Before the day was out the sheriff began getting phone calls. A woman from Norcross claimed there was a five-year-old girl living two doors down who was the spitting image of the child in the photograph. A private investigator called and said he’d offer his services if the sheriff was willing to fork over a $500 advance.
That first week there were forty-two calls in all. Some seemed like crackpots from the get-go, but others appeared genuine enough until he paid them a visit. No matter how strange or how far away, Sheriff Wilson followed up every lead. At night he would come home bone-tired and too weary to eat supper, fall into his La-Z-Boy recliner, catch a few hours of sleep, then get up and start again. On mornings when his body screamed for more rest, he’d picture the haunted look in Rachel Dixon’s eyes and force himself to push through the weariness.
A SEARCH FOR THE STORY
For a week Vicki and Murphy remained there in that one-room cabin—cozy, comfortable, hidden from the world. She and the baby never left, but he did. The second day he bought a small hot plate to heat food in the room, and each morning he shopped in a different store. One day it was ten miles west of the cabin, the next seven miles north of the place. He never returned to the same market, never allowed himself to become familiar or recognizable.
On every trip he came back carrying a copy of the Arkansas Gazette. Then for a good hour he’d sit and go through it page by page, front to back. In the early morning he listened to the news on the radio, and in the evening he sat with his eyes glued to the television, watching, waiting, wondering. He knew the police had to be searching for the child, but did they know Vicki was the one who had entered the house and taken the baby from her crib? Did someone perchance see his car or catch sight of the Kentucky license plate?
He had a million unanswered questions but could not find a single mention of the missing baby in the news. Not knowing was worse than knowing. At night he slept fitfully, always listening for the crunch of footsteps outside their door or the shriek of a siren turning off the highway.
On Saturday evening the baby grew fussy and screamed without apparent reason.
Murphy’s heart rose into his throat. “Can’t you keep her quiet?”
“Be patient,” Vicki answered. “I think she’s teething.”
As if it were the most natural thing on earth, she lifted the baby into her arms, hummed softly, and walked back and forth until a sleepy little head dropped onto her shoulder.
The weekend passed without a speck of news, and Murphy could no longer stand it.
“I’ve got to find out what’s happening,” he said.
On Monday morning he left the cabin at eight o’clock and cautioned Vicki to keep the door locked and remain inside.
“Try to keep the baby quiet, and don’t open the door for anyone. Not anyone. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Of course I understand. I’m not an idiot. But it’s so silly, all this hiding and—”
“Just do as I say, Vicki! I should be back by six or a little before.”
She raised her face to his and kissed his cheek. “Drive carefully.”
“I will.” He held her close to his chest and hesitated, wondering if he should tell her what to do in the event he didn’t come back.
There’s nothing she can do. I’m the only protection she’s got.
Without saying anything more, he broke away and disappeared out the door.
After a week of grocery shopping in first one town and then the other, he’d become familiar with the back roads. He drove north to Marion, dodging in and out of the streets until he was certain no one was following him. Once he was in the clear, he pulled onto Route 64 and headed west. In Crawfordville he picked up the southbound arm of Route 50 and followed that to Highway 40, which ran straight into Little Rock.
He hoped to be there before noon, and since it was lunchtime the place wouldn’t be too crowded. The fewer people he came in contact with, the better.
On the outskirts of Little Rock he pulled into a small shopping plaza and went in search of a phone booth, figuring that a directory would be hanging alongside the booth. In the back of the drugstore he found what he needed and thumbed through the pages until he reached the section for the Little Rock listings. There were three pages of businesses named for the city, places like Little Rock Acting School, Little Rock Bookstore, and Little Rock Dry Cleaners. The public library listing was halfway down the second page. Three branches were listed; he opted for the main branch. He made note of the address, then tore the page from the book, folded it, and stuffed it into his pocket in case he couldn’t find what he wanted and had to look elsewhere.
On his way out of the store, he spotted an elderly woman behind the counter.
“Excuse me,” he said, “what’s the best way to get to South Rock Street?”
“That’s on the far side of the river.” She waved a hand toward the highway that ran past the plaza. “Just keep heading west until you come to the junction of Route 30; that’ll take you straight across the bridge. You looking for anyplace special?”
She caught him off guard, and without thinking he answered, “The library.”
“Oh, it’s just a little ways from the bridge, but you’ve got to make a few turns. Once you cross the bridge, make a right onto West Seventh Street, then a short bit later another right onto the street that goes down by the market. I forget the name, but—”
“Thanks,” Murphy mumbled. Anxious to be on his way, he headed for the door.
“Come to think of it, the name of that street might be Louisiana,” she called after him.
Murphy gave a wave in the air but didn’t look back. Until he could find out what was happening he had to remain invisible, be a passerby nobody remembered. Stopping to chat was not part of the plan.
As she’d suggested, the library was easy enough to find. He drove past once, then circled around the block and came by a second time. Bypassing the empty parking spaces in front of the building, he took a left and parked on a side street three blocks south of the building. Before leaving the cabin he’d had coffee but nothing to eat. Now as he walked toward the desk, he could feel his stomach rumbling.
Nerves, not hunger.
At the front desk, with his face fixed in an expression that was neither smile nor frown, he said, “I’m looking for back issues of the Georgia newspapers.”
“How far back?” the librarian asked.
Not wanting to raise a red flag regarding the date, he gave a nonchalant shrug. “Fairly recent, a month or so.”
“The only one we carry is the Atlanta Constitution.” She raised her arm and pointed toward a large alcove on the far side of the floor. “Try the reading room. The last five or six issues should be there. Anything older would be in the microfiche department.”
Murphy gave a quick nod and hurried off.
Three long tables were set crossways in the reading room, and along the wall he saw a lineup of lounge chairs. On the side counter, stacks of newspapers were arranged by date with the most recent issues on top and those dating back on the bottom. After flipping past the New York Times, Washington Post, and Chicago Tribune, he came to the Atlanta Constitution. The bottom issue was from last Tuesday, and the headline told him this was what he’d been looking for. Right below the masthead a headline blared Search For Missing Baby Continues.
In all, there were five issues of the Atlanta Constitution: Tuesday through Sunday, with Saturday missing. He gathered them up, carried them to the back table, and sat. Starting with Tuesday, he scrutinized each edition, going page by page, making note of every comment, every mention of the kidnapping, the Dixon family, the music festival, and, most important, the fact that there seemed to be few if any clues as to the identity of the kidnapper. Tears filled his eyes as he studied the picture of the Dixons and read through the interview where Rachel pleaded with the kidnapper to leave Emmy in a safe spot where she could be returned to her family.
Her name is Emily Dixon. They call her Emmy.
Murphy’s stomach churned, and the taste of bile rose in his throat. He was reminded of that day in Saigon when a grenade took part of his arm, and he’d fought to stay alive. Back then he’d thought dying was the worst thing that could happen to a person, but after reading Rachel Dixon’s plea, he was no longer sure. Maybe there was a hell worse than Vietnam, and the Dixon family was living it right now.
For several minutes he sat there staring at the newspaper the same way he’d stared at his bloody arm—horrified at the truth but too frightened to move.
In Wednesday’s issue, Sheriff Wilson was quoted as saying there was now a $10,000 reward for information leading to the child and/or the person responsible for the kidnapping.
“We believe the kidnapper may have attended the music festival,” he said, “and we are currently going through photos in the hope of identifying potential suspects.”
Although the story included two photos taken at the festival and another showing the Dixon house, it was no longer the lead article. It had been moved back to page five across from a quarter-page ad for Macy’s housewares sale.
Murphy reread the article nine times, looking for some finger of suspicion pointing to him or Vicki, some piece of evidence or clue hidden among the lines. In the end, he could find nothing more than the broad statement saying they had pictures of the crowd. Staring down at the photo of the Dixon house, he could picture Vicki’s slight frame as she darted across the lawn and disappeared into the darkness. Again, he reminded himself of the night: rain, heavy clouds, a thick blackness that swallowed up everything.
Seeing the car would have been impossible.
Moving his finger from face to face, he searched the crowd pictures. Neither he nor Vicki was in either of these shots.
Yes, but are there more pictures?
He moved on to Thursday’s issue and found only one mention in the second section. No photos this time, just a brief half-column story with a headline that read Missing Baby Case Continues To Baffle Authorities.
There was nothing more on Friday or Sunday.
Before replacing the newspapers, he folded the first section of Tuesday’s edition into a small square and stuffed it inside his shirt.
MURPHY’S PLAN
The drive back to the cabin was slower than it had been coming, with more cars on the road, more slowdowns, stops, and starts for no visible reason. Instead of being cause for agitation, it gave Murphy time to think. After he’d searched the Georgia paper, he’d looked through the Knoxville News Sentinel and the Lexington Herald-Leader and found nothing. Believing the search for the kidnapper had not bled into the surrounding states, he didn’t bother circling through the back roads and looking in the rearview mirror at every turnoff.
Right now there was nothing tying them to the kidnapping. They could pin a note to the baby’s shirt, drop her off at a church in Arkansas, then turn around and head home to Kentucky with nobody the wiser. The more he thought about this idea, the better he liked it.
It was the right solution, but the problem was going to be Vicki. He pictured the way she’d held the baby to her chest, happily humming, cooing, promising a lifetime of love. Her want of that baby was so intense that she’d lost sight of all else: the heartache she’d left behind, the lifetime of running and hiding that lay ahead.
As the traffic slowed and then came to a stop, he thought of waiting until Vicki was sound asleep, then lifting the baby from the bed and whisking her off to a church in some faraway town.
He stretched his neck and leaned toward the windshield, trying to figure out what was causing the holdup. For as far as his eye could see there was no roadblock, no accident, just a long line of red taillights, so he sat and thought.
A sadness he’d almost forgotten seeped into his heart as he recalled the days before Lara’s birth. Vicki was so different then. She had an easy laugh that was almost magical. He smiled at the memory of how he used to laugh along with her, of how back then they’d thought that once the baby came, they’d settle down. Now it was as if their time together had a dividing line down the middle: before Lara was on one side, after Lara on the other.
It had been a difficult birth, and after long hours of labor Vicki was put to sleep so they could take the baby. Later on, with her body stitched together and her skin colorless as the sheets, she’d asked to hold her child. He could still feel the heaviness of her hand as he lifted it into his and told her the infant was gone. It was as if he had shot her through the heart. He couldn’t do that again. It would be too much like losing Lara.
The line of cars began to inch forward, so he shifted into first gear and pressed his foot down on the gas pedal.
There had to be another answer, he reasoned, some way to convince Vicki to give the baby back willingly. He slid the gearshift into second and then third as the traffic sped up.
He thought back to earlier in the week, when the baby had snatched up the knife lying on the table.
“No, no, no,” Vicki said, trying to pry the chubby fingers from the knife.
The baby didn’t want to let go, so she tightened her grip and screamed.
Moving as though it was something she’d always known, Vicki grabbed her key ring and jangled it in front of the baby’s face. The little one’s eyes lit up, and she let go of the knife to reach for the keys.
Distraction. That’s it. Something she wants as much or more than this baby.
Murphy’s thoughts traveled back to the earliest days of their relationship, a time when they first began dating and Vicki was still living at home with her dad. As the weeks went by and they became fonder of each other, she began bringing things to his apartment and leaving them: a toothbrush, another pair of jeans, several sweaters, changes of underwear. Everyday things that seemed to be the building blocks of a relationship. Then came that fateful Tuesday when she showed up with a suitcase full of clothes and tears in her eyes.
“I can’t live there anymore,” she said and dropped onto the sofa.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing. Yet.”
There was more to the story, but it was the wee hours of morning before it finally came out. Her daddy had come home drunk and tried to climb on top of her. With tears streaming from her eyes, she told him this wasn’t the first time she’d had to fight him off.
“I don’t want to go back there,” she said through her sobs. “If you’ll let me stay here until I can find a place . . .”
That night Murphy held her in his arms and said she could stay for as long as she wanted. Four months later she was pregnant, and they started talking about a life together. Not necessarily marriage, but a life together.
Marriage meant responsibility, and responsibility wasn’t something Murph was particularly fond of. He’d returned from Vietnam knowing that he’d never have the chance to be a licensed electrician. He’d worked as an apprentice for two long years. All the knowledge he needed was there, but the second arm necessary to hold a fixture in place or secure a junction box was missing.
It had taken the better part of a year for him to accept that the life he now lived—of social drugs, part-time jobs, and VA checks—was the new normal.
The car in front of him slowed, but Murphy was lost in thought and had to slam on the brakes at the last minute. The suddenness of a near accident jolted him from his reverie. As he sat there waiting for the line of cars to start moving again, his mind drifted back to Vicki and what he wanted her to do. He would be asking her to give up a baby that she’d already come to love, set aside her thoughts of motherhood, and come around to his way of thinking.
If she gives up those things, what am I willing to give up?
Murphy anxiously drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and tried to think. It wasn’t enough to say, “Give up the baby and we’ll go back to the way we were.” That would be like stepping back in time; it would be like it was after Lara.
The traffic inched forward, then stopped again. Murphy moved with i
t.
He loved Vicki, loved her with all his heart, but he was not ready to go along with keeping this baby. At best, they’d have to live with the burden of guilt for the rest of their lives. At worst, they’d be arrested and thrown in jail. If that happened, he’d lose Vicki and whatever shambles of a life he now had. Keeping the baby was out of the question, but what would it take to convince Vicki to give her up?
He thought about the keys, jangling just beyond the baby’s reach.
Marriage?
A horn blared. Murphy glanced up and saw the traffic starting to move. He shifted into gear and closed the gap.
He knew the answer but was slow to accept it. She wanted a child. Right now she had what she wanted. The only way to get her to let go of that baby would be to offer her one of her own. But how? The doctor had warned them not to try another pregnancy; her heart wasn’t strong enough.
Adoption?
Maybe if they were married, and he had a steady job . . . Murphy remembered Richard Schaefer’s offer for him to teach at the vocational school. Okay, so he couldn’t be an electrician, but he had a degree and could teach electricians. The pay wasn’t half-bad. With an income like that and his VA checks, they could probably buy a house. Something small to start with, and then . . .
Feeling a renewed sense of confidence, Murphy moved into the left lane and sped past a truckload of logs. He didn’t bother to get off at an earlier exit and zigzag through the back streets but stayed on Route 40 and got off at the exit marked Mound Township. He glanced down at the clock. Almost ten p.m. Vicki would no doubt be worried, but when she heard what he had to offer . . . He smiled as he turned in to the Hideaway Cabins and followed the dirt road around to the far end.
A twitch of concern pinched his heart when the car came to a stop. Through the slatted blinds he could see the cabin was dark; even the flickering light of the television was missing. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Emily, Gone Page 6