by Brad Munson
But there was nothing she could do about it. Sheriff Peck, He Who Shall Not Be Ignored, had said they needed a pre-meeting before the big meeting, and it was up to her, somehow, to get it all arranged.
So she did. Like she always did. She was the event planner for the Martin Luther King Convention Center in Dos Hermanos, California, so that was her job. And apparently the only one in town who could actually do it.
The sheriff had dictated the guest list to her over his cell phone, rapid fire, just a few hours earlier. She hoped against hope that she hadn’t left anyone off, and that Anyone who was Anyone had checked their voice mail and their text messages and their e-mail inboxes so they knew what was expected of them. After all, He Who Shall Not Be Ignored would not, in fact, take kindly to being ignored. And the punishments were too gruesome to contemplate.
Over her years of service, Linda had come to hate the MLK Convention Center with every fiber of her being. It was a thin-walled three-story Kleenex box, the bastard child of a federal development grant and the tax windfall that accompanied the arrival of VeriSil International, and she had been one of its first hires more than five years ago. As the building itself slowly and prematurely began to decay, Linda fought back by becoming ever more perfect in her own presentation: immaculate pant suits, flawless make-up, perfect nails, and a smooth and shiny blonde cap of hair that was the envy – or the nightmare – of every other professional woman in this crappy little town.
And now, here she was, in this hateful place, setting up a meeting within a meeting in Conference Room B, in the middle of a rainstorm – a freaking rainstorm, God help us! – for some entirely unknown reason.
“That’s why they call it show biz,” she said to herself. “’Cause I show don’t know why we do it.”
The door at the far end of the small conference room opened and Sheriff Donald Peck stalked in. He already looked angry and stressed and ready for the night to be over. Great, she thought, keeping the words to herself for a change. Just what I need.
He didn’t say “hello” or “thank you” or even “looks good.” He just scanned the room, scanned the table, and said, “Okay.”
Okay? Gee, thanks.
“The first of them are about to get here. Just keep them fed and watered until it’s time to talk. And for God’s sake, don’t let in anybody that wasn’t on the list. I don’t want a word of this getting out.”
A word of what? she wondered, but didn’t say. She just said, “Got it,” because that was what Sheriff Peck wanted to hear, and he didn’t even wait for that. The door re-opened and the first of the guests arrived: Marty Fein, the round-bodied tree sloth from VeriSil.
Peck turned to him and turned on the charm. “Marty!” he said, and gave him a warm, two-handed handshake. “So good to see you. Everybody on the campus managing to keep dry?” Fein muttered something and Peck rolled over him. “That’s great, that’s great. Thanks for coming a little early; I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
A second figure appeared in the doorway: the weasel-faced principal of DH Public School, the widely despised Douglas Pratt. Peck had seen him only hours before, but he shook his hand like a long-lost friend’s. “Douglas. A pleasure,” he lied. Two seconds later, another blimp loomed into view: Herb McAndless, owner/operator of the DH Emporium, looking more like a human version of a decorative fruit than ever before. “Herb,” Peck said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks, my friend. I appreciate your support.”
You have to give him that, Linda admitted as she tugged on the hem of her sensible pant suit jacket and put on the hundred-watt smile. The son of a bitch knows how to work the room.
“Gentlemen!” she said, preternaturally chipper. “Could I interest you in some refreshments?” Which was roughly akin, she knew, to saying, “Soo-ee! Chow-chow-chow!” to the local pig population. All she really had to do, she knew, was get out of the way.
Much to Linda’s surprise, most of the invited guests made it through the crappy weather on time. Over the next ten minutes more than fifty of the city’s luminaries, such as they were, slipped through the doors of Conference Room B, well ahead of the larger crowd that would fill the ballroom in half an hour. The clock is ticking, Donald, she said, and caught his eye long enough to give him a subtle little signal: a pull on the band of her wristwatch that he would recognize from years of practice.
Peck took the podium at the front of the room as thunder grumbled outside the conference room’s long picture window. It sounded like a mountain clearing its throat.
“Folks,” he said, scanning the room, making eye contact with everyone who mattered. “Folks, I need your help.”
Linda knew the approach. He’d used it many times before, and she knew as well as he did that it would work. The humble Captain America bit always worked with the townies.
“We’ve got a real situation here with the disappearance of these kids,” he said. “And we had another one go missing today, so let me fill you in. You deserve to know the whole story.” You special, special people, you.
He looked down at the notes in front of him. Linda knew it was actually a three-day-old TO DO list that she’d slipped to him just moment earlier because he needed something to make this look serious and official. “Five days ago,” he said, “Little Jennifer Toombs disappeared. Now, I have to tell you, people: Little Jennifer is … odd. That’s the nicest way I can put it – Mr. Pratt, you’d back me up on that, I think?”
Douglas Pratt was standing in the far corner of the room, fidgeting like one of his own no-account students. He flinched at the sound of his name. “Uh – yeah. Yes. Little Jennifer. Problem child, I’m afraid, yes.”
“And as some of my people here can confirm, her mother is much the same,” Peck assured them. “The point is, this isn’t the first time Little Jennifer has disappeared. And in the past, she’s always – eventually – found her way home with a bag full of ‘borrowed’ clothing and a belly full of ‘borrowed’ food, if you know what I mean.” He gave a pleasant, conspiratorial, just-between-us-chickens grin to everybody in the room. “In fact, if Little Jennifer was the whole story … there wouldn’t be much story at all.”
He let the smile go and pretended to return to his notes. “Unfortunately, a couple of days after Little Jennifer took off, another little girl went missing. Megan Katz. Now, I admit, we’ve never had any trouble with Megan before, or with her parents. But I had a talk with Megan’s mom earlier today, and she told me her daughter is a bit of a loner – the kind of kid who likes to go off by herself, who takes the long way home from school.” Peck gave them a carefully designed smirk and shrugged just a little. “Now, I didn’t want to alarm her parents,” he said, “but I can tell you from experience, that is exactly the kind of kid who can spend a week in the woods, or in a shack somewhere, and not even realize what a fuss she’s causing.”
“Are you saying she’s hiding?” asked Marty Fein. He didn’t sound the least bit convinced.
“I’m hoping she’s just hiding,” Peck said. “But in this weather … gone as long as she has been … Marty, I just don’t know. Not yet.” Linda recognized the tactic: use of the first name told them all we’re all colleagues here; we’re all in this together.
“Then came the third one: Terri Mullican. Now this …” he tapped the edge of the paper against the podium, simulating deep thought. “This is a tough one. Terri, I’m told, was never a problem. Never a stand-out. She just walked home one day, same route as always, right out there in broad daylight, and … poof.”
You could see the collective shudder ripple through the room. Every adult with a child, of any age, exchanged looks of mingled horror and relief, brushing up against the nightmare they all had shared. At least it wasn’t me.
Linda Kramer saw it, but didn’t share it. She had no children. She never would. It was a long story, but she’d come to accept the reality. There were other reasons to live. A few, anyway.
She straightened her spine, took a sip of the ove
rheated coffee, and tried to think about something else.
“The thing is, folks …” Peck held out his hands, palm up, as if weighing something in each. “Quiet kid. Single mom. Dad out there … somewhere, nobody’s quite sure where. And we all know the percentage of abductions that are actually disaffected spouses out to get revenge or take the law into their own hands … well …” He turned the weighing of his evidence into a shrug then let it drop.
And now Linda understood why the parents of the missing children were not on the invite list for this private get-together. He wasn’t here to help them. He was here to plant seeds of doubt about the whole “serial kidnapper” story-line.
What a crafty, brilliant son of a bitch you are, she thought. The evil part of her was almost envious.
“And now this fourth one? Katie Greenaway?” He paused and made sure he looked obviously concerned. “A lot of us here know the Greenaways. We have since they came to town four years ago. And what happened today … well, it’s very troubling. Very troubling. But the thing is, nobody saw any strangers on campus – and Doug Pratt here will tell you, they’re watching these days, watching hard. What’s more, there’s no sign of a struggle or violence at all. That tells us that, most likely, Katie – a very responsible little girl, very bright – must have gone with someone she knew.” He looked around the room again and offered up a grim smile. “Look,” he said, sounding frank and serious. “I’m not going to cast any aspersions, but we’re looking hard at everybody right now, including her friends, and her neighbors … and her parents.”
Eyebrows went up all around the room. They hadn’t thought of that.
“Her mom came in and said that she hadn’t seen her. They said everything was going fine with her, that they had no reason to be mad, or to … punish her, if you know what I mean. So let’s not jump to any conclusions on this one, people. Let’s be careful about this.”
Linda watched the small crowd react exactly the way she knew he wanted them to: ill-disguised shock and concern, and a certain wary wisdom – the insider look he was hoping to cultivate. The parents are suspects? they were thinking. This is one of those JonBenet things? Oh my God …
“So here’s what we’re doing,” he said, all business now. He gestured at the phalanx of officers and staff he’d brought along for show: formerly handsome patrolman Bo Cameron, Barney Fife lookalike Jimmy Fultz, zaftig hottie dispatcher Mindy Bergstrom and the others. “We’ve got Amber Alerts out on all three girls. We’ve sent BOLOs to the California Highway Patrol, to the County Sheriffs in all four surrounding counties, and to every police department within two hundred and fifty miles – BOLOs, that’s ‘Be On The Look-Out’ instructions that go to all sorts of law enforcement agencies and child welfare people, even hospitals, with complete descriptions. We’ve even talked with the FBI’s Special Agent out of Palm Springs, just to keep him informed. And meanwhile, our guys here have searched every abandoned building, vacant lot, empty apartment, and unlocked shed from the South End to the Notch, from East Ridge to West Ridge and everywhere in between – twice. And we’ll do it again as soon as the weather breaks.”
Linda caught the nervous glances that passed between the officers and staff while Peck kept surveying his audience, his hands white-knuckled on the podium. His hard gaze told them his truth: this was serious, people – serious. “So now what I’m asking from you folks – the leaders in this town –is to help me calm people down.”
He spread his hands again. He gave his most comforting smile. “Come on,” he said. “There isn’t any ‘serial killer’ here.’” He crooked his fingers into air quotes for maximum sarcasm. “There haven’t been any ransom notes, any communications with the parents or the press, and – pardon me, ladies, but I have to be blunt here – no dead bodies.” He straightened up. “My personal opinion – my professional opinion, as a law enforcement officer for more than twenty years – is that these four cases are unrelated. It’s just a horrible coincidence that could get completely out of hand if we let it. So that’s why I need your help. All of you.”
He moved out from behind the podium, and Linda saw it coming: the big finish. The Call to Action. “I need all of you with me. Some of you up on the stage with me if I call on you, the rest down in the crowd, but all of you committed to convincing your frightened friends and neighbors that everything is okay. That these kids will come home. That – hell, they’d probably be home by now if not for this lousy weather. Now: can you help me with that?”
He looked into each and every soul with those cool blue eyes. He waited for his answer.
It didn’t take long.
“Well, of course,” Herb McAndless of the DH Emporium said. “Nobody wants a panic.”
Of course you don’t, Linda added silently. Because you’re a greedy old shit-blossom who doesn’t want a lot of bad publicity that might keep shoppers aware from the mall.
“Deseret Fifty-Six Fifty,” Mayor Lazenby said.
“Makes sense to me,” Marty Fein said. “One step at a time.”
“We have to be patient,” Principal Pratt said. “As hard as that is.”
Sheriff Peck couldn’t hide his look of satisfaction. It was clear to anyone who looked: this was just what he needed.
Everyone had started to stir, ready to end the meeting. “Okay,” he said decisively. “I’ll let you go, then, so you can –”
“What about this wretched weather?” It was Miriam Lazenby again, sitting in the exact center of the room, back ramrod straight and eyes eagle-bright.
Everyone stopped and looked at Peck again. Shit, Linda thought. Of COURSE it would be HER.
“Aren’t you even going to mention it?”
“It’s a storm,” he said shortly. “They happen. Granted, they’re rare here in Dos Hermanos, but –”
“They’re unheard of in Dos Hermanos,” she corrected him. “And we have a granddaughter at that school. We have reason to worry if there’s a genuine threat from strangers or from the rain.”
Everybody knows about your granddaughter, Linda thought. And if SHE were one of the missing, we’d all be better off.
Peck was no fool. Outwardly, at least, he tried his best to back her down. “Really, Ms. Lazenby, I can assure you, this storm is going to break in a matter of hours. Tomorrow morning at the very latest.” He gave her his best, most impervious Trust Me smile.
“How do you know?” Miriam Lazenby demanded.
Peck stopped cold. It was so rare that anyone questioned him, he really didn’t know quite how to respond. “I’ve been staying in touch,” he said vaguely.
“With who, exactly?” Now Marty Fein was chiming in – one of the few people in the Valle that Peck couldn’t afford to ignore.
The sheriff opened his mouth and the words flowed out as if he’d been practicing them in front of the mirror. And maybe he has, Linda thought. “I checked in with the NWS and Earthwatch just before our meeting,” he said smoothly. “And the college Ag Station gave me the readings from their own sampling stations around the Ridgeline, confirmed by satellite data. Another eighteen hours. Twenty-four, tops.”
Wow, Linda thought, thoroughly impressed. Where did you get THAT line of horse shit?
Everyone else looked impressed for an entirely different reason. Even Miriam Lazenby pulled back a bit, though the snarl remained.
“Oh,” Fein said. “Well. Then … good. Good, because another day like today and the whole campus would be underwater, you know? That would be very bad news.”
Peck smiled, firmly back in control. “I’m not in the bad news business, Mr. Fein,” he said. “And I know I can count on all of you – all of you – to help me calm those frazzled nerves tonight.”
There were general sounds of assent – grunts and yesses and even a you bet. Then everyone was shifting chairs and moving towards the door – everyone but Peck’s own people. Within moments, the last of the “leadership” were heading for the one and only exit. Linda was right there, keeping that door open, shak
ing hands and touching shoulders and thanking everybody for being so special, for helping out so much. Thirty seconds later she couldn’t remember a single word she’d said. There was just a vague sense that she’d somehow done the right thing.
Once the room was clear and the door firmly shut, Peck leaned against the podium and relaxed just a little. Mission freaking accomplished, Linda thought, and smiled.
“You get anything from those BOLOs, Chief?” Jimmy Fultz asked.
Peck gave him a withering look. “There aren’t any BOLOs, Jimmy.”
Fultz blinked. “And the FBI …?”
“Oh, come on. They couldn’t find a prairie dog hiding in their ass. Besides, the last thing in this world that any of us needs is ChiPs or Feds snooping around.”
Mindy Bergstrom gave a pretty little frown. “But you said …”
“I said what these people needed to hear to feel better. The facts are that these kids will come back or not, no matter what we do. And we can blame the whole thing on this rainstorm.”
They stared at him for a long moment, clearly baffled. Most of them knew he’d been stretching the truth when he’d talking about that massive kid-hunt all over town; they hadn’t had the time or the manpower to stage anything like the door-to-door search that he’d described. But the rest of it … well, they wanted to believe it as much as the civilians did, and it had sounded so reasonable.
Linda Kramer could scarcely stop herself from shaking her well-groomed head in complete and utter dismay.
It took him a moment longer, but Bo finally put it all together. “Then the storm isn’t breaking?” he asked.
“Hell,” Peck said, “I don’t know. Nobody knows. But you had better go out there and tell everybody who asks that the storm will be ending tomorrow. Tomorrow, guaranteed. And be sure to tell everybody who whines about those kids that we have a ton of leads, that they’re as good as home already, and you stick to the story that the disappearances are unconnected. Am I clear?”
There were tight nods all around. It was easy to see just how scared they all were, even the cops and support personnel.