Child Not Found

by Ray Daniel

  Sal grabbed Cantrell by the jacket, blood splashing onto both of them. He cocked his fist. “She’s the mother of my kid!”

  Cantrell covered his face. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

  Sal pushed Cantrell, who staggered back and wound up sitting on the memorial wall. “Get the fuck out of here, you useless piece of shit.”

  Jael tugged on my arm. “We should leave.”

  Blood drops dotted the snow around the monument. Cantrell leaned against the wall, catching his breath. Sal turned away and started down Commonwealth Ave toward the Public Garden. Jael and I started toward Kenmore Square. We walked through the cold, single-digit snow crunching under our feet. I was too cold to shiver; I hunched my shoulders instead. My bare head radiated my body heat into the night. My ears were beyond aching.

  “Israel is warm, right?” I asked.

  Jael said, “Yes.”

  “Even in the winter?”

  “The winters are pleasant.”

  “How do you deal with this weather?”

  “I wear a hat.”

  “Why did you move to Boston? It’s so cold.”

  “The snow can be beautiful.”

  “But Bostonians are rude.”

  “You have not been to Israel.”

  “And there are people shooting each other!”

  Jael stopped in front of a statue of a guy sitting on a rock. He looked over us, holding binoculars. He looked as if he had been watching Sal beat up an FBI agent. He had a stack of books next to him, covered in ice. I stood in front of Jael. We were the same height. She looked at me, into my eyes. What did she see there? She took the black knit cap from her head and pulled it down over my ears. It was warm from her body heat. A little twitch took hold of the corner of my mouth. My throat tightened. Jael pulled me close in a sisterly hug, her chin on my shoulder. She gave me a squeeze and said, “You are safe now.”

  I touched the spot on my face where Vince had hit me. Three guys had dragged me into a shipping crate. I felt the fear again. I’d stuffed it down in front of Sal, forgotten about it when I was chasing Maria, and thought I had washed it away with a Peroni and a slice of pepperoni. But I hadn’t. Jael’s hug cracked me open. I wrapped my arms around her and sobbed. “They were going to kill me.”

  “I know.”

  “Sal saved me. He knew where they’d take me.”

  “He loves you very much.”

  My sobbing deepened. “But he’s a crook,” I said.

  “Shhh.”

  We stood that way for I don’t know how long, Jael holding me tight as I sobbed it out.

  Forty-Eight

  I waved to Jael as she pulled her Acura MDX onto Newbury Street, toward the Pike. The woman had a genius for finding parking. I turned toward home. My chest felt hollow, a side effect of uncontrollable sobbing. It’s supposed to make you feel better. I just felt empty.

  And then I was standing in front of Bukowski Tavern, trying to remember how I got there and why I had stopped. It was on the way home. I considered walking past the bar, going home. I could feed the hermit crabs, take a shower, and sleep. I took a step, then stopped. Remained rooted to the spot. Pictured myself sitting alone in a dark house, guzzling rye whiskey and talking to two crustaceans. Imagined the ticking sounds of a cooling apartment, the blue glow of a computer screen, and a little pool of light where I could replay the events of the day in my head until—until when? Until I passed out, I guessed. I didn’t see how sleep would happen.

  Cars zoomed under Dalton Street, following the Mass Pike toward the airport. Cold reached down my coat’s collar. My head had been so cold that I hadn’t noticed my neck. I needed a scarf. Needed to warm up a bit. Took a step into the Tavern, worked the ATM, got fifty dollars of cash. Sat at the bar.

  Bridgette, tall, toned, and broad-shouldered, greeted me with a nod. Unlike most female bartenders, she made no pretense of flirting with her male customers—no come-hither eyes, brilliant smiles, or chest-thrusting poses. She exuded confidence and power. I’d once tried to imagine sleeping with Bridgette. Nothing had come to mind.

  Bridgette pushed the beer list toward me.

  I pushed it aside. “Knob Creek, neat. A double, please.”

  An arched eyebrow. “Really?”

  She came back with an on-the-rocks glass half-filled with bourbon. Slid it in front of me. I picked it up, knocked it back, let the bourbon burn my throat, placed it on the bar.

  Bridgette pursed her lips. “I’ve never seen you do that.”

  “Been a big day. Refill, please.”

  Bridgette refilled the glass and stepped away. I closed my eyes, felt the alcohol slip into my blood stream, climb to my brain, and knock on my pleasure center. Hello, who is it? Knob Creek. Why HELLO, Mr. Creek.

  I giggled.

  A meaty hand slammed me on the shoulder, startling me out of my conversation with my whiskey.

  Bobby Miller said, “Look at that. You are here.”

  I blinked. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be here? What are you doing here?”

  Bobby dropped his iPhone on the bar and pointed at a map with two little dots overlapping each other. Bobby’s FBI map. “Your dot was here, my dot was passing by, thought I’d drop in.”

  “You were following me today?”

  Bobby continued to point. “Well, following your dot. It’s been on the move. Even disappeared for a while.”

  My dot. Bobby had been tracking my phone, a phone that had travelled to hell and back.

  “It’s probably just as well,” I said, “because—”

  “Because?”

  Because mobsters abducted me, but Sal shot them in their secret killing crate, and then Sal punched your dirty colleague, Frank, in the face. Because I can’t tell you any of this. I shot back my bourbon. “Because you were able to find me. Have a drink!”

  “You’re awfully happy.”

  “I just did a shot.”

  “You never do shots.”

  I motioned to Bridgette for a refill.

  She refilled me. “You’re not driving, right?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bobby asked.

  Bridgette said, “It’s been a big day.”

  I pointed at Bridgette and winked. “Exactly.”

  “Honey, would you get me whatever’s in the cask?” Bobby said.

  “Honey?” said Bridgette.

  Uh oh.

  Bridgette pointed at Bobby with her thumb. “Can you believe he called me ‘Honey’?”

  Bobby said, “What?”

  “She hates that,” I said.

  “Hates what?”

  “Guys thinking I’m their honey,” said Bridgette.

  “Could I just have a beer, please?”

  “Yes,” said Bridgette.

  “And hold the spit.”

  If laser beams could shoot from a woman’s eyes, Bobby’s bald head would have exploded right there.

  Bobby turned to me. “What were you doing on Commonwealth?”

  “Whaa—?”

  “Commonwealth. You were just on Commonwealth Ave.”

  It was decision time. Bobby needed to know his colleague was dirty. But then Sal was going back to jail. Once the truth started to escape, it would rush out until the whole mess lay at our feet. But Bobby was my best friend, and he was in danger.

  “I was looking at the statues.” I needed more time. Couldn’t give Sal up yet.

  “The statues,” Bobby said.

  “The one with the firefighters.”

  “In the dark?”

  “It’s beautiful at night.”

  I knocked back my third double, nodded. Made eye contact with Bridgette, pointed at the glass.

  Bridgette said, “Maybe a beer?”

  “I’d rather
not,” I said.

  “I really think you should try a beer,” Bridgette said. She handed me Bobby’s beer. “It’s on the house.”

  “What about me?” Bobby said.

  Bridgette ignored him.

  “Aw, c’mon!” Bobby said.

  I took Bobby’s beer. “Probably shouldn’t have made the spit joke.”

  “What were you doing in Charlestown today?”

  I pulled my phone out, showed Bobby the text. “I got this today.”

  “LOL?”

  “I think it’s Maria using Angie’s phone. Angie would never type LOL.”

  “Maria’s with Angela Morielli?”

  “Also, I think I saw Maria today in the North End, but there’s no way to figure out where they’re hiding.”

  “Good God, Tucker,” Bobby said. “You have a lead. You have an honest to God lead.”

  “Yeah, but how do I find Angie?”

  “We use her GPS.”

  “She’s not running a GPS app.”

  “The FBI doesn’t use a GPS app.” Bobby took out his phone, made a call. “Yeah. I need to know the location of a phone.”

  There followed a discussion of warrants, probable cause, endangerment of a minor, and calling in old favors. At the end of it Bobby recited Angie’s phone number. Waited. Got a text that held the picture of a map.

  Bobby looked at the picture and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked. “Where’s Angie’s phone?”

  Bobby showed me his phone. “This isn’t good.”

  Forty-Nine

  “A cell phone on a river is never a good sign,” said Bobby.

  “Beats in the river,” I said.

  “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?”

  We stood on the edge of the Charles River next to Harvard Bridge. Traffic buzzed above us, following the bridge into Cambridge.

  Angie’s cell phone GPS had led us to this spot. Apparently the phone was out there, broadcasting its GPS signal. I peered into the night, but couldn’t see it despite the snow reflecting the city lights.

  “We should wait until tomorrow,” said Bobby. “Come back and find it when we have some light.”

  “The battery will probably be dead by then,” I said.

  “Well, we can’t find it in the dark, and I’m not walking on the ice.”

  I took out my Droid, found Angie’s number, and pressed dial. A lonely simulated bell rang out across the ice.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. Headed toward the river.

  Bobby grabbed my arm. “Don’t be an idiot. What do you think this is, Moscow? That ice won’t hold you.”

  I took a tentative step onto the ice. Listened for cracking. Heard nothing.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “It’s been really cold lately.”

  Bobby took a step onto the ice. I stopped him with a gesture. “Let’s not press our luck, big fella.”

  “Are you shitting me? You’re going out alone?”

  I rang Angie’s phone again. It was about fifty feet out. It had to have been thrown there, either off the bridge or from the shore. Either way, landing in the snow had kept it from shattering. Took another step. No cracking sounds.

  Bobby placed a call. “We’ll need a ladder truck down here. Get an ice rescue team. No. Nobody’s in the river … yet.”

  I took another step, then another, walking toward the spot where I’d heard the phone. Dialed the number again. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. Looked at my phone. Five bars. Angie’s phone battery had died.

  “The battery just died,” I called back.

  “Then get back here!”

  I kept my eyes fixed on the spot in the snow where I’d heard the last ring. I saw a little gray speck in the white. An indentation? A hole? A spot where a phone might have splashed onto a drift? Kept walking, stepping, listening. No cracking. Well—maybe that was cracking. Maybe that was just my shoe scraping on the ice.

  The river ice had frozen, been snowed upon, then shone upon by a cold sun. It was hard to tell which of those processes had won. Was the ice thicker or thinner? The snow on it had melted and refrozen into a crunchy pack. I didn’t slip as I walked on it, but I couldn’t hear through it. If the ice started cracking, I’d have to feel it in my feet. If I felt it in my feet, it was probably too late.

  I reached the spot where I thought I’d heard the ringer. Tried it again. Nothing. I’d killed it. Surveyed the snow pile looking for a disturbance, some disturbance that hadn’t been created by the wind. Couldn’t see a thing. Despite the lights of Boston all around me, the snow in front of me was a smooth, undifferentiated gray. It held no sharp shadows. No way to see a slice in the snow where a phone might have landed.

  “Can you see anything?” Bobby called.

  “No, it’s too dark.”

  “Okay. Then get back here.”

  “Just a second.”

  I used my Droid’s LED as a flashlight. Directed it across the snow, was greeted by the curves and swoops of windblown snow. No phone. No hole.

  “Jesus, Tucker, get the fuck back here!” Bobby shouted. “It could be anywhere!”

  It couldn’t be anywhere. It needed to be somewhere within five feet of me. I broadened my search, sweeping the light out and across a broader patch of snow. The light dimmed quickly with distance, so I began to walk in a small circle, shuffling my feet to avoid crushing the phone. Shuffled parallel to the shore, turned, headed out toward the middle of the river. No phone. No phone. Smooth snow. Nothing. Nothing.

  Clunk.

  Looked down and saw the damn phone leaning up against my Tom Brady-approved UGGs. Bent over, picked it up.

  Fell through the ice.

  It turns out that ice doesn’t crack all that loudly when it goes. A little crinkle, a whooshing sound, and I was falling.

  I tossed Angie’s phone and my Droid toward the shore and grabbed onto the ice with gloved hands while the river tried to rip me away.

  On a warm summer’s day, with the sun shining, and kids cavorting in sailboats, the Charles River looks like a lake. The water drifts toward the sea, its current hidden by its width and placidity. This is an optical illusion.

  The river churned past my ass. Heavy frozen water pulled at me, trying to get my center of gravity below the waterline. Then it would be able to take me away.

  “Hold on, Tucker!” Bobby charged onto the ice.

  “No!” I shouted. “It won’t hold you.”

  Bobby didn’t stop. He skidded out, picking up speed. My ass slid lower and my chest tilted up as the balance shifted. I lost another five inches to the water rushing under the hole. Ten feet away, Bobby launched himself in a slide, lay out across the ice, and grabbed my wrists. I grabbed his.

  “Just hold on,” he said. “They’re coming for us.”

  Bobby’s weight gave me the purchase I needed. The water was frigid. My toes went numb first, then my legs. My grip was loosening. If I went under, Bobby wouldn’t know about Frank Cantrell, and Cantrell would probably get him killed.

  “Bobby,” I said.

  “Just hold on.”

  “I need to tell you something. Something important.”

  Bobby grunted. “Can’t you just wait? This is a lot of work.”

  “But I have to tell you that Frank—”

  “Remain calm!” A bullhorned voice boomed from the shoreline, where a group of firefighters carried a ladder and ropes.

  “You think I should wave to them?” Bobby said.

  I gripped his wrist harder. Bobby grinned.

  “Asshole,” I said.

  “And you’re a stupid fuck,” he said, “but you’re safe.”

  Later I sat in Bobby’s car, blankets wrapped around my frozen legs, a cup of coffee steaming in my hand.

  Bobby handed me my phone, attached Angie’s
phone to his car charger.

  “Let’s see what’s on this thing,” said Bobby.

  I shivered, drank my coffee. I needed to tell him that his colleague was a dirty bastard, that Bobby couldn’t trust him. I needed to tell him that Sal had been running Cantrell for years. But telling Bobby about Cantrell would finish Sal, put him away. Maria wouldn’t have a mother or a father. Sal was family. He’d saved my life.

  “What were you saying about Frank?” asked Bobby.

  “I was going to say—”

  The phone blooped to life. Bobby poked at it with a meaty finger. “How do you get the text messages?”

  “Give it here.” I took the phone. The screen looked like a Mondrian painting, with icons sitting in tiled boxes, a consequence of someone avoiding Apple’s patent-happy lawyers. I muttered a quiet prayer of thanks that Apple hadn’t invented the car; we’d be stuck with three different kinds of steering wheels. Found the text message app and opened it. There was Maria’s text to me:

  “LOL”

  Bobby said, “Check the email.”

  I fiddled with the Mondrian squares, pulled up the email. It was connected to Angie’s Gmail account. Apparently she was a deleter, one of those people who think that an empty inbox is a happy inbox. There was only one message, sent while Sal was punching Frank Cantrell.

  You’re in danger. Meet me at the Mass Ave Bridge. Bring Maria.

  Hugh

  Bobby and I read the email, looked at each other, and said in unison, “Motherfucker.”

  Fifty

  Hugh Graxton’s Newton home towered above us, its assortment of stucco walls, wooden beams, and gables creating spiky shadows against the night sky.

  “Great,” I said. “He lives in a haunted house.”

  “It’s a Tudor Revival,” said Bobby. “They were popular during the Depression.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I always knew it.”

  We climbed the three steps in front of the house, approached the front door, rang the bell. The house was dark, silent, except for the simple bing-bong of the bell. Bobby bing-bonged it again. Waited. Then pressed it rapidly: bing-bong-bing-bong-bing-bong-bing-bong.

  “You are just the master at making an entrance,” I said.