Through the years people had worn a staircase into the rock, marking their territory with graffiti. J.P. stepped aside to let Kim’s dad by, then climbed up after him.
On the bald top Kim’s dad squatted as if he’d discovered a clue. He straightened, shaking a cigarette butt at him. “Marlboro.”
“Probably Elise’s. She was down here yesterday.”
Before J.P. could protest he tossed it over the side. It floated on the surface, turning with the pool’s slow swirl as raindrops pocked the water. They stood looking downstream, where the rapids dropped into a frothing chute before the bend. Seagulls were flying up the gorge, taking shelter on the wet ledges.
“We should keep going,” J.P. said.
“No,” Kim’s dad said, but didn’t move, as if he was still deciding. “I don’t think she’s here.” He looked to J.P. for his opinion—openly, not at all a trick.
“I don’t either.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re going to stop looking.”
“No,” J.P. said.
“Just not today.” He reached over and patted his shoulder, just a cuff from a teammate, and J.P. felt the same flush that seized him the first time Kim slid her fingers between his. “Remind me, we’ve got to get you some boots.”
“I will,” he promised, marking the moment, pledging that somehow he would prove himself worthy of this trust.
Upstream, across the river, Nina watched them talking. She was as sure of Hinch as she was of herself, maybe more so. Of the three of them (four, if she included Kim), J.P. was the weakest link, and seeing him alone with Kim’s dad bothered her.
On the bus they took the same seats. She nosed in to be part of their conversation and almost gagged at the overpowering tang of Kim’s dad. A scratch above J.P.’s eye had scabbed over in a raspberry line, and his chin was dirty like a little kid’s. She felt guilty for being so clean.
The plan for tomorrow was to get going early and do as much of Route 7 as they could, rain or shine. With the flyers and the publicity they could expect more volunteers. That was worst case, Kim’s dad said. He was hoping the police would take over the search. Nina couldn’t tell if this was directed at her or not.
“What time should we come over?” she asked.
“I’ll be up at five-thirty. I don’t know, seven?”
“What time’s sunrise?” J.P. asked.
“Good question.”
The ride back was louder, with the rain banging the roof and everyone gabbing on their cellphones. Hinch listened to his iPod with his eyes closed, leaving Nina to monitor J.P. Kim’s dad fished in his backpack and offered him the dregs of a water bottle before finishing it himself. It was more than just politeness.
“Where is she?” Kim’s mom had asked, holding her close, because of all the people in the world, Nina would know best. Kim’s dad was trying the same thing with J.P., just coming at him casually. J.P. had to know that.
When the bus dropped them off she figured he’d sign out like everyone else, but he went inside with Kim’s dad. Nina waited for him on the porch, and then when that was too obvious, sat in her car with Hinch, checking the rearview mirror. After a few long minutes of fogging the windows, she wondered where the cop who belonged to the car in the driveway was, and decided it made better sense to take off.
Upstairs, while J.P. tried on his old boots, Ed checked with Fran. So far there was no word from Perry. The detective said the hotline was fielding calls and that he’d assigned people to track down any possible leads.
“Does that mean they have leads?”
“It didn’t sound like it.”
“When did he call?” he asked, then caught himself. Out of frustration he was building a case for the man’s incompetence. That wasn’t helpful now.
There should have been a good hour of daylight left, but the sky was already so dark that the streetlights were on. The rain fell steadily, spattering off the asphalt, bubbling along gutters, pouring into storm drains. Only Connie’s black Pontiac and J.P.’s Cavalier were still parked out front. The rest of the searchers had dispersed, the phones were quiet. The deputy asked if they wanted someone for tonight. They said no. It was a relief to close the house against the world.
It was eight before they got dinner, though no one was hungry. Fran had planned on making chicken salad. Their neighbors made it unnecessary. The basement fridge was stocked with casseroles, hot and cold. She asked J.P. if he could stay—the least they could do was feed him—but he said he should be getting home.
“Lindsay!” she called up the stairs. “Dinner!”
Cooper came bounding down, growling and prancing wild-eyed around her legs. Fran had completely forgotten about him. She gave him an extra half-scoop of kibble, which he finished before Lindsay reached the kitchen.
They set the dishes on the counter like a pot-luck supper, then sat around the dining room table, strategizing. Channel 12 from Erie was coming to interview her in the morning. Connie thought it would be a good idea to show the viewers a picture of Kim’s car with the license plate number. Ed surprised her by agreeing. They should release a picture of the car to the media at large, and maybe redo the flyer. If they didn’t have a good shot they could probably find an old magazine ad online.
What about a reward? While the detective warned that it might attract psychics and con artists, it would buy them attention and maybe motivate people who otherwise would keep quiet.
CrimeStoppers had a toll-free tipline they could use. The faster they went national, the better. All the sites said they should try to get on America’s Most Wanted. The cable shows were okay, but AMW had a dedicated following. It was on Saturday, and tomorrow was Friday. They should have Jocelyn call the producers.
Fran had allowed herself a glass of wine, and sipped as she bulleted each idea on a yellow pad beside her untouched plate. All day she’d been documenting their efforts, and couldn’t stop, as if distilling their thoughts on paper gave them more power.
Across from her Lindsay finished and pushed back from the table. She was the only one who’d eaten, too quickly. Other than remembering John Walsh’s name, she’d hardly said a word.
“Did you get enough?” Fran asked. “Mrs. Schoyer made brownies.”
“I’m good.” She rinsed and racked her dishes and came out through the hallway, headed for the stairs.
“You can watch TV if you want.”
“No, I’m going to read.”
Honestly Lindsay would have rather watched TV, but thought her mother wouldn’t like that, and now she was committed. It was the safe move. Downstairs one of them would sit next to her and want to talk. Upstairs she could stare at her bedspread and no one cared.
“Right, Goob?” she asked Cooper, who’d followed her up. “Goober knows.”
The problem with reading was that it left too much room to think. The last book she had for English was Betsey Brown. It was about a little black girl who loved her family and whose family loved her. As far as Lindsay could tell, that was the whole story. After a chapter and a half she gave up and got online, killing time playing Text Twist. The jumbled letters took all of her attention. Racking up a high score didn’t matter. That satisfying instant when her brain relaxed and the hidden word magically snapped into place was her reward.
She was still undefeated when the IM box popped up. It was Dana next door. If Lindsay looked out her window she’d see the square of light from Dana’s room on her backyard.
sup
sup, Lindsay wrote back.
ne news?
nope
i just heard a rumor she was kidnapped by bikers
says who?
mike s.
dont tell me shit like that
sry
r there bikers around here?
theres a big rally at geneva-on-the-lake this weekend
the cops know that, right?
they should
Mike had also heard they’d found Kim’s bra during the search, which Lindsay kne
w was untrue. After she signed off and went back to Text Twist she tried to think of bikers but kept getting stuck on the gang in Bubble Boy that helped Jake Gyllenhaal run away. Kim being kidnapped seemed just as unreal, but so did everything today. Part of that was her fault. While she was sure the world was full of evil people, she couldn’t imagine Kim with anyone but her friends, or anywhere but here, at home. If right now Lindsay did their secret knock on the wall, she wouldn’t be surprised if Kim answered.
APE, she typed. TAPE, PATE, PEAT, TEAT, but the big one escaped her. POTATE? TAPTOE?
“Shit,” she said when time expired. How could she not get TEAPOT? Stupid compound words.
Downstairs, chairs shifted and became footsteps, making Cooper raise his head. Voices congregated in the front hall. Connie was finally leaving. Lindsay listened for the shudder of the door closing, then her car door and the car starting. Her parents moved to the kitchen, one of them rumbling down the basement stairs before the dishwasher kicked in. Her mother would be up soon, so Lindsay turned off her computer, changed into her nightshirt, and got under the covers with Betsey Brown. In response, Cooper circled and flopped down in a new spot.
The rain knocked on the roof above her, plinking against the gutters. Betsey wanted a chocolate bar. Betsey wanted to go to the barber shop. After the endless speeches of Julius Caesar it should have been easy, but it was the stupidest book in the world. She wished she was watching TV or back online. She could IM all night with Dana and Micah about school and movies and guys and never get bored. Everything was different now. If she thought about anything except Kim—if that was possible—she was a terrible sister. What was she supposed to do? She wanted to go find her, but she wasn’t allowed out of the house.
She was still battling Betsey Brown and her stupid candy bar when she heard her mother on the stairs, and right behind her, a heavier set of footsteps. Her father never went to bed before the news at eleven. Tonight he had a reason to watch, but here he was in the doorway, looking in with her mother, telling her not to stay up too late.
“Tomorrow’s going to be another long day,” her mother warned. “Don’t forget, your bathroom’s—” She did a kind of hiccup, sucking in a breath, then covered her mouth. Her father squeezed her shoulder as if to say it was okay.
“I’ll go downstairs.”
“Thank you.” Her mother’s lips trembled, and as Lindsay feared, she left her father at the door and staggered toward her, already crumbling. She fell against her, weeping, smelling sourly of wine, a hot tear landing on her cheek. Lindsay held her place in her book with one hand and patted her mother’s back with the other. She looked over her shoulder and saw her father coming to rescue her, but instead of prying her mother off and consoling her, he piled on, sobbing along with her, burying Lindsay in a group hug.
“We just have to pray she’s all right,” her mother said, sniffling. “That’s all we can do.”
Deep down, Lindsay wanted to agree with her, and hated herself for just patting her back and waiting.
Her mother recovered first, telling her it was okay, they were all in shock. Lindsay had never seen her father like this, and watched him turn away, swiping at his eyes. He couldn’t stop, and steadied himself against her dresser, his back heaving until her mother told him to go take his shower.
“We were talking,” her mother said when they were alone. “If you want to go with Dad tomorrow, that’s your call.”
“Can Dana come?”
“She’ll have to ask her folks.”
After she’d left, Lindsay wanted to know what had changed. They didn’t need her today. Did they think they weren’t going to find her, so it was safe now?
In her parents’ bath the toilet flushed. The shower curtain racked back and water thundered into the tub, then sprayed from the nozzle. She used the noise to cover her escape, closing the door so Cooper wouldn’t follow her.
The change in the bathroom was obvious as soon as she turned on the light. The towel racks were empty, as if her mother was doing laundry. Her toothbrush stood alone in the pink holder. Kim’s hairbrush was gone, and the razor they shared. The trash had been emptied, a new plastic bag from Giant Eagle in its place. Ignoring her reflection in the mirror, she grabbed the lime green plastic caddy she used at camp and filled it with everything she needed, turned out the light and closed the door behind her.
Downstairs, all the milk crates and boxes of flyers stacked in the darkened living room made it look like they were moving. The light in the back hall was on. When she investigated, creeping toward the back door, she saw the outside light shining on the wet driveway like any other night. It made sense, she guessed, and didn’t turn them off.
Her parents’ bathroom was directly above the one downstairs. As she brushed her teeth, she could hear water rushing through the pipes, and then, when she was on the pot, the abrupt, wrenching stop. She finished and packed everything back in the caddy. Carrying it up reminded her of camp, tramping down the cabin line right before lights-out to the kybo in her flip-flops, the cold grass tickling her feet. Kim had the same caddy, in purple. Sometimes Lindsay would see it sitting on a bench or on the long counter of sinks and feel both a familiar comfort and a bitter jealousy in knowing she was so close. Just like at school, at camp they moved in different circles, but in such a limited, informal setting, Kim’s popularity swamped her. She was Little Larsen, and after the first morning competition, no team captain made the mistake of choosing her just for her name. The flip side was that being Kim’s sister protected her from the nastier pranks, most of which involved bug spray or wiping bodily fluids on the victim’s pillowcase. It was always the problem: without Kim she would be free to be her own person, but she would also be picked on or ignored because that person was weak.
In bed, with the light out, she resolved to be strong tomorrow, as if she could pay her back that way. “If it was you,” her father had said, “do you think Kim would just be sitting in her room?” From now on she would do whatever she had to, whatever she could. For once, Lindsay would save her.
Outside, a car splashed by. Cooper twitched and whimpered, running in a dream, then subsided. She held her breath, straining to make out the faintest noise from her parents’ room. There was only the constant, rhythmless drumming overhead. She’d thought the rain would help her sleep. Now she was aware of it falling on the backyard and the woods, on the fields and farms and creeks that fed the river. She imagined the water in the gorge rising slowly in total blackness, a smudge of a pale body drifting downstream, caught in the rocks. On one rubbery hand would be her grandmother’s cameo ring. She opened her eyes, rolled on her side and squeezed them shut again. A minute later she sighed loudly and rolled the other way. She could see Kim naked and lying in the mud, her dark hair tangled like seaweed, part of her face neatly buried like a rock uncovered by the tide. She smacked her pillow flat, then flipped it. The rain pattered, maddening. Stop it, she thought. Just stop.
Talent
Jocelyn came over early to help Fran prepare. She’d never been on TV before, and was terrified. Jocelyn was a pro. The hospital owned a portable lectern with its new logo on the front that she rolled out for ground-breaking ceremonies and Coast Guard rescues. She was slender and dressed well, and when she answered questions she sounded like a doctor. Fran wanted her to be their spokesperson, but understood a mother would evoke more sympathy.
The first thing she had to do was change. Even on a cloudy day a white blouse would turn into a blob of light. She had Sunny Hedrick mind the sign-in table while they went through her closet, looking for a dark solid. Nothing too fancy. She should look like she was going to work. They chose three and had her model them, circling her like a bride. After they picked the winner, Jocelyn redid her makeup, drawing on eyeliner and powdering her cheeks till they were beige. To Fran it looked garish. Jocelyn assured her it would translate.
She should stand up straight and look serious without frowning. And be careful not to laugh. A lot of peo
ple laughed out of reflex because it felt strange to be on-camera.
“If you have to cry,” Jocelyn said, “stop talking and take a step back off your mark. It’s not live. They’re going to edit you for space anyway, so you want to control what they have to choose from.”
“Crying’s not good.”
“You don’t want to come off as hysterical.”
“Even if I am.”
“Even if you are. That’s private, this is public. Big difference. Think about what you’re doing. You’re asking people who don’t know you to help you. You don’t want to make them uncomfortable. You want them to think: What would I do in her shoes? So they’ll be rooting for you not to fall apart, because they’re afraid they would. They want you to be braver than they think they are. Do that and they’ll like you.”
“Now I know I’m going to cry.”
“That’s okay,” Jocelyn said. “Just take a step back and they’ll have to stop rolling. Make sure you have a tissue with you. You don’t want to be too cool either. Remember Meryl Streep.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Fran said.
“Tears are fine. You just don’t want them to have you breaking down on tape, because they’ll use that, and then that’s who you are. Trust me, you don’t want to be that person.”
Why not? Fran wanted to ask. She already was that person.
Connie had blown up a shot of the car and mounted it side-by-side with Kim’s picture on foam board. That was okay, Jocelyn said, but flyers were like wanted posters, too cold. It would be better if Fran held a small framed picture of Kim, something intimate and precious. The idea was to make the viewers think of their own pictures of loved ones and imagine what else they had in common. For the same reason, they wanted to do the shoot in the driveway to show they were a regular family with a garage and a lawn and a front door.
Songs for the Missing Page 8