by Tami Hoag
Olie nodded politely. Agent of what? he wondered, but he didn't ask. Mind your own business, Leslie. Good advice, he'd found, regardless of the source. Early in life he had learned to channel his curiosity away from people and into his books and his fantasies.
“We'd just like to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Swain, if that's all right with you,” Megan said, loosening the noose of her scarf in deference to the heat of the room.
She took in everything about Olie Swain in a glance. He was jockey-size with pug features and mismatched eyes that seemed too round. The left one was glass and stared straight ahead while the other darted around, his glance seeming to bounce off every surface it touched. The glass eye was a lighter shade of brown than the good eye and ringed in brighter white. The unnatural white was accentuated by the scald-red skin of the birthmark that leeched down out of his hair and across the upper left quadrant of his face. His hair was a patchwork of brown and gray and stood up on his head like the bristles of a scrub brush. He was probably in his late thirties, she guessed, and he didn't like cops.
That was, of course, a hazard of the job. Even the most innocent of people became edgy when the cops invaded their territory. And then again, sometimes it turned out to be more than routine jitters. She wondered which explanation applied to Olie.
“We're trying to find Josh Kirkwood,” Mitch said, his tone very matter-of-fact. “He plays on John Olsen's Squirts team. You know him?”
Olie shrugged. “Sure.”
He offered nothing else. He asked no questions. He glanced down at his Ragg wool half-gloves and smoothed his right hand over his left. Typical Olie, Mitch thought. The guy possessed no social graces to speak of, never had much to say, and never said anything without prompting. An odd duck, but there was no law against that. All he seemed to want in life was to do his job and be left alone with his books.
From his position in the doorway Mitch could see Olie and the whole room without moving his eyes. An old green card table with a ripped top and a paint-splattered wooden straight chair took up most of the floor space. On top of and beneath the table were piles of outdated used textbooks. Computer science, psychology, English literature—the books ran the gamut.
“Josh's mom was late coming to get him,” Mitch went on. “When she got here he was gone. Did you see him leave with anyone?”
“No.” Olie ducked his head. “I was busy. Had to run the Zamboni before Figure Skating Club.” His speech was a kind of linguistic shorthand, pared down to the bare essentials, just enough to make his point, not enough to encourage conversation. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and waited and sweat some more.
“Did you take a call around five-fifteen, five-thirty from someone at the hospital saying Dr. Garrison would be late?” Megan asked.
“No.”
“Do you know if anyone else did?”
“No.”
Megan nodded and ran the zipper of her parka down. The little room was located next door to the furnace room and apparently absorbed heat in through the walls. It was like a sauna. Mitch had unzipped his parka and shrugged it back on his shoulders. Olie kept his hands in his jacket pockets. He rolled his right foot over onto the side of his battered Nike running shoe and jiggled his leg.
“Did you notice if Josh came back in the building after the other boys had gone?”
“No.”
“You didn't happen to go outside, see any strange cars?”
“No.”
Mitch pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose.
“Sorry,” Olie said softly. “Wish I could help. Nice kid. Don't think something happened to him, do you?”
“Like what?” Megan's gaze didn't waver from Olie's mismatched eyes.
He shrugged again. “World's a rotten place.”
“He probably went home with a buddy,” Mitch said. The words sounded threadbare, he'd said them so often in the past two hours. His pager hung like a lead weight on his belt, silent. In the back of his mind he kept thinking it would beep any minute and he'd call in to hear the news that Josh had been found eating pizza and watching the Timberwolves game in a family room across town. The waiting was eating at his nerve endings like termites.
Megan, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying this, he thought. The idea irritated him.
“Mr. Swain, have you been here all evening?” she asked.
“That's my job.”
“Can anyone verify that for you?”
A bead of sweat rolled down Olie's forehead into his good eye. He blinked like a deer caught in a hunter's crosshairs. “Why? I haven't done anything.”
She offered him a smile. He didn't buy it, but it didn't matter. “It's just routine, Mr. Swain. Have you—”
Mitch caught hold of a belt loop on the back of her parka and gave it a discreet tug. She snapped her head around and glared at him.
“Thanks, Olie,” he said, ignoring her. “If you think of anything at all that might help, would you please call?”
“Sure. Hope it works out,” Olie said.
The feeling of claustrophobia lifted from his chest as Holt and the woman backed away from the door. As their footsteps faded away, Olie's sense of solitude began to return. He moved around the room, running his fingertips over the block walls, marking his territory, erasing the intrusion of strangers. He slid into the chair and ran his hands over his books, stroking them as if they were beloved pets.
He didn't like cops. He didn't like questions. He wanted only to be left alone. Mind your own business, Leslie. Olie wished other people would take that advice.
I didn't appreciate the little gaff hook gag,” Megan snapped. Walking beside Mitch, she nearly broke into a jog to keep up with him. Their footfalls against the concrete floor echoed through the cavernous building. Lights shined down on the sheet of smooth white ice. The bleachers that climbed the walls were cloaked in heavy, silent shadows, a cold, empty theater.
“Pardon me,” Mitch said sardonically, gladly picking up the hostilities where they had left off. “I'm used to working alone. My manners may need a little polish.”
“This doesn't have anything to do with manners. It has to do with professional courtesy.”
“Professional courtesy?” He arched a brow. “Seems a foreign concept to you, Agent O'Malley. I don't think you'd recognize it if it bit your tight little behind.”
“You cut me off—”
“Cut you off? I should have thrown you out.”
“You undermined my authority—”
Something hot and red burst behind Mitch's eyes. The flames burned through his control for the first time in a very long time. He wheeled on Megan without warning, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pinned her up against the Plexiglas that rose above the hockey boards.
“This is my town, Agent O'Malley,” he snarled, his face an inch from hers. “You don't have any authority. You are here to assist upon request. You may have degrees out the wazoo, but apparently you were in the ladies' room when they gave that particular lecture at the bureau.”
She stared up at him, her eyes impossibly huge, her mouth a soft, round O. He had meant to frighten her, shock her. Mission accomplished. Her heavy coat hung open, and Mitch could almost see her heart racing beneath her evergreen turtleneck.
Fascinated, he let his gaze slide downward. With her shoulders pinned back, her chest was thrust forward and her breasts commanded his attention. They were small round globes, and even as he stared at them, the nipples budded faintly beneath the fabric of the sweater. The heat within him altered states, from flames of indignation to something less civilized, something primal. His intent had been to establish professional dominance, but in the heat the motivation melted and shifted, sliding down from the logical corners of his mind to a part of him that had no use for logic.
Slowly he dragged his gaze up to the small chin that jutted out defiantly. Up to the mouth that quivered slightly, betraying her show of bravado. Up to the eyes as deep and rich a green as vel
vet, with lashes short and thick, as black as night.
“I never had this kind of trouble with Leo,” he muttered. “But then, I never wanted to kiss Leo.”
Megan knew better than to let him. She knew every argument against it by heart—had repeated them over and over in her mind tonight like chants to ward off evil spirits. It's stupid. It's dangerous. It's bad business. . . . Even as they trailed across her brain she was lifting her chin, snatching a breath. . . .
She flattened her hands and shoved at him, succeeding only in breaking Mitch's concentration. He pulled his head back an inch and blinked, his head clearing slowly. He had lost control. The thought was like a bell ringing between his ears. He didn't lose control. Contain the rage. Control the mind. Control the needs. Those dictates had gotten him through two long years, and in the time it took to draw a breath Megan O'Malley had driven him to the verge of breaking them.
They stared at each other, wary, waiting, breath held in the cool of the dark arena.
“I'm going to pretend that didn't happen,” Megan announced without any of the authority or righteous indignation she had intended. The announcement came out sounding like a promise she knew she couldn't keep.
Mitch said nothing. The heat abruptly died to a glow. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. She wanted to usurp his authority, then rob him of his sanity, then pretend it hadn't happened. A part of him bridled at the thought. But that wasn't an intelligent part of him.
It wasn't smart to want Megan O'Malley. Therefore, he would not want Megan O'Malley. Simple. She wasn't even his type. Pint-size and abrasive had never done anything for him. He liked his women tall and elegant, warm and sweet. Like Allison had been. Not at all like this little package of Irish temper and feminist outrage.
“Yeah,” he muttered, digging deep for sarcasm. “Good move, O'Malley. Forget about it. Wouldn't want to get caught with your femininity showing.”
The words stung, as he had intended them to, but the hit brought no satisfaction. All that stirred within him was guilt and a hint of regret that he had no desire to examine more closely.
An entrance door banged open, the sound bounced around the quiet like a rubber ball.
“Chief!” Noga bellowed. “Chief!”
Mitch bolted, that knot in his stomach doubling, tripling, as he ran along the back side of the boards. Please, God, let him say they found Josh. And let him be alive. But even as he made the wish, cold dread pebbled his skin and closed bony fingers around his throat.
“What is it?” he demanded, rushing up to his officer.
The look Noga gave him was pale and bleak, the face of fear. “You'd better come see.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mitch whispered desperately. “Is it Josh?”
“No. Just come.”
Megan brought up the rear as they ran from the building. The cold hit her with physical force. She zipped her jacket, dug her gloves out of her pockets, and pulled them on. Her scarf trailed off one shoulder, fluttering like a banner behind her and finally falling off as she dashed across the parking lot.
Mitch sprinted ahead, running across the rutted ice in dress shoes, as surefooted as a track star. Midway down the lot, along the far edge, three more uniformed officers stood huddled together by a row of overgrown leafless hedges.
“What?” he barked. “What'd you find?”
None of them spoke. Each looked to another, mute and stunned.
“Well, fuck!” he yelled. “Somebody fucking say something!”
Lonnie Dietz took a step to the side, and a ray of artificial light fell on a nylon duffel bag. Someone had written across the side of it in big block letters: JOSH KIRKWOOD.
Mitch dropped to his knees in the snow, the duffel sitting before him with all the potential of a live bomb. It was partially unzipped and a slip of paper stuck up through the opening, fluttering in the breeze. He took hold of the very edge of the paper and eased it slowly from the bag.
“What is it?” Megan asked breathlessly, dropping down beside him. “Ransom note?”
Mitch unfolded the paper and read it—quickly first, then again, slowly, his blood growing colder with each typed word.
a child has vanished
ignorance is not innocence but SIN
CHAPTER 6
* * *
DAY 1
9:22 P.M. 19°
Kids do the damnedest things,” Natalie said. She worked at the kitchen counter, building turkey sandwiches while the coffeemaker hissed and spit. “I remember Troy pulling a stunt like this once. He was ten or eleven. Decided he was going to go door to door, selling newspaper subscriptions so he could win himself a remote-control race car. He was so caught up in winning that prize, he couldn't think of anything so minor as calling from school to tell us what he was doing. Call my mother? Why should I call her when I see her every day?”
She shook her head in disgust and bisected a sandwich corner to corner with a bread knife the size of a cross-cut saw. “This was when we lived in the Cities and there was starting to be a lot of gang activity going on in Minneapolis. You can't imagine the things that went through my head when Troy hadn't come home yet at five-thirty.”
Yes, I can. The same thoughts were trailing through Hannah's mind in an endless loop, a litany of horrors. She paced back and forth on the other side of the breakfast bar, too wired to sit. She hadn't been able to bring herself to change out of the clothes she'd worn to work. The bulky sweater held the faint tang of sweat from the exertion and stress of working on Ida Bergen. Her black hose bit into her waist, and her long wool skirt was limp and creased. She had taken her boots off at the door only out of habit.
She walked back and forth along the length of the counter, her arms crossed in a symbolic attempt to keep herself together, her eyes never straying from the phone that sat silent beneath a wall chart of phone numbers. Mom at the hospital. Dad at his office. 911 for emergency. All printed by Josh with colorful markers. A home project for safety week.
The panic rushed up inside her again.
“I tell you, I was a wild woman,” Natalie went on, pouring the coffee. She added a drop of skim milk to each and set them on the bar next to the plate of sandwiches. “We called the police. James and I went out looking for him. Then we damn near ran over him. That's how we found him. He was riding around in the dark on his bike, so obsessed with winning that damned toy, he couldn't be bothered to look out for traffic.”
Hannah glanced at her friend as the silence stretched and she realized this was where she was expected to interject. “What did you do?”
“I went tearing out that car before James could put it in park, screaming at the top of my lungs. We were right outside a synagogue. I screamed so loud, the rabbi came running outside, and what does he see? He sees some crazy black woman screaming and shaking this poor child like a rag doll. So he goes back inside and calls the cops. They came flying with the lights and sirens and the whole nine yards. 'Course by then I had my arms around that boy and I was crying and carrying on—My baby! My baby boy!” She shrieked at the ceiling in a hoarse falsetto, waving her arms.
Rolling her eyes, she pursed her lips and shook her head. “Looking back on it, we probably didn't have to punish Troy. The embarrassment was probably enough.”
Hannah had zoned out again. She stared at the phone as if she were willing it to ring. Natalie sighed, knowing there was really nothing she could do that she wasn't already doing. She made coffee and sandwiches, not because anyone was hungry but because it was a sane, normal thing to do. She talked incessantly in an attempt to distract Hannah and to fill the ominous silence.
She went around the end of the counter, put her hands on Hannah's shoulders, and steered her to a stool at the breakfast bar. “Sit down and eat something, girl. Your blood sugar has to be in the negative digits by now. It's a wonder you can even stand up.”
Hannah perched a hip on one corner of the stool and stared at the plate of sandwiches. Even though she hadn't had a bite
since lunch, she couldn't work up any desire to eat. She knew she should try—for her own sake and because Natalie had gone to all the trouble to make them. She didn't want to hurt Natalie's feelings. She didn't want to let anyone down.
You've already managed to do that today.
She'd lost a patient. She'd lost Josh.
The phone sat silent.
In the family room, where the television mumbled to itself, Lily woke up and climbed down off the couch. She toddled toward the kitchen, rubbing one eye with a fist, the other arm clutching a stuffed dalmatian in a headlock. A fist squeezed Hannah's heart as she watched her daughter. At eighteen months Lily was still her baby, the embodiment of sweetness and innocence. She had her mother's blond curls and blue eyes. She didn't resemble Paul in any way, a fact Paul did not care to have pointed out to him. After all the indignities he'd had to suffer in the long effort to conceive Lily, he seemed to think he deserved to have his daughter look like him.
Thoughts of Paul only made Hannah more aware of the mute telephone. He hadn't called, even though she had left several frantic messages on his machine.
“Mama?” Lily said, reaching up with her free hand in a silent command to be picked up.
Hannah complied readily, hugging her daughter tight, burying her nose against the little body that smelled of powder and sleep. She wanted Lily as close as possible, hadn't let her out of her sight since bringing her home from the sitter's.
“Hi, sweetie pie,” she whispered, rocking back and forth, taking comfort in the feel of the warm, squirming body clad in a purple fleece sleeper. “You're supposed to be sleeping.”
Lily deflected the remark with a beguiling, dimpled smile. “Where Josh?”
Hannah's smile froze. Her arms tightened unconsciously. “Josh isn't here, sweetheart.”
The panic hit her like a battering ram, smashing the last of her resistance. She was tired and terrified. She wanted someone to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right—and mean it. She wanted her son back and the fear gone. She clutched Lily to her and shut her eyes tight against the onslaught of tears. As scalding as acid, they squeezed out and ran down her cheeks. A low, tortured moan tore free of her aching throat. Lily, frightened and unhappy at being held so tightly, began to cry, too.