by Meg O'Brien
Drying my hands, I leave a message on the answering machine for Jeffrey, telling him about Agent Mauro’s call and about the APB. Then I throw a jacket over my jeans and sweater, grab my keys, say goodbye to Murph and give him the Beggin’ Strip he always expects when I leave. In the garage I have a choice between a two-year-old BMW convertible and the car I’ve lovingly dubbed the Green Hornet—a ’92 Jeep Cherokee I bought to beat around town in. Actually, I bought it in the first days after finding out about Jeffrey and Karen. For some crazy, obscure reason I wanted to follow them, catch them together as many times as possible, and the Jeep was more anonymous than the BMW. There are almost as many green Jeep Cherokees in this town as there are jewel heists, which is saying a lot.
Climbing into the Jeep, I pull out of the garage and check to see if anyone is watching the house or following me. The coast seems clear, but even so I watch the cars behind me all the way to Pacific Grove. When there’s no one on my tail, I have to assume Mauro and Hillars are either too busy looking for Jeffrey, or Ben’s done a good job at keeping them off my back for a while.
Even so, once in Pacific Grove I run a diversion tactic, turning right off Forest, then left and left again a few blocks down, which puts me back on Forest. No one follows me through the neighborhoods, and all the cars that were on Forest have long since passed by. Another few blocks and I turn right at Aberdeen, driving up the hill to Seadrift, an area of upscale homes sprinkled with a few graceful old Victorians.
I stop halfway down the block from a well-kept historical beauty, yellow with white lace curtains and gingerbread trim. There I sit in the Jeep for a few minutes, engine off, getting a feel for the neighborhood. I have seldom seen anyone out and about, as most home owners here work to keep up house payments. Still, I must be certain.
Just check on him now and then, that’s all I ask, Abby. Don’t intrude. Don’t let anyone know you’re doing it, not even the Ryans. Not unless you see or hear something’s wrong.
“Well, something’s wrong, Marti,” I whisper. “It’s damned wrong. Now tell me what to do.”
Given the circumstances, it seems almost too quiet at the Ryans’ Victorian. Shouldn’t there be activity of some kind?
Mauro did say it had been three months since Justin was kidnapped. It wouldn’t be unusual for the first hectic days of activity to have slowed down. And if the FBI and police were never told…
He said there were negotiations in progress.
I have never heard of negotiations in a kidnapping taking that long.
I have watched the Ryans and checked on them long enough—fifteen years, now—to know they are caring, loving parents. How could they stand to keep silent about their adopted son’s disappearance for three months?
It has been more than three months since I’ve been here. And for that I feel guilty. In the past I have tried to check on Justin at least once a month. When he was younger, I volunteered to work in his school library, and as he’s grown I’ve gone to swim and track meets, then basketball and baseball games, depending on his age and the seasons. Never once have I approached either him or the Ryans, nor would they know of my connection to Marti if they were to see me in the crowd. But I’ve watched as Marti’s son greeted his parents at these events, as they praised and supported him, and I’ve never seen anything but love in the way they treated him.
My surveillance, however, if one could call it that, stopped six months ago. Since Jeffrey brought Karen into our home that day, I have been distracted by the final death throes of my marriage. Though I have tried to maintain a sense of humor and even admitted that my marriage was long over by then, the one thing I’ve been unable to admit to anyone is how the betrayal—both by my husband and my sister—rocked me. Even my work has suffered as I’ve thrown most of my energies into becoming absorbed with Ben, losing myself in him and in our affair.
I wasn’t here when your son needed me, Marti. If I had been, I might have seen something. Someone hanging around, someone watching for an opportunity to grab a fifteen-year-old kid.
Desperately, I defend myself. How could I have known? Justin is not weak. He’s thin and wiry, but strong—like you, Marti. He’s a star on his swim team and excels at track. How could I know someone could come out of the blue and take him away?
My arguments aren’t enough, even for me. Marti charged me with Justin’s safety. I’ve let them both down.
When there are no other cars on the street for several minutes, I slide from the Jeep and cross to the other side, walking up the block to the Victorian. Taking the steps, I am thinking of what to say to Justin’s adoptive mother, whom I have never met. How do I gain her trust? I need her to talk to me.
No one, however, answers the bell when I ring. After a minute or so I knock. Still no one, and though I strain to hear, there are no sounds of movement on the other side of the door.
I know Mary Ryan doesn’t work. She might, of course, be out shopping, running errands, or whatever a mom might do when her kid has been gone three months.
There is no garage, and the Taurus wagon I’ve seen before in the drive isn’t there.
Frustrated, I turn to leave. A voice drifts across the small, well-tended yard from the house next door. An elderly, white-haired woman stands on a porch lined with Halloween pumpkins. It’s still three weeks till Halloween, and the pumpkins are starting to cave in on themselves.
“Are you looking for the Ryans?” she asks in a querulous voice.
“Yes,” I say, walking to the edge of the Ryans’ porch. “Do you know where they are?”
“Well, they’re not there,” she says. “They’ve gone away.”
“Really? Do you know where?”
“They’re in Europe,” she says. “France, actually. They’ll be gone a while.”
It is not unusual for people on the Peninsula to travel abroad, spending only half the year in their homes here. But I’ve never know the Ryans to do that.
And why would they, when their son has been kidnapped? Wouldn’t they want to be right here, in case he came home?
I shiver, as fear grips me. Marti, this is all wrong. It’s terribly wrong.
I go down the steps and cross the yard, approaching the neighbor. “Did they leave an address? Or a phone number?”
“Who are you?” she asks, suspicious suddenly. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this.”
There is a Neighborhood Watch sign on one of her front windows, so I’m not surprised she’s being cautious—though it might have been better if she’d thought of this sooner.
“I’m the mom of one of Justin’s friends,” I say. “From school. I have something for Justin.”
“Oh. Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt, then. They did ask me to forward their mail, so I’ve got an address. Wait there a minute.”
She goes inside her house and comes out a few minutes later with a piece of paper. I go up the steps and take it from her, glancing at the address. It is on a street I can’t pronounce, in Paris, France.
“Did they take Justin with them?” I ask. “We haven’t seen him at school this fall, so we thought he might be sick.”
“Oh, no, he’s fine. A good boy, that one. Good to his mother and father, not like mine. Never call, never visit.”
The corners of her mouth droop as she peers at me through eyes that are clouded with beginning cataracts. “You wouldn’t know. You have to live a while to see what that’s like.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can only guess how that must feel. Did, uh, did Justin go with the Ryans?”
She nods. “They got permission for him to be out of school a while. Had to take his books, Mary said, and did he ever grumble about that.”
“Did they say how long they’d be gone?”
For the first time she hesitates. “I suppose you could find that out from the school…”
“Oh, I’m sure I could. I was just out running errands and thought I’d drop by instead.”
She nods again, as if that makes sen
se. “They didn’t give me any notice at all the day they were leaving, don’t you know, just took it for granted I’d be here to collect their mail. I always have, of course. And they collect mine, it works both ways. Not that I go away all that much, air travel being what it is these days. All you do is stand and wait, stand and wait, and my hip’s not all it used to be, so just walking from gate to gate…” A look of disapproval tightens her lips.
“I know,” I say. “It’s getting worse every year. Mrs….?”
“Jeffers,” she says. “Like Robinson Jeffers, the poet. No relation, though it would certainly be nice if he were. He built that nice stone house in Carmel, you know, built it with his own hands. I suppose if he had any children, they didn’t mind visiting him, not there.”
“Mrs. Jeffers, did you happen to see them leave?”
“The Robinson Jefferses?”
“No, no, the Ryans. Did you see them?”
“Land, no. Left in the middle of the night, without so much as a goodbye.”
I see doubt working on her mind. Something she never thought of before, but it’s been brought to the fore and given importance by my questions. Her eyelids flicker, and she looks hesitant again. “You know, it did seem odd.”
“That they left in the middle of the night?”
“No, them taking their own car. That’s how I know when they left, I heard them pull out. You can’t leave your car for months at the airport, don’t you know. Unless, of course, you’re rich. It’s a lot cheaper to take a cab.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Jeffers, you’re absolutely right. By the way, when did they leave?”
“Oh, I’d say several weeks ago now. A couple of months, at least.”
I don’t know what to make of any of this. Thanking her, I say, “Well, I’m sorry I missed them. But it’s good to know Justin’s all right. My son misses him.”
I turn to leave, but she is still talking. “Oh, they did, too,” she says, “like the dickens.”
I turn back. “They?”
“The Ryans. Missed that boy like crazy.”
“I don’t understand. You said they all went together.”
“No, young lady, that is not what I said. People think I get confused, but I don’t. The fact is, Justin left a full month before they did.”
Now it’s I who am confused. “I don’t…how do you know this?”
“Well, Mary told me herself,” she says. “They had their tickets all ready in July. But Paul—Mr. Ryan, he’s a lawyer, don’t you know—couldn’t leave because of his work. So they sent Justin ahead. And by the time they got to leave, she was missing him like crazy.”
“She told you that? About missing him?”
She shakes her head and makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “Poor thing, she didn’t have to. I used to see her out my kitchen window. It faces hers, you know. I’d see her crying like her heart was broken. She was so close to that boy.”
“But then why would she have sent him on ahead?”
“Because,” she says patiently, “he had to be there on time to attend a semester at a special school. Didn’t I say that?”
“No, no you didn’t.”
“It was some grant he’d won, they said, to study history or something. That’s why he got excused from school here.”
“So Justin actually left three months ago? In July? And the Ryans didn’t leave until August?”
“That’s what I said.” She peers at me curiously. “I’m surprised Mary didn’t tell your boy that Justin was gone. But then, like I say, they didn’t give me much notice when they left, either. A bit rude, if you ask me.”
I risk one more question. “Has anybody else been here asking for the Ryans?”
She shakes her head. “Not a soul. Well, the Jehovahs, of course, the two of them all dressed up in their Sunday best. Land, they’ve been around so much lately you’d think we might give them the mail to deliver. Save us poor taxpayers some money.”
“Not a bad idea,” I say with a smile. “And isn’t it interesting, how they always come in twos.” Mauro and Hillars, or I miss my guess.
Mrs. Jeffers narrows her eyes at me. “They asked questions just like you. I didn’t tell them much. So whatever it is that’s wrong with the Ryans, you don’t have to worry.”
I look at her in surprise.
“Hah. Thought you fooled me, didn’t you?” she says with a sly cackle.
“Fooled you?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious something’s going on. I didn’t tell them that, though.”
“Them? The Ryans?”
“Missy, will you please pay attention?” she says. “The Jehovahs. I didn’t tell them a thing.”
Back in the Jeep, I look at the address Mrs. Jeffers gave me.
Okay, so now what, Marti?
The Ryans are gone. Left two months ago, a full month after Justin disappeared. Their cover story to the neighbors and his school was that he’d been granted a scholarship to study in Paris for a semester. Then they left. For Paris. In their car.
Hope it has paddle wheels.
Remember, Marti, the time in high school when we took the paddleboat out on that man-made lake and the paddles got tangled in the tops of trees they’d flooded? You were more worried about hurting the trees than getting back to shore, and you…
Shut up, Abby. Stop dwelling.
I sigh. All right, then. Let me think. There could be any number of explanations for the Ryans having left in their car. They drove it to a friend’s house to garage it while they were gone, and the friend drove them to the airport—either here or in San Francisco. If here, they would have had to take a commuter plane to S.F. There are no flights out of Monterey to Europe.
Unless, perhaps, you have a private plane.
Did the Ryans have access to a private plane?
But no, go back. The Paris trip was clearly a made-up story to cover Justin’s disappearance.
So the parents probably didn’t go there, either.
Where, then, are they?
If they left a month after their son disappeared, in August, does that mean they heard from him? Went to find him?
Did they have some clue as to where he might be?
And if so, did they tell anyone? Marti, for instance?
They did tell her the boy was gone. Mauro and Hillars said Marti was the one who told the first family that Justin had been kidnapped. She went to them for help when her own efforts failed.
The Ryans, of course, knew from the first that Marti was Justin’s birth mother. I helped to set up the adoption, through Sol. Not that the Ryans or anyone else, even Jeffrey, knew of my involvement. And to my knowledge, Marti never went near Justin once she gave him up.
Funny how Mauro and Hillars didn’t think to share with me that the Ryans were gone, too.
How long have they known?
And where the hell are they?
The Ryans, that is. I don’t have to wonder about Mauro and Hillars, I think, glancing into my rearview mirror. They’re in a spanking-new black Volvo, right behind me.
“This is not a good idea,” Agent Mauro says, leaning into my car window. “We must ask you to stay away from here, Ms. Northrup.”
“Well, then,” I say in my best annoyed voice, “I must ask you to tell me why. And where are the Ryans?”
“I can’t answer that,” he says. “Please, Ms. Northrup, leave here now. Go home and forget about this.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that. I promised Marti I’d look after Justin.”
“The best way to help Justin is to stay out of it.”
“Out of what?” I say angrily. “What do you know? Who are you negotiating with for his release? And why is it taking so damned long?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
I turn my key in the ignition. “Then I’ll have to find out some other way.”
His expression hardens. “Ms. Northrup, may I remind you that you could still be a suspect in the murder of Marti Bright? Your name was w
ritten into the ground where she died. Her brother thinks you are somehow responsible for her death. And, there are other things—” He pauses, then clamps his mouth shut.
“Other things? Like what?”
“Suffice it to say we have not yet taken action against you out of deference to Detective Schaeffer, who has vouched for you. That could change at any moment.”
“You mean if I’m not a good little girl and do as you say, you’ll arrest me?”
“No, I mean if I decide I have probable cause, I’ll arrest you.”
“Agent Mauro, don’t try a bluff with me. I did not kill Marti Bright, and there is no way you can prove I did.”
“Perhaps not at the moment,” he says smoothly, “but if your husband doesn’t turn up soon, I could take you in for aiding and abetting a felon, obstructing justice, and/or harboring a fugitive. After a few days in a cell, who knows what you might admit to?”
“Now you’re really stretching it. The only thing I’m harboring is my dog. Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law.”
Agent Mauro’s grip tightens on my open window. “Ms. Northrup, we’ve issued an APB and a warrant for your husband’s arrest, and your sister—Karen Dean, that would be—claims you are the one person who would know where he is.”
The little bitch.
“My sister,” I say, “is crazy, and she’s got it in for me. She wants to marry Jeffrey, and she thinks I’m the one holding up the divorce. If anyone’s hiding him, it’s her.”
“And Marti Bright’s brother, Ned Bright? He’s crazy, too? Everyone’s crazy but you, is that right, Ms. Northrup?”
“Of course not. But according to Henry Kissinger, even the paranoid have enemies.”
“This is the way you want to play this, then? Junior G-girl running around town trying to solve crimes, getting in the way of our investigation?”
“If you don’t tell me what’s going on, you leave me no choice.” But in truth, I am getting worried.
Mauro opens my car door, which I’ve forgotten to lock.
“Please turn off your engine and step out of the car, Ms. Northrup.”
“I damn well will not.”