At that moment, an engine gunned and Thomas heard the sound of tires churning upon gravel. He hesitated only a second before leaping to his feet and running into the forest. Branches stung his face, and he stumbled on a fallen limb, but he didn’t break his stride. He could think of only one thing—the girl.
Thomas emerged from the trees just in time to see a black sportutility vehicle tear out of the parking lot to the north. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed 911. The dispatcher connected immediately.
“There’s been a kidnapping,” he said, breathless, finding his keys with his other hand. “It happened at the Botanical Gardens. They took a girl about ten years old. Her mother’s still here and she’s hurt. I saw a black SUV, but I didn’t get the plate.”
He hung up before the dispatcher could reply. He threw open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. Mashing the clutch, he made a tight turn onto the entrance road. He swerved onto Eastern Boulevard with a squeal of rubber, heading in the direction of the Middle River Loop. He drove a mile along the highway at twice the speed limit, hoping to catch a glimpse of the SUV before it turned onto a secondary road. Traffic was light, but he saw no sign of it.
He drove another mile toward I-95 without sighting the SUV. He pulled to the side of the highway, looking around in desperation. Every second that passed decreased his chances of success. The land north of the Middle River Loop was dominated by forest and rolling fields. He scoured the scenery on both sides of the road, looking for a flash of black against the background of green. A few cars passed on the highway, but he saw no sign of the SUV.
Thomas gripped the steering wheel. The brazenness of the crime enraged him. The SUV had at best a minute headstart. Simple physics said it couldn’t be far away. But he didn’t know the area, and the kidnappers surely did.
After a while, he turned around and drove back the way he had come. During his absence, the entrance to the gardens had been besieged by four squad cars and an ambulance, all with lights ablaze. Two police officers stood behind the ambulance, watching an EMT nurse tend to the child’s mother. Another officer was speaking into a radio and a fourth was taking photographs some distance away.
Thomas approached the officer on the radio and waited. The man was long-winded and seemed not to notice him. Before Thomas could introduce himself, a hand gripped his arm. He turned and saw the girl’s mother. Her brown eyes were clear and imploring.
“Please tell me you saw them again,” she pleaded, pushing away the nurse who was trying to take her back to the ambulance. “Please tell me you know where they took her.”
He shook his head, his failure weighing on him.
“Oh God!” the woman cried. “Oh dear God.” The pain poured out of her in words. “She turned eleven today. I was taking her to a movie, but she wanted to stop at the gardens.” Without warning, she thrust herself at Thomas and pounded on his chest. “I should have said no!” she shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably. “How did this happen?”
Thomas had no idea what to do. He traded a look with one of the police officers who tried to intervene, but the officer’s entreaties were half-hearted and ineffectual.
Eventually the woman collected herself enough to let go of him. “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I just …” She hugged herself. “Abby’s all I’ve got. I can’t lose her. I don’t know what I’d do.”
Sensing an opportunity, the EMT nurse took the woman’s hand. “Come along, Ms. Davis. The police are doing everything they can. Let’s get you fixed up.”
This time the woman complied without objection.
Thomas stood stiffly, at once moved and disturbed by the exchange. The officer holding the radio began to ask him questions about the incident, and he answered, but his mind drifted to a different time and place—to a small hillock at Glenwood Cemetery, placing flowers on his daughter’s grave.
It took him fifteen minutes to deliver his statement. Toward the end, an unmarked squad car pulled into the lot and a tall man in plainclothes emerged. After talking to one of the officers by the ambulance, the man approached Thomas.
“I’m Detective Morgan with the Fayetteville PD. I understand you made the 911 call.”
“I did,” Thomas confirmed.
“May I ask why you tried to follow the vehicle?”
Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. I wanted to help.”
“Officer Velasquez here says you saw the perpetrators.”
“Only at a distance. They looked like any couple you’d see at a shopping mall. I didn’t think anything of them at the time.”
“Could you pick them out of a lineup?”
“I doubt it. I might recognize the man, but not the woman.”
The detective eyed him curiously. “What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m an attorney in D.C. Why?”
The detective smiled wryly. “An altruistic lawyer. Not many of you in the world.”
The comment was inane, and Thomas felt a stab of irritation. He glanced at the ambulance and saw the girl’s mother being treated for lacerations on her wrists. There was something about the incident that nagged at him. Something didn’t add up.
“What happened here?” he asked. “There were multiple kidnappers and they acted in broad daylight. The more I think about it, the more it seems premeditated.”
The detective crossed his arms. “I can’t answer that.”
“You’re telling me this was an ordinary crime? This is North Carolina, not Mexico City.”
The detective’s eyes darkened. “I’m not going to say it was, and I’m not going to say it wasn’t.” He softened his tone. “Listen, if it’s any consolation, a lot of fine people will be working on this. The feds may get involved. We’ll do everything we can.”
“I don’t doubt it. But will you find the girl?”
The detective looked toward the forest, and for a moment he let his guard down. “I won’t lie to you. The statistics aren’t good.”
Thomas took a deep breath. He felt as if someone had buried a knife in his gut. He thanked the detective and shook his hand. The hand held a card.
“Call me if you think of anything else about the case. And make sure you check your e-mail often. We may have more questions for you.”
Thomas nodded and walked back to his car, playing the words of the girl’s mother over and over in his mind: “Abby’s all I’ve got. I can’t lose her.” He tried to shake off the woman’s despair, but it wouldn’t let him go.
He drove the rest of the way to Washington in a mental fog. The kidnapping replayed itself in his mind over and over again. If only he had seen the danger and told Abby’s mother not to take her down the path. If only he had understood the intentions of the woman with the camera and her male companion. If only he had run faster and waited until he was driving before placing the 911 call. What did the kidnappers intend to do with the girl? Would they demand a ransom, or would they do something worse?
He reached the District a few minutes before six o’clock. He drove along the Potomac River before crossing the bridge into Georgetown. He found a parking spot in front of his home and took his duffel bag into the foyer. In the three weeks since Priya had left, he had never gotten used to the quiet of the place. He turned on a few lights, went upstairs to the bedroom, and changed clothes. After putting on slacks and a sweater, he stared at himself in the mirror and saw the dark circles under his eyes. His mother would tell him he wasn’t taking care of himself. And she would be right.
The drive into old-town Alexandria was a blur of lights. He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ modest Tudor-style home and sat in silence. Then he walked up the front steps and stopped at the door. The faint voice of Gene Autry drifted out to greet him. The old crooner was singing about Santa Claus. For a moment, he felt as if he were in a dream. One year ago, he and Priya had stood on this porch, holding hands. It wasn’t bliss they had had, but she was pregnant and looking forward to motherho
od, and he was satisfied with his life. He was a rising star at Clayton|Swift, defending Wharton Coal in a case that could make his career. They were doing well financially. How was it possible that everything had gone so wrong?
He knocked twice before opening the door. Elena Clarke met him in the foyer, wrapped in an apron, her face shiny with sweat from the stove. Her eyes narrowed when she saw he was alone. They stood for a moment in silence, neither willing to make the first move. Then Thomas mustered the nerve to speak.“Priya isn’t coming. She left three weeks ago.” There it was, in the open at last.
His mother’s eyes widened in shock, but she collected herself quickly. “You didn’t tell us,” she said softly.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“Where did she go?”
He took a breath. “She went home.”
Elena approached him, hesitantly at first, and then with greater confidence. He accepted her embrace without resistance.
“We knew it would be hard, but we hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” She backed off and looked at him again. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
Elena nodded. “Your father is in the study,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s reading some impenetrable tome on the Peloponnesian wars.”
Thomas mustered a smile. “What else is new?”
He made his way down the hallway, past framed school pictures from his childhood, and entered his father’s sanctuary. The room was more a library than a study. The Judge sat on a leather chair, a pillow on his lap, and a fountain pen in his hand. The book before him was outsized, nearly as large as a dictionary. Thomas could see endless scribbles and marginalia on the pages. The Judge marked up everything he read. He was an arbiter of fates in his day job. Faceless authors were easy prey.
His father looked up at him. “Merry Christmas, Thomas.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.” He stood awkwardly, unsure of what to say.
The Judge spoke for him. “I overheard what you told your mother about Priya. Was it Mohini, or did the Wharton case do her in?”
Thomas winced. His father was nothing if not blunt. “A little of both, I think,” he replied, omitting that there were complications in the story, that they were as much to blame as their circumstances.
“She never did like that damned case,” his father went on.
“It’s hard to like a company that killed a schoolhouse full of kids.”
The Judge nodded and stood. “The curse of the litigator,” he said, leading the way toward the dining room, “is that you don’t get to choose your clients.”
“Priya would have disagreed.”
“Yes,” his father said. “She always was an idealist.” He turned and put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. Not far away the clock sounded the hour. Seven chimes. “I’m sorry, Son. I really am. You’ve had a rough go of it in the past six months.”
“Thanks, Dad,” he said, moved by this rare display of emotion.
Elena met them in the dining room with a steaming basket of butter rolls. “Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberries, broccoli, the works,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Ted and Amy ate all the stuffing on Christmas Eve, but I made a new batch.”
The aroma was delectable, and Thomas allowed himself to smile. His younger brother worked at a finance firm in New York, and Ted’s wife, Amy, was a model for a slew of fashion magazines. Despite their high-flying careers, they were actually quite down-to-earth people.
“I’m sure Ted had more to do with that than Amy,” Thomas quipped.
His father chuckled. “The girl never seems to eat anything.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t come,” Thomas said with a smile. He didn’t expect to mean it, but he found that he really did.
“All is forgiven,” his mother said. “Now dig in.”
Over dinner, they tried to steer the conversation toward lighter topics. But the gravity of recent events caught up with them as they were finishing the main course. His mother asked Thomas if he had heard about the tsunami in the Indian Ocean.
“They were talking about it on the radio,” Thomas replied.
“Your mother has been glued to the television all afternoon,” the Judge said.
“It’s unfathomable,” Elena said, shaking her head. “All those people …” Her voice wavered with feeling. “How can something like that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. It was the second time he had confronted that question in a single day. He thought of Abby’s mother, crying in his arms. He turned toward his father.
“While we’re talking about depressing topics, Dad, I’d like to get your impression of something that happened to me on the drive home.”
He told the Judge about the kidnapping and his conversation with Detective Morgan. There was purpose in his disclosure. His father sat atop one of the most powerful judicial districts in the country. If anyone had a bird’s-eye view of American crime, he did.
When Thomas finished speaking, his father rubbed his chin. “Hmm, Fort Bragg is in Fayetteville.” After a pause, he went on: “It might not have been an ordinary kidnapping. We’ve seen a spike in trafficking cases in the past year.”
Thomas frowned. “What does the fort have to do with it?”
“It’s simple, really. The fort offers the pimps a steady client base.”
Elena made the sign of the cross and stood up suddenly, starting to clear the dishes. Trading a glance with his father, Thomas stood to help her. Afterward, they retired to the living room. Thomas sipped a glass of eggnog while his father stoked the flames in the fireplace.
They congregated around the Christmas tree and Elena picked up an old leather Bible from an end table. She opened to the Gospel of Luke, as she always did at this season, but she just stared at the page. After a moment, she put the Bible down.
“I’m not sure I can read right now,” she said.
“I’ll read it,” the Judge said and took the Bible from her.
He flipped to the Advent passage and read the time-worn words. Thomas listened as he had every year of his life, but the passage meant little to him anymore. He had been confirmed into the Church like every other Catholic boy, but the ideas in the Catechism had frayed and faded during his years at Yale. In the real world, doubt was the only truth.
When the Judge finished the reading, Elena reached beneath the Christmas tree and handed Thomas a small package, wrapped in gold paper. Listening to the Scripture seemed to have calmed her nerves. She smiled at Thomas and glanced at the Judge.
“Your father picked them out,” she said.
Thomas removed the paper and opened a jeweler’s box containing a pair of silver cufflinks. The cufflinks bore his initials: TRC. The “R” was for Randolph.
“Priya was always trying to get you to wear those prissy Frenchcuff shirts,” his father said with a little laugh. “I thought these would help.”
“She was always trying to get me to do a lot of things,” Thomas said.
Elena pulled out a second package. “I bought this for her,” she said with a sigh. “I found it at a used bookstore. I suppose I could keep it, but I’d prefer you to take it with you.”
Thomas shook his head. “She’s not coming back, Mom. I don’t see the point.” He didn’t mean to be harsh, but he didn’t want there to be any doubt.
Elena took a deep breath. “Even so, take it with you. Please.”
Thomas took the gift reluctantly. “Should I unwrap it?”
His mother nodded.
Beneath the paper he found a pocket-sized book of poetry by Sarojini Naidu.
“A good choice,” he said. “She loved Naidu.”
“Why don’t you read something to us?”
His instinct was to decline, but he didn’t want to disappoint her. He opened the book to a poem called “Transience” and read it out loud. The refrain had a haunting beauty, but it rang hollow in his heart.
“Nay, do not weep; new
hopes, new dreams, new faces,
The unspent joy of all the unborn years,
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow,
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.”
The room was silent after he finished. No one knew what to say. They were rescued by the sound of the grandfather clock. Eight chimes.
“I’m sorry to rush off,” Thomas said, trying to hide his relief, “but I have to change before I head downtown.”
“Of course,” Elena said, though her eyes were filled with sorrow.
His parents walked him to the door. In contrast to the good cheer they had affected at the beginning of the meal, their expressions now were grave.
“Call us if you need anything,” Elena said. “Day or night, we’ll be here.”
“I’ll be fine,” Thomas replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek and shaking his father’s hand. “Don’t worry about me.”
But he knew they didn’t believe him.
He drove back into the city and made a quick stop at home to change into his tuxedo. He felt profoundly weary. He had been a fool to drive all the way to South Carolina for Christmas. The holidays had their merits, but even in a good year all the socializing gave him a headache. He needed a drink. That was about the only benefit of Clayton’s holiday party—bottomless booze.
He hailed a cab to the Mayflower Hotel. The taxi dropped him off at the entrance at nine o’clock. He knew from experience that the late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. Clayton’s parties went on all night.
He walked into the grand lobby of the old Beaux Arts establishment and heard the din of conversation. Clayton’s Washington office—one of twenty around the world—was home to two hundred attorneys and twice as many staff. When the whole group gathered and drinks were served, one had to shout to be heard over the clatter.
He entered the grand ballroom and greeted a group of friends. After trading a few jokes and a bit of office gossip, he excused himself to get a drink. At one of the bars, he ordered a Manhattan and watched the bartender mix the whiskey, vermouth, and bitters. He took the drink and sipped it, looking out across the sea of faces flushed with excitement and inebriation.
A Walk Across the Sun Page 4