looks like they were wiped clean.” Dorsey frowned. “But they’re being disassembled. If there’s anything there, it’ll be found. We’re hopeful.”
Matt’s mind raced. “But it shows she’s still in the area. If these were just found today, that could only mean good things.”
“They’d likely been there since Sunday.”
“And what about tire marks?” asked Elise. “Footprints? There must be some markings in and around the spot they were found.”
“You’re talking two days in peak season,” Cass said, releasing a long breath. “And a whole lot of rain.”
Elise wanted to shove the woman back to her side of the property line.
“Exactly,” said Dorsey. “But if any traces remain, we’ll get them.”
“But, I’m sorry. If you could explain,” Elise said. “Why did it take two days for these to be found?”
“There’s a lot of wild land to cover.” Dorsey shrugged. “We’re doing our best. This line of work, you find what you find when you find it.”
Matt checked his watch. “It’s nine twenty.” He started to pace, walking in a circle, hands reaching skyward in his helplessness. “Our forty-eight hours has officially come and gone, and then some. And as it stands, we’ve got fuck-all to go on.” He stopped next to Cass, who, for a fleeting second, reached out to cup the back of Matt’s head, then seemed to think better of it and slid her hand into her pocket.
– CHAPTER 23 –
It was Wednesday now—what would have been the start of two full days of mommy-and-me time before Elise needed to leave to prepare for Toronto. Instead, she and Matt had driven to nearby towns to distribute flyers with their missing daughter’s face on them.
The day had brought with it nothing good. A sighting in a Home Depot parking lot in Orlando that turned out to be a boy. A Twitter rant by some schoolteacher in Manchester who believed Elise should be charged with negligence. And a psychic who saw Gracie sitting at a picnic table just outside a small-town Dairy Queen. Which small town eluded her. That Gracie had dropped her chocolate-dipped cone did not.
Elise had spent the evening running in and around the two big resorts on the west side of the lake, through drizzle that eventually eased up but left behind a dense mist. By the time she made her way back, it was well after 8:00 p.m. and darkness was settling in. Here and there, porch lights were on. But not at the Sorenson house. In the fog, the cabin was visible only in outline, and beyond the fringe of dripping trees, the lake had vanished completely. Then again, with all testing complete on the crutches and the police having found no evidence from the surrounding area in which they were found, it felt to Elise as if the entire world had vanished.
Including the pregnancy. The bleeding had run its course. The miscarriage was complete.
As she walked toward the cabin in sodden running shoes, the yellow police tape on the fence now twisted and torn and bucking in the wind, a large vehicle started to take shape at the roadside. Not until she drew nearer could she make out the rear end of a double horse trailer. Hitched to a filthy black Range Rover.
Ronnie.
Both vehicles were empty. Elise continued around the cedars and stopped for the greatest gift imaginable, short of finding her daughter standing there in the fog—the familiar shapes of the sleek and majestic Indie and the shaggy and ridiculous Poppins, with Ronnie Goodrich between them, lead shanks in hand.
In two seconds, Elise was in her coach’s arms, her neck being nuzzled by her horse, her pockets being searched by her donkey. She wasn’t sure if the sound she uttered could qualify as a laugh if borne from such a pit of sadness, but the moment was a faint reminder that, beyond the agony she and Matt and Gracie were enduring, as impossible as it was to fathom, life was going on.
* * *
HORSE AND COMPANION clomped into the double stall and immediately dropped to roll in the deep bed of dry shavings at the North Elba Show Grounds. Indie struggled back to his feet first and, with a mighty shake, all but cleared his mane of cedar bits, while Poppins continued to scratch her back, hooves flailing. Elise stood over the bale of hay on the gravel and waited for Ronnie to pull out his Swiss Army knife.
The horse show was well under way, but with most classes having wrapped up by early evening, the grounds were now fairly quiet. But with so many competitors on the property, the air was charged with the shuffling, munching, and snorting of nearby horses, and the squeak of a stall door being opened or shut as tired grooms and riders performed night check: doling out hay flakes and topping up water buckets as needed. Every now and then a faraway horse whinnied, a golf cart whirred by, or a group of riders—often arm in arm—walked past laughing or complaining about their performances.
For Elise, the familiarity of the world was both comforting and sickening. “I can’t believe you did this for me, Ronnie.”
“Equine therapy,” he said, slicing the twine and loosening the bale. “Could put the entire psychiatric community out of business.”
Elise separated three flakes of hay and dropped them over the stall door.
“Timing worked out well to board these bozos here,” said Ronnie. “Show organizer’s an old student of mine—Pammy Stanton. She had a small group pull out of the show last minute and had a couple of extra stalls. Said she was happy to help. Course, she knows what’s going on.”
Indie swung his great head over the stall door, striking hoof against wood when Elise didn’t stroke his muzzle quickly enough. She held her forehead to his for a moment, until the horse tossed his head with impatience and returned to his hay.
Ronnie sat on the hay bale and pulled her down next to him. “All right. Tell me what’s happening.”
She gave him what they knew so far. The hotline the police had set up had resulted in not a single solid lead, though many psychics and palm readers and clairvoyants had had visions or hallucinations or tea leaf readings that proved Gracie was alive or in another country or had been sold on the black market.
“And Matt, how’s he doing?”
“As expected,” said a male voice.
Out of nowhere, Matt came walking along the breezeway in sweatshirt and shorts.
“There he is now,” Ronnie said, getting up. “Man of the hour.” The two embraced self-consciously. “I don’t know what to say, buddy. I love that kid like she’s my own.”
“Appreciate it.” Matt rubbed both noses that appeared over the stall door to greet him. When Ronnie handed him two apples, Matt offered them up with flat palms, juggling the juicy chunks that dropped from their mouths. Nanny Poppins, as was her way, turned her nose away at the last bite, saving it for her charge.
“Thanks for doing this.” Matt put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and dropped down to the hay beside her. “I know they’re a lifeline for Elise.”
It was impossible to keep track of what Matt was feeling from one minute to the next. She would have thought he’d be angry about the animals arriving. In Ronnie’s SUV on the way over from the cabin, she’d actually been in a panic about ho
w to tell her husband. Matt hadn’t wanted the horses there to train for Toronto. She sure as hell hadn’t thought he’d want them now. Elise reached over to squeeze her husband’s arm in thanks.
“Are you headed to Toronto?” Matt said to Ronnie.
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere. As long as you need me, I’m here.”
“No, no.” Elise leaned back against the stall. “Please, Ronnie, don’t pass on Toronto. Seriously. You brought me Indie. That’s the biggest gift imaginable.”
Ronnie studied her, hands on his hips. “I don’t feel good about going.”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” Matt said.
“I just can’t imagine what you two are living through, and I’m not even a parent.”
“Helpless,” said Matt. “Indescribably helpless.”
Elise took a long blade of hay and pulled it apart with her fingernails. “I want to turn the world upside down. Shake it and shake it until my daughter falls into our arms.”
“You’re driven,” said Ronnie. “Used to getting the hell on with things. That’s your style.”
“That only works if you know which way to point yourself. Not much use to me now.”
“Bullshit. You won’t accept anything less than bringing your daughter home. You and I both know you can handle anything.”
No, she didn’t say back. I can’t.
“And you’ve got each other. You’ve got to hold tight there. This is tough as all hell, and don’t you dare let it destroy what you’ve got in each other.”
Elise looked at Matt, who didn’t seem to have heard what Ronnie said.
“And if you need money . . .”
“No,” Matt waved that away. “We’re good. Well . . .” He stopped. “You know what I’m saying.”
“Does your father know?” Ronnie asked Elise.
She leveled him with a stare. “I don’t know. Does he?”
“Smart-ass.” Ronnie pulled her to standing. Wrapped her in a hug, then did the same with Matt. Just before he trudged through the fog to his truck, he said to Elise, “You don’t think this makes for the right time to stop running from the guy?”
“Nothing will ever make it the right time.”
* * *
MATT AND GARTH sat at the window of the bustling Starbucks on Saturday morning. Manfred Wolfe wore no jewelry, no fancy watch. His jeans were dated. He wore the wrong kind of white sneakers and had tucked in his T-shirt too snugly. Yet his haircut was expensive, and the interested but faraway look in his eyes gave him the air of a man used to getting what he wants in life. Matt and Garth sat across from him and listened as he explained Wolfe Resorts’ plans for the Sorenson land.
Competing for Matt’s attention, however, was a corkboard on the wall. Beside yet another black bear warning that encouraged tourists and residents to seal up trash, to refrain from taking pictures or videos, and to wear bells on their shoes when hiking in forested areas, was a picture of Gracie with big block letters: MISSING. The police-issued flyer flapped in the breeze from the open door. It had been five days since she’d disappeared, with zero credible leads. How far the odds had fallen now Matt couldn’t begin to contemplate.
Elise had set out early with a group of volunteers to tack up posters farther down the highway and was to meet him across from the movie theater once Wolfe had gone on his way.
The rest of the week had passed in much the same way as the first couple of days. On the 800 hotline, calls from parents whose children had been found alive, calls from parents whose children had been found, tragically, dead. A letter from an Australian man whose grandchild had disappeared only a month prior: he wondered if there could be a connection, because his boy had also had crutches. Calls, letters, e-mails—even a knock on the door—from psychics.
Early in the week, Matt and Elise had both spent time on the hotline, only to realize how many well-meaning souls clogged the line with messages of sympathy, suggestions as to how they might have better protected their daughter, and sightings in Saskatchewan or Punta Cana or Reykjavik that didn’t even come close to sounding like Gracie. And when a lead did seem promising, the photo invariably showed a face that looked nothing like her. The map on the back porch was heavily pinned with leads now. They no longer looked at the pins with the same optimism. People meant well, but thousands upon thousands of false leads, it was becoming clear, could make finding their daughter impossible. The little green pin? It was lost now in the sea of pink, navy, and purple.
Elise had suggested they move the map into Nate’s office where they could shut the door. The sight of it now was near debilitating.
Cass had been wonderful, appointing herself responsible for all meals. And Garth had produced, right here, a serious buyer.
“Löyly is what we want to call it—complete with umlaut. The Finnish word for ‘sauna steam.’ Sowna steam, as they pronounce it. We’re talking about total relaxation,” said Manfred. “The Finns do it better than anyone, and that’s what we’re looking to re-create. And then some. Wood-burning saunas, eucalyptus steam baths, and outdoor saltwater and freshwater baths. Thermal and Nordic waterfalls. Go from a hot bath into a cold plunge. Massage, Himalayan salt cave. Every guest has their own cabin with sauna, a private outdoor minipool, heated in winter. Yoga, Pilates, hot stones. The works. Four-season facilities that would fit in perfectly with the natural beauty of the lake.”
“No worries about filling the lake with hot-dogging wake boarders.” Garth looked at Matt. “That ought to alleviate a bit of guilt for you.”
Nothing will alleviate guilt for me, thought Matt.
“We’d have boats, but mostly canoes and kayaks. A few old Chris-Crafts for tours. Actually, I’d like to talk about the one in your boathouse. If you’ve a mind to sell it.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying. I do.” Matt reached into his pocket for a couple of Tylenols and washed them back with his lukewarm latte. “I just can’t give you an answer today.”
“Understandably. The only reason I forced the meeting was to let you know we’re happy to advance whatever you need to help fund the search. Finding your daughter is bigger than another Adirondacks resort.”
Garth explained, “Obviously, Manfred knows what’s going on.”
“Hey, I’ve got two kids of my own, and now five grandchildren.” Wolfe sat back in his chair and shook his head, as if trying to comprehend the enormity of the situation. “I know that the longer this continues, the more money it’s going to take. Eventually, it becomes a mountain only the parents keep trying to move.”
The tactless statement hung in the air between them.
Gracie’s crutches, now leaning against the wall of her bedroom, flashed in Matt’s mind. He’d spent an entire night holding them. They’d been such a strong identifier. A blond girl with turquoise crutches. Though, likely, whoever took her would change her appearance. But knowing that, even if she had an opportunity to flee, she couldn’t? It was a thought Matt worked hard to bounce from his mind.
“I remember your grandfather,” continued Wolfe. “We used to run a small ski lodge over by Whiteface when we were just getting started. First two winters were terrible—too warm, any snow that fell melted within days—no one wanted to spend a weekend in a rain-soaked, muddy mess. And then Nate Sorenson lent us enough money to squeak out one more year. Did you know that?”
“I . . . my memory’s a bit fucked right now.”
“Could’ve gone either way. Could’ve been another crap winter. But the snow fell early and didn’t stop till April. That was enough for us to thrive, and repay your grandfather.”
Matt would give almost anything to have Nate back, to have him help find Gracie. “Nate was fantastic.”
“But no pussycat, I’ll tell you.” Manfred laughed softly. “You were one month late in your payments and, man. Down came the hatchet.”
Matt stared at him now. So this was what people had been talking about—Nate’s insistence upon making good. But that was just the way he was. He didn�
�t help you as an act of charity. He actually wanted to educate. To teach people how to be.
* * *
HIS GRANDMOTHER SARAH died when Matt was Gracie’s age and that summer, Nate had taken to waking his grandson early and heading down to the boathouse. The 1947 Chris-Craft runabout, in gleaming mahogany, was christened Elsa, after the German shepherd bitch at their heels, swollen teats swinging as she trotted, only too willing to escape her ravenous pups in the kitchen. The old engine had boomed to life and glug-glugged with importance as they pulled out of their bay and cruised along the shoreline, fingers of sunlight stretching out just enough to set the treetops aglow.
Matt, as always, would sit next to his grandfather on the leather bench, heavy orange life jacket over his shoulders, Elsa would pant contentedly between them, her fur already quilled and dripping from a quick plunge. They traveled up the east side of the lake, just past Pulpit Rock, where Nate cut the engine and pointed to a metal stake where sand met water. The stake was painted red and marked where Sorenson land ended. “I’m the wealthiest man in the world not because of this. Because of my family.” Matt rested an arm across Elsa’s shoulders, swelling at the sentiment.
Nate allowed his only grandchild to stand on the seat, one hand on the windshield to steady himself, to watch a family of four loons they’d spotted on Blueberry Island—a small landmass Nate had recently acquired that groaned with berries in late July, early August. They’d been watching this loon couple for years, certain the pair had nested on the island. Nate pulled the boat up to a flattened patch of grasses and pointed out how the land dropped right off into the water on one side, so the loons and their two youngsters could reach it underwater. Loons do not move well on land. But the male rose up to flap his wings vigorously in warning, while mama and babies dove deep to surface about a hundred feet away.
“We’ve got a few more weeks till the berries ripen,” Nate said. “We’ll come back. Figure out how to make a pie.”
“How many will there be?”