She stopped near a clump of madrone trees. Reddish bark hung like flypaper from their trunks and littered the ground in jagged circles. “Nothing is easy. I see Emily everywhere. I can’t even shut my eyes because she’s inside my head, too.”
He took her in his arms, burrowed his face in her hair. “It smells like rain,” he said. His lips brushed against her forehead.
Brandy wanted someone to blame so she wouldn’t have to carry the burden on her own. She pulled away from him.
As if reading her mind, he said, “No one blames you.” He reached up and touched her face, brushing his thumb slowly across her scarred cheek. His eyes were so green.
Brandy felt woozy and leaned against a tree to keep herself upright. Everything was changing—falling apart, one molecule at a time. She wanted to both disappear and to thrust herself into his arms. “She tries to hide it, but Christine blames me. Why wouldn’t she? It wasn’t exactly responsible of me to leave Emily alone in the stroller.”
“You were only three feet away.” He looked at her. “You’re not the only one in the hot seat. When Detective Radhauser came to my house last night, my mother freaked out. I figured I’d be grounded for the rest of my life.” He stopped and kicked a piece of madrone bark into the air, following its launch before returning his attention to Brandy. “You don’t think I had anything to do with her disappearance, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you acting like you do?”
“Christine and my father have already taken lie detector tests. I’m pretty sure I’ll be next.”
“Why would anyone suspect you? You’re the one who reported it.”
“Because more than half the kids hurt or abducted are taken by the same person who reports them missing.” She buried her hands under her armpits and slumped back against the madrone.
He winced and pressed his hands against his temples. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said again. “And it wasn’t mine either.”
She didn’t trust herself to look at him. “I know that. But I made such a mess of everything.” She struggled to find a way to explain herself, to make him understand.
Stone tried to put his arms around her again.
She pushed him away. “I’m sorry. It’s just that if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with impressing you, I—”
“Wait a minute. Let’s get something straight. You don’t have to do anything to impress me.” He lowered his gaze. “I already am.” He stopped to let his words sink in. “And I’ve seen you with Emily enough to know you love her and would never intentionally do anything to harm her.”
Brandy had an irrational desire to laugh. “Everyone says they know how much I love her. But the truth is—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t. Coach Pritchard called. It’s all set. Tonight at 8p.m. They’ve got a minister coming. And the kids in Emily’s preschool are doing a song.”
Brandy swallowed, overwhelmed by this show of support and love for Emily.
“I know,” Stone said. “It’s awesome, right?”
She nodded, still unable to speak.
“Don’t forget your guitar. And come early so we can practice together.” He paused and smiled. “I’ve got a great feeling this vigil will help bring Emily home.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I can do it.”
“You have to keep believing the police will find her. Detective Radhauser is smart. He probably has all kinds of leads he’s following up on right now.”
Brandy wanted so much to believe him. She told him what Kent had said, how Mrs. Wyatt’s story seemed to confirm his story, and what Emily had said in the bathroom. Brandy was certain of one thing, no matter what Radhauser said, she needed to talk to whoever bought the big stuffed animal.
* * *
After interviewing the coordinator for the Children’s Health Fair and getting the names of everyone who’d participated, Radhauser wrote Emily Michaelson’s name on a file folder, and scribbled a few new pages of notes about the last eighteen hours, including Vernon’s trip to Emigrant Lake where he’d found the Dewars’ cabin locked up tight. He’d seen no evidence of any disturbances in the ground around it, but the property was heavily wooded and the recent rain may have masked something. Officer Murphy was assigned to watch the place all day to see if anyone showed up.
Vernon had spoken to the property management company that maintained the grounds and learned Dewar Senior and his wife spent about a month every summer in the cabin, that occasionally their son had a party there, but for most of the year it remained vacant.
But Radhauser wasn’t ready to eliminate Glenard Dewar, Jr. as a suspect. Not until he’d talked with Christine about her polygraph results. As he studied his notes, the cop part of him was intrigued by the puzzle, needed to know how and why this child had been taken. The father part of him shuddered, horrified by how quickly a little girl could disappear.
He used the abbreviated words he’d jotted in his pocket-sized notebook to document the interviews he’d conducted so far, including frequent visitors to the park and the neighbors on both sides of the Michaelson’s hillside home.
As he put down his pen, Christine barged into his office, the receptionist manning the front desk a few steps behind. “I’m sorry…I tried—”
“It’s okay, Shirley.”
Christine’s face was flushed and devoid of any makeup—her auburn hair still damp from the morning downpour. She slumped into a chair in front of his desk. “Why are you wasting time questioning me? I’ve told you everything I know. Why aren’t you out looking for my baby?”
He closed the file and turned it face down so she didn’t have to see her daughter’s name. Outside his window, the sun shone, but the pearl-colored sky was still smeared with the remains of the storm.
“I understand how you feel. We’ve got dozens of personnel from two counties out looking for Emily. But as the lead investigator, I have certain procedures I’m required to follow. I called you in to discuss your polygraph. I’ll be recording this interview.” He turned on his tape recorder, stated the date and time, his own name, and the fact that he was conducting a post-polygraph interview with Christine Michaelson, mother of two-and-a-half-year-old Emily Michaelson.
“It was horrible,” Christine said. “All I could think about was my baby and why wasn’t that man out looking for her instead of asking me a bunch of stupid questions. He kept telling me to relax. But I couldn’t relax.”
“No one can relax,” Radhauser said. “But they read your baseline. It doesn’t matter how nervous you are.”
“You didn’t need to put me through all those embarrassing questions.”
“Your neighbor claimed she heard Emily crying Friday night. That you screamed, ‘You make me so mad I could just…’ She reported hearing a door slam.” He paused and stared at her. “That’s a threat. You were so mad you could just do what, Mrs. Michaelson?”
Before she had time to answer, a new thought entered his mind. What if someone who wanted to protect Emily had taken her, not someone intending to exploit, abuse or ransom the child? He made a mental note to pursue.
“I wanted Emily to settle down and tell the truth about the necklace. I was exasperated and scared. Brandy’s window was open. You know how sound carries at night.” Her bottom lip trembled. “My neighbor needs a course in mind your own business.”
Radhauser knew she wanted sympathy and he tried to conjure up some. Maybe everyone had a moment when life derailed. Despite the way Christine behaved, she’d just lost her little girl. He’d seen dozens of different reactions to grief. But, he reminded himself, no matter how it manifested, grief didn’t necessarily mean innocence. He remembered the Diane Downs case, how she’d accused a bushy-haired stranger of flagging down her car and shooting her two kids on a back road in Springfield, Oregon. Diane had shot her own children because her married boyfriend didn’t want kids. Over 400 kids are killed by their parents each year. Three out of five of them are u
nder five years old.
Christine looked like a kid herself, with her fresh face and freckled nose. The way she played with the ends of her hair. Her denim jeans added to the illusion—the blue sweatshirt that made her eyes turn to topaz.
“So, you were concerned about the necklace?”
“Of course,” she said. “Until my responsible stepdaughter told me she bought it at a garage sale.” She watched him, as if waiting for his reaction.
The sympathy he’d conjured up disappeared. Brandy had explained the reasons for her lie. They seemed legitimate to him, given Christine’s anger toward Emily. “I searched previous incident reports and discovered that another one of your neighbors called Child Protective Services on January 14th. Do you know anything about that?”
Christine’s face reddened. She pushed back against her chair as if the act of distancing herself from him would make his question go away. For a long moment, she looked at him, but remained silent. Not even a shake of her head. It was one of those times when silence had a voice of its own.
“Do you have kids, Detective Radhauser?”
“I’m the one asking the questions.”
“It was a mistake,” she insisted. “A false alarm.”
“CPS is a busy agency. They were concerned enough to send someone out to investigate on January 30th.”
Radhauser wanted to observe her reaction.
She was silent for a moment. “It’s a simple matter of human endurance. If you had children, you’d understand.”
“Two-year-olds can be challenging. But these days, most parents don’t hit or threaten their toddlers. How did Emily break her wrist?”
Christine gave a short nervous laugh. “She fell off her swing and landed on her wrist. Just because CPS investigated a bogus incident, doesn’t mean I’d hurt Emily. I smacked her on the butt with my open hand a couple times. And I yell a lot. That’s all. I swear to you. If I get her back, I’ll take parenting lessons and learn other ways to discipline.” Christine straightened herself in the chair and gave him a look that could wilt spinach. “I can’t hide the way I feel. Brandy’s the one who took acting lessons.”
He wished he were the kind of cop who could smack a suspect across the face. “When was the last time you saw Glen Dewar?”
For the first time since the interview began, she looked down. His question had touched a raw spot she didn’t want him to see. Glen’s name hung in the air, and then she looked up and glared at him. Her eyes seemed to darken. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
Radhauser understood her embarrassment, but the polygraph had indicated a level of deception when she’d been asked about her marriage to Daniel and their daughter’s paternity. “Probably nothing, but Dewar claims you were in a relationship with him when you got pregnant with Emily.”
“You had no reason to talk to Glen.”
“This is my investigation. And you may rest assured I will talk to everyone I suspect might be involved. Could Glen think Emily is his daughter?”
“Glen and I always used protection.”
“Protection can fail.”
She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders as if she’d gotten cold. “All right. I worried at first, but once I saw Emily she looked just like Daniel and Brandy.” Christine swallowed. “Besides, Glen would have no interest in Emily—even if he thought she was his daughter. He’s headed to graduate school. Peace Corps. We…I mean…he had plans. I…” She paused, shrugged. “No use in thinking about that now.”
“What happened to your plans?”
“Falling in love with Daniel happened to mine.” Her voice sounded distant. “I’m the first person to admit I didn’t mean to get pregnant.”
“I suspect you got pregnant on purpose because you wanted to marry Daniel Michaelson.”
Again, Christine glared at him. “You’ve been talking to Kathleen Sizemore. That woman doesn’t know anything about me.”
“You knew about protection and, by your own admission, you used it with Glen.”
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
Radhauser swallowed and handed her a box of tissues. Sometimes he really hated his job.
“No matter what I did, Glen could never hate me enough to take Emily. We’d been together like forever.”
“What if you’re wrong? He must have been pretty upset by your betrayal—reason enough to hurt you or Professor Michaelson.”
She hung her head. “Glen was hurt that I cheated on him, okay. But he didn’t want children. Not then. Maybe not ever.”
“Men grow up. They change their minds.”
“Why are you treating me like a suspect? I’m a victim. I had nothing to do with my baby’s disappearance. And neither did Glen.”
“I’ve told you this before. When a child goes missing, more often than not, the reason is close to home.”
Christine lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes still watery. “I’m sorry for all the mistakes I made. I want another chance. Just find my daughter, Detective Radhauser. Please.”
There were things about Christine that appeared suspicious, but Brandy had run home minutes after Emily disappeared and found Christine packing a picnic. She wouldn’t have had time to dispose of Emily and get home that quickly. Officers had searched the house and both cars. Christine may be a liar and a lousy mother, but she didn’t kidnap Emily unless she had help. “Can you think of anyone who might want Emily? Someone who shows a lot of interest in her. A jealous friend. A relative who wanted a baby. Someone who had a child die recently. Or—”
“Tanya,” she said. “Her baby died last summer from SIDS.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Buchanan. She lives on Orchid Street. Up by the university. I don’t think she’d hurt Emily. She loves her. But…”
“But what?”
“I don’t know. She’s always on my case. Maybe she’s jealous that Emily lived and Samantha didn’t. Oh my God.” She stood. “I have to go talk to her.”
“Sit down.”
She did.
“Interviewing Ms. Buchanan is my job.” Radhauser added Tanya’s name and address to the people he still needed to interview. “When you make that list of names, include anyone who might want to hurt you or your husband.”
“Daniel already made a list.”
“Make your own. I understand there may be some overlap.” Radhauser glanced at his watch. “I’ve kept you long enough. You should go home now.”
Christine stood. “I’m sorry. I know you’re doing your job. But please, even if you think I’m a lousy mother, you have to find her.”
“We are doing everything in our power to bring Emily home.” He walked her to the station door, opened it, and stood watching as a group of a half dozen or more reporters blocked Christine’s path.
A young man in khakis and a flannel shirt thrust a microphone in front of her face. “Have there been any new developments, Mrs. Michaelson?”
She said nothing.
A female reporter, high heels clicking on the pavement, nudged her way to Christine’s right side. “Has the kidnapper made contact?”
A second man maneuvered to her left. “Were you given a polygraph? Do the police consider you a suspect?”
She busted through them, splitting the group in half as adeptly as a linebacker. And then she kept walking, head up, her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans.
Radhauser returned to his desk. He leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut, trying to conjure up an image of Emily that might evoke a sense of whether she was dead or alive. Behind his eyelids, he saw only darkness.
* * *
A brass bell jingled when Brandy opened the door to Pivorotto’s Toy Pavilion. She hurried down the aisle of wooden shelves housing colorful boxes of sailing ships, planes, and model cars, her heart drumming inside its cage. This could be the lead they needed to find her sister. She ran past the menagerie of stuffed giraffes, hippos, dragons, and alligators, to the counte
r where a two-foot high monkey that played cymbals and marched when you wound him up stood beside the cash register. The store smelled like peppermint candy and the vinyl skin of new dolls—like those long-ago Christmases with Kathleen and her father.
Mr. Pivorotto glanced up at her from behind the counter where he frowned at a stack of invoices. He was a little man, not much taller than Brandy, and wore a silky red shirt, a black polka dot bow tie, and a tan leather blazer old enough to belong to one of the Beatles. He had a dark mustache so thin that it could have been drawn with the eyeliner Christine never let Brandy borrow. The moustache curled up on the ends into fat little apostrophes. His hair had started to thin on top, even more than her dad’s. At least he didn’t try to comb it over his bald spot. His dark eyes twinkled. He looked exactly like a man who should own a toyshop.
“I’m sorry about the Pooh,” he said. “I would have called to see if you wanted me to order another one, but I didn’t know your last name.”
A long model train, with a steam engine and a bright green caboose loaded with Beanie Babies, circled the store on a shelf near the high ceiling. Every ten minutes or so it let out a long, low whistle and a puff of steam rose from the smokestack.
She waited for the whistle to stop, then told him her last name.
“I could have one here in two weeks. Will that be in time for the little one’s birthday?” Despite his small body, he had a big, booming voice that filled all the space in the empty store.
“My sister was kidnapped yesterday in Lithia Park.”
“Good Lord,” he said, his voice suddenly smaller. “That little girl on the news. She’s your sister?”
Brandy nodded.
He glanced toward the flyers she clutched in her hands. “I’m sorry about your sister. But surely you can’t expect me to post those here. I can’t draw attention to a kid taken so close to my toy store.”
Brandy took a step back. She couldn’t believe it. This was the first opposition to the flyers she’d encountered. She thrust three flyers in front of his face. “Do you want me to tell the police you won’t cooperate with a kidnapping investigation?”
When Time Is a River Page 18
