“What about Melanie? Was she with her mother? Did she survive the fire?”
“I don’t know. Melanie just… disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Martin nodded. “I’ve been trying to find her for the last five years. Melanie’s picture and vital statistics are registered with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I’ve traveled to Uganda twice to look for her. I’ve hired private investigators, posted a web page, and filed missing person’s reports everywhere I can think of. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t curse myself for not listening to my gut instinct about Anne. I just knew that she was involved in something way over her head. If I could have stopped her, she would never have taken Melanie, and we’d still be together today, like the family we were.”
With his last words, Martin’s voice cracked.
They stood in silence, looking out over the tranquil waters, connected in their thoughts. Claire took Martin’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
“You’re a good person, Martin,” she said. “I sense that about you. You’ll find your daughter one day. You have to. It’s that simple.”
“I hope so, Claire,” Martin said. “More than you could know.”
18
CLAIRE RETURNED HOME at one-thirty in the morning. The display on her home phone read VOICEMAIL. Inspector Maddox had called to tell her he had run a search on the partial name she had given him, but was unsuccessful in turning up any leads. He had, however, promised to make a few more calls on her behalf the following day.
Not tired enough to sleep, Claire changed for bed, then went to the kitchen and prepared herself a cup of chamomile tea with honey and lemon. She sat at the kitchen table, thinking of Martin. The experiences they shared were eerily coincidental: the loss of his wife and daughter, she of her parents and sister, both under mysterious circumstances. Before tonight, she knew little of Martin Belgrade. Now, it seems, their lives had become inextricably entwined.
The tea slowly produced its desired effect, and Claire decided it was time for bed. She picked up Martin’s book from the front entrance table where she had dropped it as she retrieved the phone message and walked upstairs. Maybe a little light reading would help her drift off to sleep.
She switched on her nightlight, propped her pillows, and made herself comfortable. She re-read the inscription and smiled, then flipped through the pages of the book, concentrating on nothing, randomly reading a few paragraphs here and there until one chapter caught her attention. Suddenly, her blood ran cold.
The chapter dealt with a lesser-known faction of the cult Martin’s wife had been involved with. The group was called The Brethren and the picture, though grainy, showed members of the cult farming a field.
A girl, rake in hand, stood facing the camera, wiping the sweat from her brow. Beside her was a man at least twenty years her senior.
Claire read the caption below the photo, then sat up in bed, heart pounding, eyes glued to the girl in the photograph: Members of The Brethren, pictured with their leader, Joseph Krebeck.
“It’s not Kre…” Claire gasped as she recalled the words of Walter Pennimore. “It’s Krebeck!”
She stared at the picture of the pretty girl with shoulder length hair, slender build and porcelain-fine features.
Claire grabbed a framed photograph from her bedstand, compared it to the picture in Martin’s book.
There was no denying it.
“Amanda,” she cried. “It is you. You’re alive!”
19
“CALM DOWN, CLAIRE,” Martin said. He checked the time on his phone. 2:20 a.m. “Take a deep breath, then tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s my sister!” Claire said, her voice trembling. “I saw her picture in your book! It’s Amanda. I know it is!”
“You’ve lost me,” Martin replied. “What are you talking about?”
It was then that Claire remembered she had not told Martin about Amanda or her disappearance. He had talked about the loss of his wife and daughter, but she had not shared with him losing her parents and sister.
“I’m sorry to be calling at such a crazy hour, Martin,” Claire said. She struggled to regain her composure. “I know we talked about your family tonight, but what I didn’t tell you is what happened to mine. Many years ago, my sister, Amanda, disappeared. The police tried to find her but couldn’t. There were no ransom demands. I’m telling you this because I saw a picture in your book of a young girl who is part of a group called The Brethren, and I think… no, I know, that girl is Amanda. I need to find out who took that picture and where it was taken. This could be my connection to finding her. You must help me, Martin. Please.”
Martin drew a deep breath. “Of course, I’ll help you, Claire. But there’s nothing we can do right now. Come to my place around nine-thirty. We’ll pay a visit to some associates of mine who help me with the research I do for my books. One of them is a retired FBI agent. They’ll know who took the photo you’re talking about. And if they don’t, I’ll have them find out who did.”
“Thank you, Martin. Give me your address. I’ll be there at nine-thirty. I know how bizarre this must sound to you, but I swear I’m telling you the truth. It is Amanda.”
“I have no reason not to believe you, Claire. If you say you saw a picture of your sister in my book, that’s good enough for me. One way or the other, we’re going to find out if it’s really her. Okay?”
The relief in Claire’s voice was clear. “Okay. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“And Claire?” Martin said.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
20
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Claire met Martin at his home in Santa Clara. Together with Maggy, they drove for the next two hours up the California coastline. Claire slept for most of the trip, exhausted from the emotional roller coaster she had ridden until morning light. Occasionally, Martin stole a glance at her seated beside him. He had known this woman less than twenty-four hours, yet he knew that something unmistakable was happening to him. His every instinct told him that her life, her well being, had somehow become his responsibility. He had begun to care for her.
Slow down, he thought. You don’t even know if this girl really likes you or not. Maybe she was just being kind to you last night because you were the man of the hour. Maybe she has a boyfriend, or worse, a fiancée. Then how would you feel? Better to just let it take its course, see where it leads.
Claire turned in her seat and sighed.
Martin glanced in his rearview mirror at Maggy. The dog’s head was out the open window, busily taking in the sights and smells along the way. “So, Maggs?” he whispered. “Think this one’s a keeper?”
Maggy stirred in her seat to the sound of her master’s voice and chuffed. She leaned forward, nuzzled into Martin’s ear, then licked his face. Martin smiled, scratched behind her ears, and smoothed the side of her head. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.
Claire woke with a yawn and a stretch. Maggy took the opportunity to say hello to her new friend by moving up between the seats and licking Claire’s face until she started to laugh.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Martin said.
“Morning,” Claire laughed, unsuccessful in her attempt to evade the sudden onslaught of slobbery, wet, canine kisses.
“If you haven’t already taken the hint, Maggy really likes you.”
“I think you’re right!” Claire replied. She took the retriever’s head in her hands, nuzzled her nose. “I like you too, Maggy. Yes, I do, you beautiful girl!” As Claire doted on the dog, Maggy’s overzealous tail repeatedly whacked Martin on the back of his head.
“Hey!” Martin exclaimed. “Can’t you see I’m driving over here?”
“Sorry!” Claire said, then laughed. “It’s her fault, not mine.”
Martin looked at Maggy. “Maybe you forgot, fur face, you’re supposed to be man’s best friend.”
&nbs
p; Maggy chuffed, licked Martin once, then went right back to smothering Claire with a plethora of doggy affection.
“Traitor,” he teased.
The rumble in Martin’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since he had gotten up. “You hungry?” he asked.
“Absolutely famished,” Claire replied.
“I know a great spot just before the Hayward exit called Belinda’s. I guarantee they’ll make you the best breakfast you’ve ever tasted, bar none.”
“Sounds perfect.”
21
A WIDE SMILE and a friendly voice greeted Martin and Claire at Belinda’s in the form of a pleasant-faced Hispanic woman whose nametag introduced her as Rosa.
“Martin!” Rosa said, welcoming him as he walked through the door with open arms and a kiss on each cheek. “Cómo esta? So nice to see you again! What brings you here?”
“Muy bien, gracias,” Martin said. “We’re on our way to Sacramento to meet with some business associates of mine. Rosa, I’d like you to meet a friend, Dr. Claire Prescott.”
Rosa shook Claire’s hand. “Mucho gusto, Doctor,” she said. “Very pleased to meet you.” The warmth of her smile never waned, as though it were a permanent fixture on her kind face. “Entrar! Come in! Make yourselves at home.”
Rosa escorted Martin and Claire to a quiet table by the window and took their order.
“You sit with your beautiful lady friend and be comfortable,” Rosa said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Minutes later she returned to their table and presented them with a delicious breakfast of blueberry waffles with maple syrup, hickory-smoked bacon, home fries, and a carafe of freshly brewed coffee.
“You and Rosa seem to know each other well,” Claire said.
“I’ve known Rosa and her husband Miguel almost all my life,” Martin replied. “They worked for my parents while I was growing up in San Mateo and lived in our guest house on the property. Rosa was our maid, Miguel our cook. I’m very close to both of them. My parents were both professionals and traveled a lot. Rosa practically raised me. When my parents retired, they sold their estate and moved to Switzerland. They wanted to find an appropriate way to thank them for their many years of dedicated service and for always taking such good care of me when I was young. They offered to set them up in a business of their own, just in case the new estate owners decided against keeping them on as staff. They accepted their offer, opened this diner, and named it after my mother. Rosa seems happy. I’m glad to see they’re doing well. I know how hard they’ve worked for it.”
“That was a very kind gesture on your parent’s behalf.”
“That’s the way they are. They’re good people.”
“Do you see them often?”
“As often as I can. My writing keeps me pretty busy, and my work with Mark, Justin and Cynthia, whom you’ll meet shortly when we get to Sacramento. But we try to get together as much as possible.”
“That’s nice.” Claire paused. “God, you’re lucky. I miss my family so much.”
“Speaking of family, would you mind if I ask you a few questions about yours?”
“Not at all,” Claire replied. “What do you want to know?”
“You said Amanda disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“That you believed she was abducted.”
“That’s right.”
“But you don’t have any actual proof of that, do you?”
“No,” Claire replied. “But everyone who knew Amanda would tell you she simply wasn’t the type to just walk away from her life. Frankly, until I read your book, I had resigned myself to believing she was dead. Now, after seeing her picture, I just don’t know what to think anymore.”
Martin stirred his coffee spoon in slow, thoughtful circles as Claire spoke, then asked, “In your experience as a psychiatrist, have you ever dealt with patients affected by a condition known as Stockholm Syndrome?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“I’ve come across it many times in my investigations of cults and the people involved with them. When some people are taken against their will and held for long periods of time in an environment where escape is all but impossible, as with a kidnapping or hostage taking, they can manifest a wide range of obsessive emotional connections toward their captors, especially if acts of kindness are extended to them contrary to treatment they would have expected to receive under such circumstances. For example, they may sympathize with their abductor and believe that they brought the situation upon themselves when of course nothing could be further from the truth. Some victims even fall in love with their captors. It’s a form of psychological self-defence that kicks in at a certain point in the relationship, sort of the same way the fight-or-flight principle works. In one case we dealt with the victim even resisted the extraction teams rescue attempt. They barely got out alive.”
“Are you implying that if Amanda was taken years ago by members of The Brethren, she could have made a conscious decision to avoid being found?”
“Exactly.”
Claire leaned back in her chair, contemplated Martin’s words. “I never considered that.”
“Most people wouldn’t. The psychological control these groups exert is much stronger than you or me, as sound-minded individuals could imagine. And to an impressionable young girl like Amanda, which she was at the time she disappeared, well… who knows. I can guarantee you this much, though. If The Brethren are responsible for Amanda’s disappearance, we’re going to need professional help. Tracking them to a specific location will be a tough job. Which is probably why the police had such a hard time getting any leads on her.”
“Dear God!” Claire said. “What has Amanda gotten herself into?”
“Nothing we can’t get her out of,” Martin replied. He reached across the table and took her hand. His touch was warm, calming. “Don’t be scared, Claire. I’m not going anywhere. I agreed to help you, which means I’m in this for as long as it takes. But if this is as serious as I think it might be, I suggest you call your office as soon as we leave here. You’re going to need to clear your schedule for the next couple of days, maybe longer. Can you do that?”
“Of course. Amanda is my priority right now. I’ll advise the clinic to put my cases on hold until I get back, whenever that will be.”
“Good. Then let’s finish eating and get going. I don’t want to be late for our meeting.”
Rosa came to their table as they finished their meal, a yellow rose in her hand. “For you, Doctor,” she said. “A little thank you for your visit.”
Claire accepted the gift. “How sweet of you, Rosa. Thank you.”
“De nada,” Rosa said. “It’s nothing. You are always welcome at Belinda’s. Just be sure to bring my Martin with you when you come again. I don’t get to see as much of him these days as I’d like to.”
Claire smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
Martin kissed Rosa on the cheek. “Adiós abuela,” he said. “Give my best to Miguel.”
Claire smelled the rose, appreciating its rich, aromatic fragrance, as gentle as the woman who gave it to her.
How interesting that Rosa should give her a yellow rose, Claire thought.
Yellow. The color of hope.
22
MAGGY GREETED THEM at the Navigator with a hearty woof!
“I know! I know!” Martin said. He pulled the serviette in which he had wrapped a strip of bacon out of his jacket pocket. “Be patient, will ya? Geez!”
Maggy promptly devoured the treat.
“See what I mean?” Martin exclaimed. “No table manners. The dog’s a canine vacuum cleaner. She doesn’t eat her food, she inhales it. But she is great company. Aren’t you, bacon-breath?”
Maggy licked her mouth, panted, and presented a satisfied smile from the back seat.
Claire laughed. She removed her cell phone from her purse. “I guess I better make that call.”
They drove towards Sacramento, leaving Hayward, San Leandro, Oa
kland and Berkeley behind. The mid-morning traffic was lighter than usual, and Maggy decided it was a good time to settle in for a snooze. She snored lightly and barked softly in her sleep, no doubt dreaming of a world filled with all-day walks in the park, an endless supply of bacon-flavored treats, and all the frisbees she could catch.
To the west of Vallejo, off Interstate 80, San Pablo Bay glittered and danced in the morning sun. Sailboats, power yachts and windsurfers skimmed across the turquoise waves, while beachside the water teemed with families splashing and playing together.
Claire looked out the window at the bay. “Martin,” she said, “tell me about the people we’ll be meeting with.”
“Sure,” Martin replied. “The organization is called The Reformers. It’s run by a fellow by the name of Mark Oyama, together with his two associates, Justin Dale and Cynthia Rowe. Mark is a retired special agent of the FBI’s Domestic Terrorism Unit. Justin and Cynthia are professional de-programmers and field agents. They specialize in gathering covert intelligence on extremist groups who pose a threat to public safety such as neo-Nazi movements, paramilitary separatists, white supremacists, and religious cults. They’re also trained to conduct rescue missions, or extractions.”
“And you think they can help us find Amanda?”
“Trust me,” Martin said. “If anyone can, Mark’s team can. They’ve successfully extracted many individuals from cults at the request of their families. Afterward, they undergo de-programming sessions with Justin and Cynthia to help rid them of all the crap that’s running around in their head. Eventually, they’re able to integrate back into society and lead contributing, productive lives once again.”
The Vanishing Page 6