by Susan Fleet
Like that was supposed to make up for losing his iPhone.
Then the man gave him a Halloween costume and told him to put it on. When he said he wasn't wearing some stupid Spiderman suit, Donald Duck picked him up like he was no bigger than a Chihuahua. He only weighed sixty-two pounds, but still. Then the man tucked Emily under his other arm and carried them downstairs and out through the garage and put them in a white-paneled van. Emily started yelling. That's the last thing he remembered.
And now he was all alone in a dark room.
Kidnapped by Donald Duck.
His heart beat faster, thumping his chest. He wondered what his father would do if the kidnapper killed him. Not Hunter, his real father, Nick Roberts. He was only a baby when Mom got the divorce and they moved to New Orleans. Mom said that's why his father never came to see him, but that was bull. He had looked at a map. Miami wasn't that far from New Orleans. Hop a plane, his father could be here in an hour. But he never did.
Mom had given him a picture of him. Alone in his room, he had studied it carefully and decided he didn't look anything like his father. He didn't look like Mom either. She had blond hair and pale skin, like Emily. He had dark hair and dark eyes and his skin was darker. Not real dark, but not ivory-white like Mom and Emily.
Mom said the divorce wasn't his fault, but he knew it was. One time she'd called his father when she thought he wasn't listening and argued with him, using sharp words. The F-word, even, which shocked him. Afterwards she'd seemed angry, stomping around the house, her face set in a frown.
He wished he had his iPhone. Then he could call Mom and find out if she was kidnapped too. Maybe she knew where they were.
He opened the baggie with the Candy Corn, the consolation prize Donald Duck gave him after he took his iPhone. Now that he didn't feel like he might throw up, the candy smelled good, but he didn't dare eat any. He might be here a long time.
Last year on a TV show he'd seen, the kidnappers didn't feed the hostages for three days.
He pushed a button on his watch and the dial lit up. 1:20 AM. Far out! He never got to stay up this late at home. Maybe there was a light in here. If he turned it on, he could explore the room. But if he did, the kidnapper might see the light and come in and whack him. He decided to wait. The sun would be up in five hours. A long time to wait. He wished he could talk to Mom.
She didn't mind that he sucked at sports. She loved listening to him sing. When he started first grade, she got him a piano teacher and bought him an electric piano so he could practice in his room. He loved playing songs on it. Sometimes he made up his own songs. That was cool, way better than football.
Before school started this year, Mom told Hunter to stop nagging him to play football. Hunter gave her one of his shut-your-face looks. Mom was afraid of him. He was too.
One night at dinner after Mom married Hunter and they moved into his house, he had called him Dad. A test, to see what he'd say. Hunter's cheeks turned red and his face got an angry pinched look. “I'm not your father,” he said. “Call me Uncle Hunter.”
Robbie wanted to say, “And you're not my uncle.” But he didn't dare. His mouth got dry just thinking about it.
He took the juice container off the table near the bed, one of those baby containers like Emily used to drink when she was little, a foil-wrapped box with a plastic straw attached. He pulled off the straw, stuck it in the hole and took a sip. Not bad. Grape juice. He sucked up half of it and stopped. Better save the rest, no telling when he'd get something else to drink.
He swung his legs onto the bed and rested his head on the pillow. To pass the time, he thought about school. His fifth grade teacher was great. Mr. Desautel said he was very smart and observant. He loved the science project Robbie had chosen: the life cycle of frogs, how tadpoles grew up to be big frogs and made croaking noises and jumped around in the swamps.
Mr. Desautel said everyone in the class would get a special cake on their birthday. He couldn't wait. In December he'd be eleven.
If the kidnapper didn't kill him.
What did he want? Money, probably. That's what the kidnappers on TV wanted. Hunter had tons of money, not as much as Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, but millions and millions. He'd read an article about Hunter Firearms in the business page of the newspaper.
Hunter would pay millions to get Emily back. But not for Robbie Lee. He'd be glad to have Robbie Lee disappear. Then he and Mom and Emily could be the perfect family. But maybe not.
Mom didn't seem too happy these days. Before Hunter went out last night, he'd heard them arguing. That always made him nervous. Just thinking about it made him nervous.
He reached for the box of grape juice, but a sound made his neck prickle.
Someone was opening the door!
He curled up into a ball on the bed and stayed very still.
_____
Emily stood on her tip-toes and peeked out the window. It was dark outside, but she could see the glow of a streetlight down the street. She wished Daddy would hurry up and rescue her.
She was certain he would. Daddy could do almost anything. Her sixth birthday was in November, fifteen days from now, but she was already in first grade. When the people at the Montessori school said she was too young, Daddy made a big fuss and they let her in.
She sucked up the apple juice in the box until it made a gurgling sound. She liked grape better. Now the juice was all gone and she was still thirsty. The Candy Corn that Donald Duck had given her was all gone, too. She wasn't hungry, but she'd eaten it anyway.
Mom never let them eat candy, except for Halloween. Mom said sugar was bad for their teeth.
She could hardly wait for Halloween. She loved her costume, Princess Leia's outfit from Star Wars, a long white puffy skirt with a wide gold belt and a big black-plastic gun. Mom said it was too expensive, but Daddy said, “Let the Princess have it.”
That's what he called her. His Princess. She wondered where Robbie was. Daddy said he was a fraidy-cat. When Daddy took them rock climbing at the gym, Robbie climbed up two hand-holes and quit. She had climbed all the way to the top and waved to Daddy, beaming up at her.
Daddy wanted her to have a baby brother, but Mom didn't want one. She'd heard them talking about it one night while she was watching TV. “Two kids are plenty,” Mom said. Then, in the voice he used when he was cross, Daddy had said, “You've got two kids. I've only got one.”
She was Daddy's favorite. He'd told her so when he took her out for lunch on her birthday last year, an extra-special restaurant with a white tablecloth and shiny silver and big goblets of ice water. “You're my favorite girl in the whole world.” Then he kissed her cheek and told her not to tell Robbie or Mom. He didn't want them to be jealous. When he asked if she knew what that meant, she said she did. Like when the girls at playschool admired her pretty dresses and fancy shoes and asked where she got them.
Montessori school was way better than playschool. They sang songs and marched around with drums and cymbals and did paintings with watercolors and read lots of neat books. She had been reading for ages, long before she went to playschool. She liked Dr. Seuss books the best. They were funny and the words rhymed. During free time they used Crayola crayons to decorate special pages in coloring books. Mom put her best ones on the refrigerator.
When she grew up, she wanted to be on TV like Mom. Or be a famous gymnast like Shawn Johnson. She'd seen her on TV during the 2008 Olympics. Shawn was amazing. Last year when Shawn won the Dancing With The Stars contest, Mom let her stay up late to watch.
She was already taking gymnastics lessons. Ms. Dellanuova said she was a natural because she was tiny and she had a nice shape. Unlike the fat girls in their skin-tight leotards who couldn't even do a somersault.
She could already do a backwards somersault and a perfect split.
She yawned, a humongous yawn that made her jaw hurt. She didn't know what time it was, but it was dark outside so it had to be late. Why didn't Daddy come get her and take her home?
>
She wanted to sleep in her own bed with her favorite stuffed toys, her black-and-orange-striped Tigger and her purple Barney. She loved her room. It had pale pink walls decorated with Walt Disney Princess posters and a big comfortable bed with a pink bedspread.
Emily yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Where was Mom? When Donald Duck took them downstairs, Mom wasn't there.
That scared her.
When she started to cry, Donald Duck gave her a peanut butter cookie, but he didn't give one to Robbie. Robbie was making too much of a fuss, kicking his feet trying to get away. But he couldn't.
Donald Duck was too big and strong.
She hadn't bothered trying to get away.
She knew Daddy would come and rescue her.
CHAPTER 3
Sunday, October 24 – 7:45 AM
Frank pulled into the driveway, parked in front of the garage and yawned. Last night he'd stayed on Frenchman Street listening to music until the wee hours. The phone call at 7:15 this morning had been a rude awakening.
Not a homicide, but not something he could ignore. Hunter Gates was a wealthy businessman and a New Orleans City Councilman.
Frank didn't care much for him, but he liked his wife. Before Donna got the anchor job at WWXL, he'd done a few stand-ups with her at homicide scenes. She asked intelligent questions, didn't press him if he said he couldn't comment. Kelly liked her, too. Last year, Donna had done a special on domestic violence. No shortage of that in New Orleans. Kelly worked in the NOPD Domestic Violence unit, and Donna had interviewed her for the show.
He massaged his bleary eyes, wishing he'd stopped for coffee. His head throbbed with a dull ache. The door of the three-car garage was open. A big black Mercedes-Benz SUV sat in the middle bay, beside it, a sleek red Corvette. The left bay nearest the house was empty. Impressive house. A huge two-story Southern Colonial with a tan-brick exterior. Bright sunlight glanced off tall white columns that fronted the house.
He didn't know why Gates called him, but he'd better find out. When he went up the curved brick walk to the front door, Gates was waiting for him. The few times Frank had seen him, Gates had been glad-handing people, oozing charm, a toothy smile on his handsome face. Not today.
Dressed in casual chic, he wore stone-washed designer jeans, a white shirt open at the throat, leather cowboy boots with an inlaid Madras design, and a worried expression.
Gates opened the door. “Thanks for coming, Frank. I appreciate it.”
Frank stepped into a wide foyer with a flagstone floor and pale wallpaper embossed with gold fleur-de-lis. A sideboard held a large crystal punch bowl filled with Halloween candy. Beyond the foyer, a massive glass-crystal chandelier illuminated a carpeted staircase.
“What's up, Hunter? You said it was urgent.”
“My wife and kids are missing.”
That jolted him awake. Various scenarios flashed in his mind, none of them good. “When did you see them last?”
“Last night at seven before I went to the shindig at the Pontchartrain Center. There's a gun show this weekend. When I got home at midnight, Donna and both kids were gone.”
Frank studied the walls and the flagstone floor. No blood spatter, but he'd better check the rest of the house. “Any sign of a break-in?”
“No. Frank, I won't lie to you. Donna and I had a little spat before I left.”
Expressionless, Frank looked at him. In his twenty-plus years as a cop, when someone said they wouldn't lie to him, nine times out of ten they did. “A spat about what?”
Gates smoothed his impeccably-styled light-brown hair. Gray flecks at his temples added a touch of gravitas. Women probably found him attractive, a rugged alpha male who wore designer cowboy boots with a two-hundred-dollar shirt and a fancy silver belt buckle.
“I wanted her to come with me, but she wanted to stay home with the kids.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “I had to call the woman who minds the kids and cancel. I'll pay her, of course. She's very reliable and the kids love her.”
But that wasn't the real problem. You were pissed that Donna wouldn't go with you.
If this was Joe Blow, he'd ask some pointed questions, but Gates was a millionaire businessman with political clout, and his wife, a popular local anchorwoman, was missing.
“Why'd you call me?” he said.
Gates shrugged. “Donna told me you were a good detective.”
“Tell me what happened when you came home last night. At midnight?”
“Yes. I came in the garage entrance. Come with me and I'll show you.”
Gates led him down the hall past a living room done in warm neutrals with contemporary art on the walls and plush furniture. A room meant to impress where Gates could entertain his business cronies and political contributors.
The kitchen had a center island, stainless-steel appliances and pale oak cabinets. Frank circled the island. No blood spatter on the floor or the walls or the cabinets. No sign of a struggle, but a sweet odor permeated the room.
“Smells like someone baked a cake.”
“They made cookies last night after I left. Emily loves to make cookies.”
“Emily?”
Gates beamed and his pale-blue eyes lit up. “My daughter. She's always asking Donna to let her bake deserts. They made peanut-butter cookies last night. Robbie's favorite.”
“And Robbie is?” Frank said, irritated. Getting details out of Gates was like opening a CD wrapper, an exercise in frustration.
“He's ten. The pans were still on the counter so I cleaned up the kitchen, washed the pans and put the cookies in the cookie jar.” Gates pointed to a tall glass container filled with cookies.
Cleaned up the kitchen to destroy evidence, maybe.
“Are there any security cameras?”
“No. At my business there are, but not here.”
Frank pointed to the security pad beside the door he assumed led to the garage. “When you got home was the security system armed?”
“No. I don't know how many times I've told Donna to put it on when she's here alone, but ...” Gates shrugged. “Donna doesn't always listen.”
“Other than you and Donna, who has the codes?”
“The housekeeper and the security company.”
“Did you check to see if any wires were cut?”
“No. That would have activated the alarm. In an emergency, first responders can call the security company for an emergency override. But that didn't happen last night.”
“Did you call Donna? I assume she's got a cellphone.”
“She does. I called her twice last night and twice this morning, but she didn't answer.”
Didn't answer because she couldn't or because she didn't want to?
“Do the kids have cellphones?”
“Emily doesn't, but Robbie does. I called him, too. Same thing. No answer.”
“Why didn't you call the police?”
Gates hesitated, then flashed a genial smile. “Donna's car was gone. I thought maybe she took the kids somewhere, because of the spat. She's done that before, but she always brought them home for breakfast the next day. When they didn't come home this morning, I got worried.”
“Where would she take them?”
“I don't know. To her mother's, maybe.”
“Did you call her?”
“No.” Gates's mouth quirked. “She hates me. She's one of those anti-gun fanatics.”
“Why didn't you call the police?”
“And have them file a report? Those reports are public record. Reporters check them every day for leads. Jesus! Wouldn't that look great on the front page of the Times-Picayune. City councilman's wife and children are missing.”
Frank scratched the stubble on his jaw. He hadn't bothered to shave because Gates had said it was urgent. It was. Donna and her kids were missing. But Gates seemed more concerned about his reputation. “You should check to see if Donna used her credit cards.”
“I already did. There's been no activity since last weekend. B
ut I canceled them anyway.”
So Donna couldn't use them if she took off with the kids because of the spat?
“What do you think happened?”
“I think someone took them.”
“Why?”
“For money! What else? People know I'm a wealthy man.”
True enough, but Frank had an uneasy feeling there was more to the story than what Gates was telling him. “What's upstairs?”
“The kids' bedrooms, the TV room and a spare bedroom the nanny uses if she sleeps over.”
“Show me.”
Gates took him up a blue-carpeted staircase to the second floor. The spare bedroom was small and tidy, nothing out of order. Emily's room had pale-pink walls decorated with Walt Disney Princess posters, stuffed animals on the bed. Frank tried to remember what his daughter was into when she was six. Not princess posters. Maureen was into sports like her dad, basketball and baseball until she discovered horses and asked for horseback riding lessons.
He studied the room. No blood spatter, but the clip all the TV stations had played of JonBenet Ramsey flashed in his mind. The cute little six-year-old who wanted to be a cowgirl and wound up dead.
“You ever take the kids on trips?” Frank asked.
“Sure, lots of times. We took them to Disneyland last year.”
“Does Emily have a suitcase?”
Hunter looked perplexed. Then comprehension dawned in his pale blue eyes. He went to the closet and flung open the door. Standing on the floor was a shiny pink child-sized suitcase.
The alarm bells in Frank's mind got louder. If Donna had taken the kids somewhere, she would have packed a suitcase.
“Show me the other rooms.”
Grim-faced, Gates took him down the hall to the TV room. A blue-flowered sofa and matching chairs faced a big-screen TV on one wall. Built-in wooden shelves on another wall held videotapes. No blood spatter, no sign of violence.
Robbie's room had sky-blue wallpaper but no princess posters, just two plaques on the wall: an award for playing piano at the school musical and a prize for a science fair. A new science project was laid out on a table beside the bed: pictures of tadpoles and frogs, a diagram of a frog's life cycle. Beside the bed, stacks of sheet music sat on an electronic piano.