“No offense, Lily, but seriously, Abby’s bound to pick something you wouldn’t be able to figure out,” I tell her.
I was afraid Lily would be upset, but she actually half smiles.
“Yeah. Too right.”
“We thought that if anyone might be able to guess, it would be you, Faith,” Mr. Johnston says. “You’re Abby’s best friend.”
Not that I’ve been such a great friend recently.
The guilt almost crushes me, especially sitting here at Abby’s kitchen table with her parents and Lily.
“I’ll try my best.”
Mrs. Johnston explains how the ChezTeen.com servers are in the Ukraine so it’s going to take the FBI much longer to get access to the critical information that they think is in Abby’s account than it would be if everything were in the United States. Unless … unless, we can figure out her password.
I slide the pad across the table toward me and ask Lily to pass me a pen.
“So how do we do this? Do I make a list and then you give it to the FBI? Or do we try them?”
“We’ve been trying them,” Mr. Johnston says. “One of us has been writing down the password and another’s been typing it in.”
“Okay. I’ll start writing if you want.”
“Let’s do it,” he says, grabbing one of Mom’s cookies and pulling his laptop toward him.
An hour later, every single thing I’ve thought of has failed and I’m struggling to think of anything else.
“Why don’t you take a break, Faith?” Mrs. Johnston says. “You’ve had a long day and you look tired.” She looks at my mom. “I know Faith has school tomorrow, Elaine, and homework. Whenever you think she needs to go home, just say the —”
“NO!” I protest.
Mom gives me a look, like, Who’s the Mom around here?
“I mean, please, Mom, I really want to stay longer. I want to help. I need to help. I’m sure I’ll figure this out soon. I just … Maybe … maybe if I go look in Abby’s room, it’ll give me some ideas.”
I stand up and head for the stairs.
“We’ll stay for another hour, Faith,” Mom says. “I know you want to help, but you do have school tomorrow. And you’ve got homework, honey. Getting behind on your own schoolwork isn’t going to help Abby.”
Would Mrs. Johnston make Abby go home in an hour if I were missing? Or does Mom not think I can do this? Or is she just lying to Mrs. Johnston because really she thinks this is all hopeless and Abby isn’t coming home at all?
It’s so strange to be sitting in Abby’s room. I’ve been here, like, a zillion times before; I know it almost as well as my own. But to be here without Abby, not knowing where she is or if she’s even … alive and okay … that makes me start crying again. I lie on Abby’s bed, my head on her pillow, and when I breathe in I can just catch her familiar smell. Abs, please, where are you? Come back. I promise I’ll be a better friend if you’ll come back safely.
This isn’t helping Abby. I’ve got to pull myself together.
I grab a tissue from the box on Abby’s bedside table and wipe my eyes. Okay, I’m going to start from the bed and walk around the room, looking at everything to see if it jogs my memory about things that Abby has said or done, anything that she might have decided to use as a password.
Her closet is so neat compared to mine. Abby always gives me a hard time about how messy I am. My mom jokes that we’re like the two guys on this old TV show, The Odd Couple, where Felix was a neat freak and Oscar was a slob. After that, sometimes I’d call Abby Felix and she’d call me Oscar.
I write down Felix, Oscar and Odd Couple on the yellow pad. Abby signed up for ChezTeen before everything started going weird between us. Maybe, just maybe, it was our friendship she loved. It’s a long shot, but we might as well try everything.
Abby’s desk is as neat as her closet. I open and close drawers, feeling like a snoop. Nothing strikes me. There’s a bulletin board above her desk with pictures of us pinned up from as far back as second grade. Abby and me dressed as salt and pepper shakers on Halloween in third grade. The two of us winning the three-legged race on Field Day in second grade. We practiced so hard for that, racing up and down the backyard with our legs tied together, falling over constantly at first until we got our rhythm, but giggling as we lay on the grass to catch our breath, looking for shapes in the clouds overhead.
She’s saved the ticket from the first time our parents took us to New York City to see a Broadway show, The Lion King, the movie ticket from when we saw Lord of the Rings — Abby loved Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn, but I was crushing on Orlando Bloom as Legolas — and the one from when we went to see The Fray in concert. I hear their music in my head:
Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life
My heart thuds heavily in my chest. I don’t care what Mom says. I’ll stay up all night if that’s what it takes.
OMG, Abby, I just hope I know how to save your life.
I have fifty-nine more ideas written on the pad when I go back downstairs to the kitchen.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, handing them to Mr. Johnston.
“We really should go,” Mom says. “I’ve got the other kids at home and you have school tomorrow.”
“Mom, please,” I beg. “Let me at least see if any of these work. It’s not like I’m going to be able to concentrate on homework anyway.”
She exchanges glances with Mrs. Johnston.
“Okay,” Mom sighs. “Fingers crossed, Rick.”
Mr. Johnston starts typing in passwords. As they’re rejected, he crosses them off the list on the pad.
My heart sinks as more and more words get crossed off. I start praying. Please, let one of them work so we can find Abby. Please, please, please …
Lily’s half asleep at the end of the table, her head resting on her arms. Mrs. Johnston stares at the light fixture. I can’t even imagine what’s going through her head.
“Holy … Faith, you did it!” Mr. Johnston shouts. “We’re in!!”
Lily wakes up and rubs her eyes. Mrs. Johnston jumps up and looks over his shoulder.
“What one was it?” I ask.
“Aragorn,” he says. His eyes are bright, suddenly, instead of tired and dull, and you can see the hope radiating from him. “Kate, get the FBI on the line.”
I want to stay. I don’t want to move from this kitchen until Abby walks back through the door. But after Mr. Johnston talks to the FBI, he explains that they have to go through the chat logs on Abby’s account and start tracking down this Luke guy she’s gone off with.
So Mom makes me go home. But I lie in bed all night thinking about Abby, until I see the dawn light through my window shade.
CHAPTER 27
LILY DECEMBER 10 8:30 A.M.
Agent Pantsuit called my parents at eight a.m. and said that she and Agent Nisco were on their way over.
Mom comes in and wakes me up to tell me, even though I normally sleep late on Saturday morning.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she says. She hugs me. “And you, sweetheart. How are you holding up?”
“Like crap. Kind of like you and Dad.”
I know Mom’s a complete wreck because she doesn’t even tell me to watch my language.
“I really hope they have some good news for us. I’m not sure I can take it if it’s bad news,” Mom says. She sighs. “I better get the coffee going. And some breakfast, even though none of us seem to have an appetite. We’re just living on caffeine and nerves at the moment. Your father’s going to have an ulcer by the time this is over.”
“Can you make French toast?”
I’ve barely been hungry the last few days, but right now I crave sweet, gooey comfort.
“Sure, baby. Set the table quickly, because the FBI will be here soon.”
Mom and I are clearing up the breakfast di
shes when the agents arrive. Dad lets them in and Mom pours them mugs of coffee.
“We’ve been able to move ahead on multiple fronts,” Agent Saunders tells us. “We were able to get a read on the license plate from the mall security cameras. The car is registered to an Edmund Schmidt, from South Boston, Massachusetts. We’ve put out an APB on the car and on Schmidt.”
“Thanks to Abby’s friend, Faith, we’ve been able to track down the IP address of this Luke Redmond that Abby’s been chatting with. It’s the same address in South Boston that Schmidt’s car was registered to,” Agent Nisco explains. “Because we have the chat logs linking him to Abby, and an eyewitness who saw Abby getting into Schmidt’s car, we had probable cause for a search warrant. Our guys went in about an hour ago. Schmidt wasn’t there but his mother was. He’s thirty-two years old, works at Starbucks as a barista, and lives with his parents.”
“Mrs. Schmidt gave our agents permission to access the family computer, and just on a preliminary scan we found more than a thousand images of child pornography in a hidden directory,” Agent Saunders says. “We suspect that Abby’s not the only minor he’s been grooming.”
Dad crumples up his napkin into a little ball. I bet he wishes it was Luke/Edmund’s, or whatever-the-creep’s-name-is, head.
“So what happens now?” Mom says.
“Unfortunately, it’s more of the same,” Agent Saunders says, her eyes warm and sympathetic. It’s the first time I see her act like a real-life person, instead of just an agent in a pantsuit. “Waiting. With the APB on Schmidt’s car, hopefully we’ll track them down sooner rather than later.”
News trickles in throughout the morning. Apparently, Schmidt’s mother confirmed that the picture of “Luke” from Abby’s computer was her son, Edmund. Although he has no previous record, when confronted with the fact that he had child porn on the family computer, Mrs. Schmidt crossed herself and told the investigators that there had been “some unfortunate business” several years ago when her eldest daughter accused Edmund of doing something inappropriate with his niece, her granddaughter, Camilla. Mrs. Schmidt didn’t know who or what to believe and it caused a huge family rift — Edmund and his eldest sister, Mary, haven’t spoken in over five years and it’s just about broken her heart. She lights a candle every week and prays for their family to come together in love and Christ.
Yeah, like that’s going to happen now. NOT.
But then Agent Saunders says that Mrs. Schmidt told investigators that she wonders if Edmund’s “problems” have anything to do with “that business with the priest back when he was an altar boy.”
Wow, I think. No wonder he’s screwed up.
Agent Pantsuit tells us that it’s quite common for people who have been sexually abused as kids to become abusers themselves.
That sets Dad off big-time. “Are you trying to get me to feel sorry for this guy?” he shouts, a slow flush burning its way up his face. “Because I have no sympathy for the man who preyed on my daughter. None at all. I’d like to see him strung up from the nearest tree.”
“Rick, calm down,” Mom says.
“I will not calm down! My daughter is out there in the hands of some pedophile and you expect me to listen to sob stories about this creep’s traumatic childhood?”
Dad pushes his chair back so hard it falls over, and he doesn’t even bend to pick it up. He just starts pacing back and forth.
“I bet he’ll get some bleeding-heart lawyer and they’ll use that to try and get him off,” he says, spitting out each word like it tastes bad.
Agent Nisco puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder and tells him maybe they should go take a walk and get some fresh air.
“Let’s find Abby first before we start getting worked up about Schmidt’s trial strategy, okay?”
Dad’s shoulders slump over as he nods his agreement.
Agent Nisco gets the call at two thirty p.m. I’m busy trying to do the homework that Mom forced me to look up online, while she stood over my shoulder, making sure I didn’t pull an Abby. But it’s near impossible because my brain’s jumping around like popcorn in a microwave.
His phone doesn’t ring, it buzzes.
“Nisco,” he answers.
We all stop what we’re doing and listen, like we do every time his phone buzzes. I’m holding my breath, afraid to let it go.
“Okay … and they’re moving in soon? Great, keep me posted. Thanks.”
For the first time, Agent Nisco’s craggy face breaks a smile. “Schmidt’s car has been spotted by New York State Police, just north of Plattsburgh, and there are two people in the vehicle. They’re moving in to apprehend.”
I release my breath in a loud whoosh of relief.
“Oh … oh, thank the Lord,” Mom says, bursting into tears. Dad puts his arms around her and rubs her back. I go and hug them both. We stand there, our arms entwined, as if that will hold our family together until Abby can join it again.
We spend the next hour watching the second hand tick on the kitchen clock. When I’m not staring at the clock, I’m gazing at Agent Nisco’s jacket pocket, willing his phone to buzz again with someone on the other end saying that Abby is safe and well and that she’s on her way home.
When he stands up and reaches into his pocket, we all start.
“Nisco … Yep … Good.” He listens for a while and I can’t tell from his face if what he’s hearing is good or bad. They must teach that at FBI school or something. “Where are you taking her? … Okay, we’ll get the parents up there, stat. Yeah. Good work. Bye.”
“They got her?” Dad asks. “Is Abby okay?”
“New York State Police apprehended Edmund Schmidt at approximately three ten p.m. Abby is now safely in police custody.”
I burst out crying, huge sobs of relief. Abby might be a complete pain-in-the-ass freak, but I’ve never been happier about anything in the world than I am to know that she’s alive and safe. Not anything ever. Even when I got that Juicy Couture hoodie for half price. Or when Mom got me third-row Taylor Swift tickets.
Mom and Dad both have tears streaming down their cheeks. Mom hugs Agent Pantsuit, saying, “Thank you, thank you, how can we ever thank you?”
Dad sits down heavily on the kitchen chair, like his legs won’t hold him up anymore.
“Did he … is she …?”
He can’t say the words out loud, but we all know what he is trying to ask. Did Luke Redmond, Edmund Schmidt, or whatever you want to call that freaky Red Sox hat-wearing perv do IT with Abby?
I really try hard to push that thought out of my brain. It’s just too gross and scary to think about.
“They’ll be taking Abby to the police station first,” Agent Saunders says. “That’s where we’ll meet her. Once you’re there, we’ll go over to the nearest hospital, where she’ll be examined by what we call a SANE nurse.”
“What, as opposed to a crazy nurse?” I ask.
Agent Pantsuit gives me a brief, lips-only smile. “Like I said, we’re big into acronyms. It stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. They specialize in doing forensic exams on women who might have undergone sexual assault.”
Her voice is all steady and calm, but it kind of feels like she’s trying to prepare us for the worst.
Dad is gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are white.
“Maybe Lily should stay here,” Mom says. “With a friend. I could call Elaine Wilson.”
“Why?” I protest. “I want to see Abby, too!”
“I think it’s probably a good idea,” Agent Saunders says. “Just to give Abby a little breathing room before she’s surrounded by too many people.”
She sees me opening my mouth to protest and says, “Lily, we’re going to be asking Abby a lot of questions, and you wouldn’t be allowed in the room. It would get very boring.”
“But it’s not fair, I —”
“Lily, you’re staying here, and that’s final,” Dad decrees. “Kate, call Elaine Wilson. We should get on the road as soo
n as possible. I need to see that Abby is safe with my own eyes.”
Like I don’t?
My eyes well up with tears as Mom reaches for the phone. It’s always all about Abby as far as Dad’s concerned. I wonder if she’d stayed away forever if anything would have changed.
Mrs. Wilson says she’ll be here in ten minutes to take me over to their house.
“Before you see Abby, there’s something you should know,” Agent Nisco says. “When the suspect, Edmund Schmidt, was apprehended and he was being led away in handcuffs, Abby was extremely concerned about what was going to happen to him. She shouted out to the police, ‘Don’t hurt him!’”
Mom and Dad look at each other, like WTF? I can’t believe it either. You’d think that after being trapped with that creep for all this time, Abby would just be, “Yay, the police are here to rescue me, woo-hoo!” But instead she’s trying to protect the dude?
I always knew Abby was a freak, but this is even beyond her usual level of freakdom.
“It’s not unusual for the victim of an Internet predator to identify with him, very strongly in fact,” Agent Saunders says. “Otherwise she never would have run off with him in the first place.”
“But … how could she … He’s a …” Dad sputters.
“I know it’s hard to understand,” Agent Nisco says. “But these guys, they really convince the girls that they’re in love with them.”
Dad shakes his head, as if to say, No, not my Abby.
“The grooming process is an insidious seduction, Mr. Johnston,” Agent Saunders says. “And it’s between players of very unequal skills. Here’s a grown man and a young, inexperienced girl, who is used to dealing with the boys at school.”
“Yeah. Remember what our romantic skills were like in high school?” Agent Nisco says. “On a scale of one to ten, I probably ranked a two. And that’s being generous.”
“So then this guy comes along who knows all the right things to say to make a girl feel good about herself — it’s very powerful.”
“But Abby’s too smart to fall for that,” Dad says.
Want to Go Private? Page 18