WHEN I FINISHED MY CALL WITH YOLANDA MILLS, I felt I’d had twenty coffees injected directly into my bloodstream. My body was shaking, and I couldn’t decide what to do first.
“I have to call Susanne,” I said. “No, not yet. This woman, she’s going to send me the picture in the morning. I need to call the detective. Kip Jennings. She could get someone from the Seattle police to put out one of those APB things or whatever on Syd. They could get the entire police force—”
“Tim,” Kate said. “Just hold on a second. You have—”
“I have to book a flight,” I said. “Maybe there’s a flight out tonight.” I whirled back around in the chair and started tapping at keys.
“You just need to take a minute,” Kate said. “You don’t even know for sure it’s Syd. You won’t know that until you see the picture, and even then, you may not know. Those cell phone shots, they’re not always the best. And you just wait. Whoever that Yolanda woman is, you can be sure she’s going to be wanting some kind of reward at some point. If it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everyone’s always got an agenda, you know what I’m saying? They smile at you, but they’re just lying through their teeth, trying to figure out how they can screw you over. What you should do is—”
I turned and snapped, “For fuck’s sake, Kate, enough.”
She put a hand to her cheek as though I’d slapped her.
“Everyone’s always out to get you, aren’t they?” I said. “Your ex-husband, the people you work with, your landlord? Is there anyone out there who isn’t making your life a living hell?”
She looked at me and said, “Evidently not.”
“Oh, so now I’m doing it, too.”
She studied me a moment, then seemed to come to a realization. “You’ve used this whole thing with your daughter as an excuse to break off with me.”
I was too stunned to say anything right away. Then I almost laughed. “What?”
“You never return my calls. I know you look and see if it’s me calling and don’t pick up.”
“Kate,” I said.
“Is that what I was for you? A good fuck and now it’s over?”
“Kate, I don’t have time for this discussion right now. I have to book a flight.”
“You see? You’re doing it right now. It’s what my therapist calls an avoidance strategy.”
“Your therapist?”
“Just tell me, Tim. Is your daughter actually missing? Or is she just off at summer camp somewhere? Were you even talking to some woman from Seattle just then?”
I leaned back in my chair, let my arms hang down at my sides. Exhaustion, defeat, take your pick.
“I have a lot to do, Kate,” I said, keeping my voice as even as possible. And then I said something that was probably very stupid. “What do I owe you for the Chinese food?”
“Fuck you,” she said and went down the stairs.
I got out of the chair as if to follow, then decided there really wasn’t any point. I heard some containers of Chinese food being thrown around the kitchen, then the slamming of a door.
I’d clean up later.
I dropped back into the chair, grabbed the receiver and called the police. Not the emergency number, but the line for the office Kip Jennings worked out of. A fellow detective said she was off duty. I explained that it was urgent and asked whether he could relay a message and have her call me.
He said he’d see what he could do.
I hung up and turned back to the computer to look up flights. I nearly booked a 1:59 p.m. US Airways flight out of LaGuardia, then just before confirming my arrangements noticed that I had to switch planes in Philadelphia.
“Fuck that,” I said.
Then I found a Jet Blue flight that departed the same time, and was $300 more, that went nonstop to Seattle. It was a six-hour flight, which would put me into Seattle around 5 p.m. local time. Assuming it took me an hour to get into the city, I could be looking for Yolanda Mills, and my daughter, by early evening.
I didn’t know when to book a return ticket for, so I didn’t book one at all. I confirmed my choice, provided all my credit card info, then waited for the ticket to be emailed to me and printed it out.
The phone rang. I had the receiver in my hand before the first ring had ended.
“Mr. Blake? Detective Jennings here.” She sounded nasal.
“Hi, thanks, listen, I have a lead on Sydney.”
“Really,” she said, with less enthusiasm than I might have expected. “She’s been in contact with you?”
“No.”
“What’s this lead?”
“A woman who works at a drop-in for teenage runaways read about Syd on the Net. She got in touch. She’s seen Syd. I’ve already booked a flight out at two tomorrow.”
“Mr. Blake, I’m not sure that’s wise.”
In the background, I could hear a kid shouting, “Mom! I’m ready!”
“It’s all I’ve got right now. I can’t sit around here in Milford.”
“The thing is, it could be someone trying to scam you.”
“She didn’t ask for anything,” I said. “She said it wouldn’t be Christian.”
Kip Jennings made a snorting noise. “This woman may not be asking now, not yet. But once you’ve flown all the way out there—Cassie! I’m on the phone! I’ll be up in a minute!” A sigh. “Once you get out there, that’s when she’ll suddenly come up with a reason why you need to pay her. Or she’ll be asking about a reward. You’ll think, you’ve come so far, you’ll give her whatever she wants. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”
“I don’t think it’s like that. It doesn’t feel like that.” I didn’t want to believe this was a shakedown. “A few hours ago, when we went up to see my daughter’s car, I started thinking, maybe things aren’t looking so good. Syd’s car abandoned… the blood. But this, this is good news. This is solid.”
“How?” Jennings said. “You’ve got the word of a woman you don’t know who… How did she even connect up with you?”
“She checks websites about missing kids, sees if they match up with any of the kids in her shelter.”
“It sounds fishy,” Jennings said.
I refused to let her defeat me. “What would you do,” I asked, “if it were Cassie?”
A long pause at the other end of the line. “Mr. Blake, did you call just to tell me you’re heading out there, or is there something specific you want me to do?”
“Call the Seattle police. Have them put out an APB or whatever it is on her.”
“I’ll call them, but I have to be honest. A runaway teen isn’t going to be a high priority for them. I’ll tell them about finding the car, that this may be more than a simple runaway, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up that they’re going to jump all over this.”
“That blood,” I said. “That was on Syd’s car. Did you find out whose it is?”
“That’ll take a while, Mr. Blake. Maybe, by the time you get back from Seattle, we’ll know something. And if your daughter ends up coming home with you, maybe it won’t matter.”
* * *
I WENT DOWN TO THE KITCHEN, cleaned a container’s worth of chow mein off the floor. The boxes Kate hadn’t dumped contained some breaded shrimps, beef with broccoli, and some plain rice.
I ate it cold.
Then I went back upstairs and packed a small over-the-shoulder case. Something I could carry straight onto the plane. I didn’t want to be waiting around for checked luggage.
I had a little room left over in my bag, so I went into Syd’s room and looked at the stuffed animals she had on display in various places. In her chair, on her bookshelves, tucked in around her pillows. Tiny dogs and bunnies. A small, once-furry moose given to Syd, when she was two, by my late mother. It had endured so many years of snuggling it was nearly threadbare. Some things little girls never outgrow, even when they’re leaving the house in fishnets with studs in their nose, purple streaks in their hair.
Her stuffed friends weren’
t arranged this way the day she disappeared. She’d gone to work leaving her bed unmade. The animals had been tossed all over the place. But when a week had gone by, I made the bed and put the animals in position to welcome Sydney home.
They were probably as tired of waiting as I was.
I thought one of them should accompany me to Seattle.
I picked the moose. His name, according to the tag, was Milt. He wouldn’t have been my first choice. His puffy antlers made him more difficult to pack. But I knew he was Syd’s favorite.
I got under the covers, expecting not to sleep. But I guess the tension I’d been living with for the last few weeks had ebbed slightly with Yolanda’s news.
I just hoped her husband would sort out sending the picture in the morning, as promised.
I WAS UP BEFORE SIX, checked the computer before doing anything else. No news. I showered and shaved, went back to check the computer again.
Still nothing. Then I remembered it was only a little after three in the morning in Seattle.
That didn’t stop me from checking every five minutes.
Shortly after nine, there was mail.
A short note from Yolanda: “Hope this is her. Let me know.” There was a picture attached.
I was afraid to open it. Up to now, I had convinced myself that the girl she’d seen was Sydney. It had to be Sydney. I had my ticket, my bags were packed. I was going to Seattle to bring back my girl.
But what if the picture turned out not to be her? What if this clearly was some other girl?
The time had come to find out one way or another. I double-clicked on the attachment snapshot and it opened up before my eyes.
I let out a whoop I was sure everyone on the street must have heard even with the windows closed.
It was my girl.
It was Syd.
TEN
NOT THAT THE PICTURE WAS PERFECT. It was no more than a fleeting shot of Syd. The background was nothing more than a beige wall and a small glass door, maybe two feet square, with the words FIRE EXTINGUISHER stenciled on it in red, the first “I” nearly worn off. The letters are more in focus than Syd, who is moving through the frame, right to left, just about to move out of the picture. She’s in profile, leaning forward into her stride, her head tilted down so her blonde hair is hanging forward. There’s not much of her face to see but the tip of her nose, and I’d know that nose anywhere.
But it wasn’t just Syd’s nose that convinced me it was her. It was the light, summery scarf she’d wrapped fashionably about her neck. Coral in color, crinkly in texture, thin and wispy, with a fringe at the end. Her mother had bought it for her a few months ago on a shopping excursion into Manhattan.
I had a reputation in my house as someone who wouldn’t notice if his wife or daughter walked into the room in a neon wedding gown. Different eye shadows and nail colors eluded me. But I remembered the first time I saw Sydney wearing that scarf, the smart way she’d tied it, the blazing coral contrasting with her blonde hair.
When Syd got in the car one recent morning wearing it, I’d said, “That’s sharp.”
And Syd had replied, “Whoa. Get your cataracts fixed?”
The scarf, matched with the hair, the tilt of the girl’s head, the nose, left no doubt in my mind.
I double-checked that I had everything I needed for my trip. Before grabbing my bag and heading out the door, I emailed Yolanda a brief message: “It’s her. I’ll be in Seattle this evening. See you then. Thanks so much.”
There was one stop to make along the way. I wheeled into Riverside Honda just after ten. There were sales staff on the floor, but that early in the morning, unless it was a Saturday, was not a busy time. I saw Andy Hertz was at his desk, but instead of popping by mine, I went straight to Laura Cantrell’s office. I rapped not so lightly on the open door.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked up from some sales report she was reading, removed the glasses she wore for that kind of detail work, and set them on her desk. “Tim,” she said.
“I’m taking some time off,” I said. I wasn’t asking for permission.
The perfect eyebrows went up a quarter of an inch. “Oh?”
“I have a lead on Syd,” I said. “I’m going to Seattle.”
Laura pushed back her chair and stood up, took a couple of steps toward me. “You’ve found her?”
“I know she’s been out there. She’s been seen a couple of times at a drop-in place.”
“That must be a huge relief,” she said. “To know that she’s not…”
“Yes,” I said. I’d learned that as bad as it was to have a daughter who was missing, it was better than having a daughter who was missing that you knew to be dead. “I’m catching a flight in three hours. I could be a couple of days, but I could be longer. I simply don’t know.”
Laura nodded. “Take as much time as you need.”
Was this the same Laura who threatened to give my desk to someone else if I didn’t get my sales numbers up?
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“About the other day. I gave you a hard time.” She’d taken another step closer to me. I could smell her perfume.
“Yeah, well, I guess you do what you have to do,” I said.
“You know how it goes. They’re leaning on me, too. At the end of the day, it’s all about numbers. I’ll bet, when you had your dealership, you had to ride people hard.”
That was part of the problem. I didn’t. I was always the nice guy, the one who understood, the one who said, hey, you need some time, take some time. Used to drive Susanne crazy.
“Sure,” I said.
“Maybe,” Laura said, “when you get back, and bring Cindy home with you, we should have a drink or something.”
I couldn’t be bothered to correct her this time. “Sounds great, Laura,” I said. “I’ve got to get going.”
I headed for my desk. Andy was scouring the used-car classifieds in the New Haven Register, circling numbers.
“Morning,” I said. Andy glanced up, grunted a greeting. He looked stressed.
My phone was flashing. I had a message from a couple who’d bought a van from me four years ago. Their kids were older now and they were thinking of getting into an Accord or a Pilot. I scribbled down their phone number, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Andy.
“Probably an easy sale. Good people. Tell them I had business that took me out of town, that I asked you, personally, to look after them.”
“Jesus, Tim, thanks.”
“No problem.”
“I owe you.”
“No kidding.”
He asked where I was going and I told him. Said I’d be gone at least a couple of days.
“I hope she’s okay,” he said.
* * *
SYDNEY, ELEVEN YEARS OLD:
A boy named Jeffrey Wilshire walks her home from school. It’s the second time he has done this. His attentions do not go unnoticed by Susanne or me.
I am driving her to an evening dance class. This was just before she gave up ballet. The whole prancing-about-in-tights thing no longer appealed to her. It hadn’t for some time, but her mother kept pressing her to take it. “If you drop it, you’ll be sorry.”
Finally, Syd did, and she was not.
So I am driving her to her lesson and say casually, “So this Jeffrey fellow, he seems to be taking an interest in you.”
“Please,” Syd says.
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s always waiting for me to come out at the end of the day so he can walk with me. I keep hoping Mrs. Whattley will give us a detention so maybe he’ll get tired and go home.”
“Oh,” I say.
We drive a bit farther, and Syd says, “He likes to blow up frogs.”
“What? Who likes to blow up frogs?”
“Jeffrey. He and this other boy—you know Michael Dingley?”
“No.”
�
�Anyway, Mom does, because Mom and his mother used to be volunteer drivers when we did that trip to the fire station last year.”
“Okay. Tell me about Jeffrey.”
“So they catch frogs, and then they stick firecrackers into their mouths and then they light the firecrackers and blow the frogs up.”
“That’s sick,” I say. Detonating animals was not, at least in my case, a rite of passage on the way to adulthood.
“They think it’s really funny,” Syd says.
“It’s not funny.”
“I mean, I know we eat animals and everything,” she says. “Didn’t Mom used to be a vegetarian?”
“For a while.”
“Why’d she stop?”
I shrug. “Cheeseburgers. She felt life wasn’t worth living without cheeseburgers. But it’s one thing to kill an animal for food, and another to take pleasure in its suffering.”
She thinks about that a minute. “Why would someone do that?”
“What?”
“Kill something for fun?”
“Some people are wired wrong.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I mean, some people think it’s fun to make others suffer.”
Syd looks out her window. “I’m always thinking about what the other person is feeling.” A pause. “Or animal.”
“That’s what makes you a good person.”
“Doesn’t Jeffrey know that the frog feels pain?”
“If he does, he doesn’t care.”
“Does that make Jeffrey evil?”
“Evil?” The question throws me. “Yeah, maybe.”
“He said, one time, he put a live hamster in a microwave and turned it on.”
“Don’t let him walk you home from school anymore,” I say. “How about, for the next couple of days, your mother or I will pick you up?”
I LISTENED TO SOME MORE of Syd’s tunes on the way to LaGuardia. I had to turn it off halfway through Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful to Me.” I don’t want to tear up on the 95. I didn’t want to end up in a story under the headline “Weeping Father Makes Fatal Lane Change.”
At the airport, I bought a couple of magazines—the new Car and Driver and The New Yorker. I had my doubts I’d be able to concentrate on either of them, but the first one would have lots of pictures of shiny cars and the latter would have cartoons. Sitting in the stale, soulless departure lounge at LaGuardia, I got out my cell and put in a call to Susanne at work.
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