by Ruth Reid
Brandon’s brows narrowed a half second. “It’s more than that,” he said softly, as if talking to a child. “They analyze the caller’s tone, speech patterns, and they listen for background noises as well.” Brandon motioned to the leather couch. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’re acting a little strange.”
“Strange?”
“Head trauma. Concussion.” He pointed to his head as though trying to jog her memory. “You practically pounced on the phone when Agent Sanderson had instructed us to wait for his signal.”
“They were taking too long.” Roslyn’s insides quivered with anger or fear or both. She plopped down on the couch only to jump back up. “I can’t stand this waiting around—doing nothing.” She scanned the room, skimming over the group of men seated at the makeshift table, each glued to a computer screen. She counted another half dozen agents and police officers also doing nothing. Nothing except whispering to one another and sipping their lattes. Roslyn turned to Brandon. “They should be searching.”
“This is going to be a long night.” Brandon rubbed his forehead hard enough that his tanned skin whitened under the pressure of his fingers. “I had my secretary call Chrisla. She should be here anytime.”
Roslyn eyed her husband. Lines of worry etched his forehead. “Chrisla’s making coffee.”
“I contacted Leon too. He’s calling in a prescription. I’ll send—”
“No! I won’t let him pump me with drugs. I’m numb as it is.” Only a few hours ago, she was unconscious on the pavement. Then waking up in the emergency room, dazed and reeling with a crushing headache, she recalled a redheaded man wearing white scrubs sitting in the corner of the room. The orderly said he’d been assigned to look after her. At first she couldn’t even remember her name let alone how she ended up in the ER, but as the man made small talk about God, family, and children, details began to unfold in her mind. Along with the panic that her daughter had been stolen.
If only she could remember more. Like who had knocked her out. Was the person after the car or her daughter? For all she knew the kidnapper’s face was buried somewhere in her memory.
Chrisla entered holding a tray of cups and a carafe of coffee. She placed the tray on the corner lamp table, then joined Brandon and Roslyn, who were standing near the built-in bookshelves. “Did I hear the phone ring a few minutes ago?”
“The nanny called,” Brandon said.
“To talk to you, I’ll bet.” Chrisla eyed Brandon sharply. As a philosophy major and free-thinker, an artsy person by trade, Roslyn’s sister wasn’t one to hold back on her opinion, especially if she thought she could put Brandon on the spot.
Brandon’s jaw twitched.
Roslyn lifted her brows at her sister and mouthed, “Not now.”
Chrisla leaned closer and whispered, “Did he tell Brittany that Adriana was missing?”
“I told her, but she was coughing so hard, I doubt she was listening.” Roslyn gritted her teeth. “We’re not going to talk about Brittany Cox. Not today. Not ever.”
Brandon cleared his throat. “Would either of you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks,” the sisters said in unison.
Brandon walked away, only he didn’t go for coffee. He strode to the other side of the room and stopped at the workstation where Agent Sanderson was studying something on a computer screen.
As the men exchanged words, Roslyn inched forward. She didn’t want to be left out of any conversation. If the agent had news to share, he needed to include her in the discussion. Her sister was busy formulating an agenda—a news conference where they would announce a reward for information—but Roslyn was focused on Brandon’s concerned expression. Her husband wasn’t one to show weakness. Even under pressure as CEO and president of a large conglomerate of hotel chains, he always managed to convince the board members to see things his way. She’d never seen him where he didn’t have command of the room.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Colepepper.” Agent Dunford rounded the desk.
Roslyn grasped her sister’s arm before asking the agent, “What have you heard?”
“Nothing yet. I’m sorry.” Agent Dunford stood, feet shoulder-width apart and her hands shoved into the front pockets of her navy trousers. “Agent Sanderson suggested we step into another room and continue going over the events leading up to the incident.”
Roslyn froze. “Incident? This wasn’t a fender bender in the parking lot. My daughter is missing.”
“I’m sorry if I sounded insensitive.”
Roslyn acknowledged the woman’s apology with a nod, then peered over her shoulder at the agents huddling close to the computer, one man pointing at what looked like a map on the screen. They found her. She tapped her sister’s arm. “I think they located Adriana.” Her voice croaked as balled-up emotions unraveled.
“Mrs. Colepepper?”
Agent Dunford’s sympathetic tone caught Roslyn’s attention, and she automatically braced herself before facing the woman.
“Area mapping is a tool we use based on time and distance calculations in order to find a focal point in which to concentrate search efforts,” Dunford explained.
“But my daughter’s been located, right?”
“It’s only one tool,” Agent Dunford said. “It doesn’t take into consideration all the variables.”
“Then what good is it? Adriana could be anywhere by now. Out of state—out of country if her kidnappers took the Detroit Tunnel or the bridge to Canada.” Pent-up emotions broke free and Roslyn sobbed uncontrollably. Her sister pulled her into a smothering hug, and when she pushed back, Brandon was standing next to them, a box of tissues in his hand.
“What did you hear?” Roslyn pulled a tissue from the box.
“Nothing concrete.” The lines on his forehead deepened with worry. “Maybe you should lie down for a while, Roz.”
“How can I lie down when my daughter is missing? No. I won’t.” Shaking her head sent shards of pain to the back of her head. She didn’t dare take something for the pain. Medication would only dull her senses, block her recollections. Bright lights spotted her vision. Stay calm. The spurts of blindness would pass.
“Roz.” Her husband’s hand capped her shoulder, turning her to the left.
“Stop. Please.” She shook loose of his arm, staggering a few steps. People in the room came in and out of focus. The walls closed in. “He knew my name.”
“Who are you talking about?” Her husband’s arm came around her waist. This time she didn’t pull away, but leaned on him for support. “Did you see the man who hit you?”
“He kept rattling on as though he knew me. Saying things . . .” Strobe lights flashed as if a hundred cameras all fired seconds apart. Roslyn covered her eyes.
“Mrs. Colepepper, do you remember what the man looked like?” Agent Dunford asked.
“Red hair.”
The agent’s words blended together. “What about his height? Can you tell me how tall he was?”
Tall? Think.
“Did you have to look up at him?” the agent prompted.
“No. No, I don’t know how tall he was. He was sitting down, reading my chart when I woke up.”
Brandon exhausted a heavy sigh. “She must be talking about the ER doctor.”
Roslyn opened her eyes gingerly, squinting until her focus adjusted. “He was wearing white scrubs and said he was assigned to look after me.” Think. What did he say? Roslyn shuddered. “He knew my name.”
“You’re a recognized figure in the community, Roz. Your father is running for state senate,” Brandon said.
“When I first woke up, I didn’t even know my name. I didn’t know where I was or what had happened.” Her gaze darted from Brandon to Agent Dunford. “Didn’t the emergency room have me listed as Jane Doe?”
Agent Dunford flipped through the notes she had taken earlier, then signaled one of the officers standing a few feet away. Roslyn recognized him as the first detective who interviewed her at the hospital.
The fiftysomething man stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. “Detective Henderson, ma’am. Do you wish to speak with me?”
“I understand your initial call to the hospital was for a Jane Doe who came in with head trauma.”
“Yes, ma’am. At the time the paramedics arrived on the scene, Mrs. Colepepper was unresponsive. Without any identification or witnesses, the emergency room physician suspected foul play and reported it to the police department. I gave a copy of my full report to Agent Sanderson.”
“Do you recall seeing or talking to a man in Mrs. Colepepper’s room? Perhaps the ER doctor? White scrubs, red hair?”
Detective Henderson shook his head. “Doctor Wyn is female, five four, dark hair, and glasses. She wore street clothes under a long white doctor’s coat. I don’t recall anyone wearing white scrubs, male or female.”
Agent Dunford made a notation but looked up from the pad when the office door opened.
A tall man carrying a padded envelope in his hand glanced around the room.
“That must be the store surveillance video,” Brandon said.
“May I watch the video tape again? I might have missed something.” Tears streamed down Roslyn’s face faster than she could wipe them away. The video recording the store provided the FBI was distorted. Even worse, the manager discovered that the outdoor camera aimed in the area where she had parked was not working.
Agent Dunford rewound the VHS tape, then handed her the remote.
Roslyn sat in the leather wingback chair and studied her black-and-white image pushing Adriana in the shopping cart. She should have left the store when the cart’s wheel started clacking. She dabbed the tissue against the corners of her eyes.
“Do you recognize that man?” Her sister pointed to a man on the video standing at the end of the produce area where Adriana picked up the raspberries.
“I don’t remember seeing him. But that was when I would have been busy cleaning up Adriana. She’d eaten raspberries and made a sticky mess.” Roslyn looked down at her unblemished blouse. How foolish it’d been of her to worry about Adriana staining her clothes. Roslyn swallowed hard. “Her face broke out in a rash . . . like earlier this summer when she ate strawberries.”
“I remember her lips turning bright red.” Chrisla reached for Roslyn’s hand and gave it a compassionate squeeze.
“Why did I leave Adriana in the car? If only I hadn’t started the engine.” Roslyn’s voice strained. It all seemed unreal. A blur. She gingerly touched the lump on her head and winced.
“Adriana was cold,” her sister reminded her. “You didn’t know, Roslyn. It isn’t your fault.”
A few feet away, Brandon poured scotch into a glass—his way of taking the edge off. But this wasn’t a business meeting. He wasn’t trying to convince shareholders that he would increase the hotel chain’s overseas revenue by 60 percent like he had at the grand opening gala in Aruba last spring.
At the chime of the doorbell, Roslyn stiffened. The constant influx of people had frayed her nerves. Yet every time the doorbell rang, Roslyn’s hope rose that maybe, just maybe, her daughter would be left on the doorstep.
Her sister stood. “I’m sure that’s another one of your club members.” Chrisla had told the dinner guests as they arrived that the evening had been postponed. Roslyn was grateful not to have to leave Brandon’s office. She wasn’t ready to face the truth. She’d placed her child alone in the car and practically handed the carjacker the keys. No one would understand, including her friends from the Republican club.
Roslyn pressed the Rewind button on the remote, then hit Play.
Brandon came up beside her chair, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. “Watching that tape over and over isn’t going to change the fact that the camera angles are wrong or improve the film quality. You’re only torturing yourself.” He took a drink.
“I have to do something.”
He raised his glass. “Would you like me to make you a drink?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “This isn’t a cocktail party.”
“Just asking.” He drained his glass and walked away.
Roslyn tapped her foot as she gazed around the room. At least the FBI agents didn’t seem interested in Brandon pouring himself another drink. The buzz of conversations in the room ranged from the Tigers’ baseball stats to the new body style on the heavy-duty Dodge Ram. She wanted to scream at them all, Brandon included. Her baby was missing and they were talking about baseball and engine torque. How dare they converse about such trivial things that didn’t pertain to bringing her daughter home. She had half a mind to send all nonessential people outside to sit in the news vans with the press.
Roslyn drummed her fingernails on the arm of the chair. Idle talk would drive her crazy. She closed her eyes a moment, trying to push the useless chatter to the back of her mind. Her headache was back with a vengeance. The ibuprofen she had taken earlier had lost its effectiveness. Opening her eyes, she noticed her brother, Leon, standing in the threshold, his medical bag in hand. Roslyn stood, then sat back down when Brandon spotted his brother-in-law’s arrival and went to greet Leon first. As they talked, Chrisla slipped past them.
“Brandon wants Leon to give you a sedative,” her sister whispered.
Roslyn wiped her face. That wasn’t going to happen.
Brandon and Leon moved toward her as though on a mission to wrap her in a chemical straitjacket.
She sucked in a breath and stood. “Leon, it’s good to see you.”
He greeted her with a hug. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “We haven’t heard from the kidnapper. I want . . . my baby home.” The strength she had intended to demonstrate crumbled. She glimpsed Brandon staring at the mahogany crown molding. When her husband’s downcast eyes fell on her, she sensed his judgment. Brandon thought this was her fault. Roslyn buried her face against her brother’s neck and cried.
“Leon is going to give you something to relax,” her husband said.
Roslyn backed out of Leon’s embrace and stormed out of the room. Lining the hallway, several of Brandon’s business associates awaited news. She shielded her face with her hand, pretending not to hear them when they asked how she was doing, and climbed the winding staircase in the front foyer. Seeking solace in Adriana’s nursery was impossible. The fingerprinting crew had quarantined the room with yellow crime tape. Roslyn rasped a shallow breath, then another, and another in rapid succession. Calm down. Focus. Breathe. No amount of self-talk would allow her to gain control over her breathing. Don’t fall apart. You’re panicking. Stop it.
“Ma’am, is there something you need?” a white-gloved detective asked, holding a bag marked Evidence.
She needed her daughter home. Needed this day to start over.
“Ma’am,” the detective said empathetically. “We won’t be much longer.”
Coldness spread through Roslyn’s veins. She moved away from the doorway, a numbness settling into her bones. Wandering over to the staircase, she plopped down on the top step and buried her face in her hands. “God, if You’re there—if You really exist— please bring my daughter home.”
Footsteps tapped up the wooden stairs. Brandon sat, leaving a step between them, and tied his black leather shoe. “This waiting can cause someone to go insane.”
“Or cause someone to drink. Oh, that’s right, you don’t need a reason to drink.”
“Really? I was trying to be nice.” He moved up a step, closing the distance between them, and placed his hand on her knee. “I know I haven’t always been there for you—”
“Just get our daughter back. Please, Brandon. Talk to those reporters, post a reward, do something to bring Adriana home.”
A stir of voices filtered up the stairway and Roslyn bolted up as an agent approached the steps. The man glanced at her, then directed his attention to Brandon. “Special Agent Sanderson would like a word with you.”
Brandon’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Have they found Adriana?” Roslyn blurted.
The agent lowered his head. “I’m not sure, ma’am.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Roslyn hurried down the stairs.
“Roz.” Brandon caught her arm outside the office door. “Stay here. Let me—”
“No!” She jerked her arm free. “We do this together.” She wasn’t fragile. Any news of Adriana, even . . .
The throng of agents stepped aside as they approached Brandon’s desk where Sanderson and his men had set up command. Sanderson motioned them over while he continued to dispatch orders over the phone.
Brandon’s arm encircled her waist with a rigid hold.
Sanderson released the phone. He drew the other agent’s attention to the computer screen and called out numerical codes without altering the inflection in his tone. Roslyn tried retaining the digits. Two zero seven. Same numbers she had heard him spout earlier, only this time Sanderson had dropped alpha. She wouldn’t interrupt to ask what it all meant now. Perhaps Special Agent Dunford would explain it since she was the liaison. If she had issues with divulging coded information, then maybe one of the reporters would know.
“Do you have news?” Brandon’s patience was notably thin.
“We have a lead on the nanny,” Sanderson said, eyeing Brandon as if analyzing his reaction.
Chapter 6
Posen, Michigan
Present day
Of course I’m nett going to jump the fence. I’m talking about Olivia.” Gideon tossed a stone into the river. He wasn’t sure if he should be hurt, shocked, or offended that Faith would think he might be tempted to walk away from his beliefs.
“Then what makes you think she’s planning to leave?”
“Olivia’s been going to the library every day. Sometimes she’s alone, sometimes she’s with a group of Englischers . . . chummy.” He spotted a rainbow trout making its way against the current and couldn’t help but compare its struggle against the flow to his relationship with Olivia. Granted, their plans to marry had been unofficial since Olivia hadn’t wanted anyone to know until after they had both joined the church. Perhaps she’d gotten cold feet about marrying him before she backed out of baptism, but because the Ordnung forbids marriages of the unequally yoked, their wedding plans were indefinitely put on hold—and for good reason.