by C. J. Lyons
“My missing memories must seem so small compared to losing your wife,” she continued. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“You’re right,” he said after a pause. “That charm can’t be hers. She wasn’t here.”
“You mean she wasn’t here now, without you? Does that mean you’re giving up? You think she’s dead?” Sarah raised her camera, framing his image, then lowered it quickly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“No, no, it’s fine. I just, I haven’t—there hasn’t been anyone I could talk to about this. I mean, I don’t know what’s more painful. Hoping she’s still alive out there, somewhere, living her life, or…”
“Maybe she’s like me?” she said brightly. “Maybe she has amnesia. That’s why she hasn’t come home. As soon as she remembers…”
“If she’s like you, she’d have people like me and the police to help her. Someone would have recognized her from the missing persons reports. Someone would have found her, brought her home.”
Sarah hung her head. “You’re right, I guess.”
“Funny thing is, the police, except for Burroughs, think she is still alive. They think she ran away.” He hauled in a breath. Here, sheltered by an otherworldly cocoon of green, he could speak the truth. Finally, for the first time in a year. “Maybe she did.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. But when I look back, she was acting strangely in the weeks before she vanished. Nothing I can be certain about, nothing I could ever explain to the police. She wasn’t sleeping well. I’d find her talking on the phone at strange times, a strange look on her face. A few times, I came home from the ER and she wasn’t home yet. She’d always show up later with a bag of groceries, saying she stopped at Giant Eagle, but, it never felt… right.”
“Doesn’t sound like a lot to go on.”
“I know. That’s why I never told anyone else. Maybe it’s all in my imagination, grasping for hints that aren’t there, searching for any kind of explanation.”
They passed through the tunnel and back into the light. The forest came alive around them once more, and Tommy blinked as a ray of sunshine angled through the treetops. The trail grew steeper here, but Sarah didn’t seem to mind.
They were almost at the plateau halfway up the mountain where the old iron furnace stood. The trail forked at the furnace, one path leading up to follow the steeper ridgeline along the top of the mountain, the other winding down the backside of the mountain and circling around, ending up just above the parking lot where they’d begun.
“Could she have been having an affair?” Sarah asked in a soft tone as they walked.
“Now you sound like the cops. That was the first thing they asked. Well, second. Right after they asked if I killed her.” He stepped over a fallen branch. “No, I don’t think so. I think if it was something like that, if she really wanted someone else, she would have just told me. One thing about Charlotte, she didn’t pull punches. And she never would have left Nellie to be with another man. That much I’m certain of.”
“Okay, then. Something at work? You said she was a social worker, right? Maybe a case got too personal?”
“No. She’d been working with the rehab unit the past three months. A nice break from rotating through the ER or with the trauma team or OB-GYN.”
“Hmm. Her family?”
“Solid. And I don’t have any, not local, so no meddling in-laws for her to worry about. She did volunteer with the women’s shelter, but that was mainly answering phones, putting together care packages, arranging transportation and logistics like visits to attorneys and the like.”
“Still, working with victims of domestic violence—don’t they worry about abusers coming after them? I heard about a shooting where the man broke into the shelter his wife was staying at, killed four women and then himself.”
“It’s the one thing Charlotte didn’t talk about. She was very serious about confidentiality, for just those reasons, to protect the women and children at the shelter. But she’s volunteered there for years; she wouldn’t have continued if it was dangerous.”
“Then what else could it be? If not something at home or work? Unless—” Her eyes grew wide. “Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t? Like a drug deal or mob hit or something? Or maybe someone was stalking her, like whoever that creep is who sent me that dress? Sneaking around so she wasn’t even certain herself, not until it was too late.”
Tommy had no answer. Those and a thousand other scenarios had been suggested and examined by him, the police, the press, Charlotte’s parents, the private investigators they’d hired, and everyone he’d ever met, it seemed. “What-ifs don’t help,” he said. “Not when there’s no evidence.”
They reached the old stone iron furnace standing at the center of the plateau. The pyramid-shaped structure had crumbled with time but still stood a good thirty feet high. On two sides, arched openings as tall as Tommy led into the central area below the chimney, where the heat would have been concentrated. A waterfall above created a stream that trickled down past the furnace before continuing down the backside of the mountain. When the furnace had been in use, the trees had been cut to burn inside it, leaving the area clear except for a few bold saplings now taking hold among the limestone.
The views were stunning. Western Pennsylvania this time of year was a glorious carpet of lush greens and golds.
But all of it was lost on Tommy. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the maple leaf with its lost dancer. Hope was dangerous. He’d learned that this past year, following false lead after false lead.
But, like any junkie, he just couldn’t help himself.
His phone rang, the sound an intrusion, shattering the tranquility of their surroundings. It was Gloria, Charlotte’s mother. She usually checked in with him around lunchtime to solidify plans for Nellie’s pickup from school.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, with none of the gentle calm she usually radiated. “The school’s been trying to call you.”
He glanced at his phone. One bar—which meant probably none while he’d been below the plateau. “What’s wrong? Did she start another fight?” Nellie’s tantrums at school had been almost as bad as her ones at home. “What did Sister Agnes say?”
“Tommy.” Anguish flooded her voice. “She’s missing. Nellie’s gone.”
Chapter 17
TOMMY TURNED IN a circle, still clutching the phone, scanning the horizon as if he’d suddenly developed superpowers and could see Nellie from the mountainside. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“No,” he gasped. “What—how—”
“We’re at the school, Peter and I. Searching the grounds with the teachers and staff. Sister Agnes is certain Nellie is still on campus, but there are so many places a small child can hide—”
“Did you call the police?”
She hesitated. “Do you want us to call the police? Sister Agnes thought we should wait. You know how Nellie’s been acting lately. Running off and hiding, sulking—”
“Sister Agnes is worried about the school’s reputation,” he snapped, starting for the trailhead then stopping when the reception grew fuzzy. He backed up a few steps to avoid losing the call. “Call the police. Now.”
He glanced up, trying to fight the garrote tightening around his throat, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. He wanted to hurl the phone, to howl at the brilliant sun overhead, to hammer his fist into the stone of the iron furnace. But instead he swallowed, forcing his emotions aside. For Nellie. He had to stay calm, had to think, focus. He was all she had.
No, that wasn’t true. She was all he had.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked, her face a blur until he blinked and focused.
He didn’t answer. Leaning against the lichen-covered furnace, the hard limestone biting into his back and the smell of ancient charcoal escaping the structure to choke the air, he blinked at the sun. Then he called Lucy. “It’s me. I just heard from Nellie’s school. She�
�s missing.”
Lucy didn’t waste any words on sympathy. Good thing, because he probably would have snapped if she had. “Any signs of forced abduction?”
“No. Her teachers think she’s still on campus, probably hiding. She’s been acting out, throwing tantrums.”
“Still. She’s only five. Are the police involved?”
“Not yet, but I told them to call them. Will you—”
“I’m on my way. Our Lady of Sorrows, right?”
“Right. I’m with Sarah at Fiddler’s Knob. It’ll take us a while—”
“Try not to worry. I’ve got it covered.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” He hung up. The phone was a weight, heavier than a black hole, pulling him to his knees, pain spiraling through him. He fought the panic attack, the elephant sitting on his chest, smothering the life out of him. No time to fall apart. He had to go, had to get off this damn mountain.
Sarah knelt in front of him and eased the phone from his numb fingers. “Look at me,” she coaxed. “It’ll be all right. Just come with me.”
Their trip down the mountain was a blur. She moved fast, always holding his elbow as if guiding a blind man, steering him around obstacles he was oblivious to, talking in a calm voice that became his touchstone. Finally they reached the parking lot, where the Volvo sat all alone in the shadow of the mountain.
“I’ll drive,” she said, taking the keys from him.
He stumbled around to the passenger door, barely able to get into the car and fasten his seat belt.
“You sure?” he asked, although it was already too late, she was turning the key in the ignition.
“Muscle memory,” she answered, zooming them back out of the lot and shifting gears without the clutch slipping. “But I’ve never driven a car as ancient as this one. At least, I don’t think I have.”
“It’s not ancient, it’s a classic. Only has two hundred thousand on it.” His reply was automatic. Another milestone Charlotte had missed—they’d been planning to do something fun to celebrate the Volvo’s “car birthday,” as Nellie had called it. But sometime last month, the day had come and gone without anyone—including Tommy, who must have been driving—even noticing.
Nellie… if he lost her, too…
Sarah kept talking, filling the silence, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He was staring at his phone, willing the bars to stabilize. As soon as they turned onto the main highway, reception looked solid once more, and he called Lucy. “Anything?”
“I just got here. The school is on lockdown and they’re taking roll call of all the students. With the fence surrounding the school, the convent, and the church, the place is fairly secure. The only point of access would be the church since it’s open to the public.”
“They take the children to Mass every day.”
“Okay, that complicates things. Wait, here’s the principal. What’s her name again?”
“Sister Agnes.”
“Give me a minute.”
Tommy’s body was rigid as he clutched the phone, the scenery rushing past like a freight train barreling down on him. Sarah placed her hand on his thigh. “She’ll be all right.”
“Don’t say that.” The words emerged like a slap, but he didn’t apologize. He’d lived through too many warm thoughts and prayers and empty platitudes—useless, all of them. He still returned home each night to an empty bed, a house that had been bled dry of its joy, a child he could not comfort with the truth.
Sarah nodded and returned her gaze to the road. She was a fast driver, and they made it to the Parkway in record time. Still on the phone, Lucy was now arguing with several people; he recognized Sister Agnes’s voice, but now two men had joined in on the conversation. Something about permission or rules, private versus public property… the words blurred into meaningless noise until Lucy cut through them, taking control with a tone of command he’d never heard from her before. Was this what she’d been like at the FBI?
She got back on the phone. “We got the search organized. I have the cops setting up road blocks and a perimeter, but turns out the teacher isn’t quite sure how long she’s been gone, so that might be problematic.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whether she left on her own or was taken or even picked up by a Good Samaritan after getting lost, we have no way to know how far she could have gotten without knowing when she left. I think we need to declare her a critical missing person.”
From her tone, Tommy knew she would have already done that if he hadn’t been on the phone with her. Was fairly certain she wasn’t even asking his permission, just taking the extra twenty seconds to warn him. Because he knew exactly what happened when word of a critical missing person—especially a child, but it also happened with their pretty social worker mothers—was made public.
A media feeding frenzy. And Tommy would be the chum in the water.
They couldn’t hurt him any more than the pain slicing through him now, the pain of not knowing that Nellie was safe. Pain he barely felt as his mind returned to the cold, numb vault he’d buried himself in after Charlotte had gone.
How can this be happening again? What if she’s gone, what if some madman has her… One last shred of panic, before he swallowed it whole, knowing he’d pay the price later—nothing stayed buried forever.
“Tommy?”
“Do it. Make the call.”
Chapter 18
DURING THE COURSE of her career, Lucy had noted that during any critical missing person case, especially those involving children, two emotions invariably surfaced: fear and anger.
The fear she understood. A missing child was any parent’s worst nightmare. The anger usually took the form of guilt and blame—also understandable. But as she marshaled the police and school staff to effectively search for Nellie Worth, she encountered an emotional response that was unusual: denial.
It came from the school principal, a middle-aged nun whose stern countenance radiated a steadfast refusal to relinquish control over the situation.
“There is no ‘situation’ here,” Sister Agnes told Lucy. “This is totally unnecessary. The girl isn’t missing. Eleanor is a willful, stubborn child crying out for attention. I tell you, she’s hiding.”
“But you searched the school and didn’t find any sign of her.” They sat in a dark-paneled office with one narrow window that cast Sister Agnes in a reddish glow that was less halo and more hellfire. The principal had offered Lucy a straight-backed wooden chair with uneven legs, as if designed to force whoever occupied it to spend all their energy on not toppling. It was an interrogation technique Lucy was well aware of, dating back to the Gestapo.
“Mrs. Guardino, do you have any idea how conniving and inventive a five-year-old girl mad at the world can be? By responding in such a dramatic and excessive manner, you are merely reinforcing her immature and inappropriate behavior.”
“You make her sound like an unrepentant convict. She’s five. She has no idea where her mother has been for the past year or even if she’s still alive.”
“Exactly. The child must learn to place her faith in God’s plan and accept His will.”
Cold comfort. Lucy wondered if maybe Sister Agnes saw herself as a prison warden, shouldering the burden of rehabilitating young sinners before releasing them into the world at large. She tried a new tactic. “Perhaps I could speak with her teacher? Gain some insights into Nellie’s behavior?” The nun hesitated. “After all, the sooner we find her hiding place, the sooner we’ll be gone and you can resume your normal routine.”
“Very well.” The nun rose in an abrupt motion. If she’d been wearing an old-fashioned habit with the veil and skirts that fell to the ground, the sweeping movement would have created a fine bit of drama. As it was, her actions merely caused the cross hanging at the front of her turtleneck to shudder.
Sister Agnes led Lucy down a hall decorated with art projects and posters celebrating school events, saints, and martyrs. Sister Agnes opened a classroom door and entered wi
thout knocking.
A circle of children sat on mats on the floor listening to a young woman read them a story. Daniel in the lion’s den, Lucy recognized before the woman stopped and everyone looked up.
“Miss Cortez, this is Mrs. Guardino. She’d like to talk to you about Eleanor Worth.”
Miss Cortez leapt up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, stretching a hand to take Lucy’s. “Ava, please. Thank God you’re here. We’re all so worried.”
Sister Agnes made a hrumphing noise at that. “I’ll leave you to it. I’d best oversee those police trampling through the convent and rectory. When Monsignor returns from Harrisburg, he is going to be extremely unhappy.” Her glare at Ava Cortez made it very clear who would be taking the blame.
Ava flushed and looked down. She didn’t glance back up until the door had shut behind Sister Agnes. “She’s right. This is all my fault.”
The children behind her sat obediently, watching the two adults with appraisal—except for two little boys and a girl who were busy exchanging glances and smirks with each other.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ava. Would it be okay if I spoke with you and the children about when and where everyone saw Nellie last?”
“Of course. That will be easy, because we do everything together as a class, don’t we, class? We stick together, right?”
“Yes, Miss Cortez,” came a well-rehearsed chorus. The three children in the back were practically snickering their response.
“Class, this is Mrs. Guardino. She’s here to help find Nellie. No one is in trouble, we just need to know if you saw or heard anything.”
“Thanks,” Lucy told Ava. Then she turned to the children, who all had their heads tilted back, staring up at her wide-eyed as if she were a visitor from another planet. “I’ll start with those three, in the back.”
“Matthew, Glinda, and Joseph,” Ava replied. “Why don’t you show Mrs. Guardino our art corner?” She turned to Lucy. “We’ve been creating stained glass windows with tissue paper.”