A young man in khakis and a dark blue turtleneck grabbed Radhauser’s arm. He had a small notebook in his right hand, a pencil behind his ear. “I’m Quinton with the Medford Tribune. Are you the lead investigator?”
“I’m working on the case,” Radhauser said. Again, he scanned the crowd.
Quinton nodded toward the memorial—still guarded by two officers. “I heard a scream. Why are the police keeping the press away?”
“We need to examine the gifts. Sometimes the kidnapper leaves a message.”
“Did you find anything?” Quinton asked.
“Just a lot of love for Emily Michaelson. And you can imagine how painful this is for her mother.”
Quinton cocked his head. “So, Mrs. Michaelson was the one who screamed.”
“The officers will be finished in a few minutes and you can get your photograph.”
“Do you have any new leads?”
Again, Radhauser scanned the crowd. “We’re working on several, but divulging details to the press at this point could hinder the case. If you’ll excuse me, Quinton. My four-year-old is about to perform.”
At exactly 8p.m., Gracie and several other mothers herded up three and four-year-old kids and marched them, single-file, onto the stage. Each child wore dark pants, a white shirt, and held a battery-powered candle. The moon slipped behind a bank of clouds, and the light from the stars overhead seemed to thicken and gather like smoke.
When the stage lights dimmed, Gracie took his hand, but her gaze never left the stage. His fingers entwined around hers, grateful not only for her but for the daughter she’d given him. And for the way their presence in his life had eased some of his grief over Laura and Lucas.
On stage, the children clutched their candles in both hands, the flickering bulb just under their chins. Their small faces radiated in the golden light. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lizzie, who noticed him watching and waved.
Ms. Frazer, the preschool teacher, stepped up to the piano. She wore black pants and a gray, cowl neck sweater. Her short auburn hair had an unexpected streak of gray, like a lightning flash through the crown of her head. He’d heard it was the mark of a feisty and temperamental woman. She played a piano introduction and the children began to sing. This Little Light of Mine. Their voices were as fragile as the bubbles he blew for Lizzie to chase around the backyard. And as easily snuffed out.
He tried to make the morbid thoughts go away. No one wanted to believe a person you loved could vanish forever. He tightened his grip on Gracie’s hand.
When the preschoolers’ song was over, Radhauser made a brief presentation to the crowd, asking for anyone’s help who may have been in Lithia Park between 3 and 3:40p.m. on Saturday. He announced the hotline number, mentioned the child’s birthday party held in the park, and asked that anyone who’d seen a person dressed in a Pooh bear costume please come forward and call the hotline. The number flashed across the screen beneath Emily’s photo.
After he finished, he stood beside Gracie who’d lifted Lizzie onto her shoulders. Ordinarily he would have taken her, but now that he knew the kidnapper had been in the park, he wanted freedom to run at a moment’s notice.
A minister from the local Methodist church gave a brief prayer, asking everyone to light their candles and bow their heads. He implored God to help bring Ashland’s little girl back safely.
While hundreds of candles burned, Brandy and Stone stepped onto the stage. They both wore black jeans and white shirts with long sleeves. Brandy’s jeans were tucked into a pair of black cowboy boots. She had on a black Stetson with an ornate silver chain around the crown. Stone’s was white.
She sat on a high wooden stool, bent over her guitar, tuning it with so much focus that Radhauser felt as if he should look away. But he couldn’t. He thought about her scars, the way she sat sideways on the stool—the left side of her face toward the back of the stage. He thought about all the emotions of today—the fear Emily was dead in that Medford dumpster; the ransom call; and the ensuing disappointment. Coming home to find their house ransacked. Brandy’s open window the point of entry. He didn’t know how she conjured up so much strength.
Stone announced their song was one Brandy had written for Emily.
Brandy kept her head down while he talked. Though the scarred side of her face was nearly invisible to the audience, she reached up as if by instinct and smoothed her hair over her left cheek.
Stone beat a soft rhythm on his guitar and tapped his foot against the wooden floor. They played some chords together, then he moved the microphones closer to their faces.
Brandy lifted her head and sang. The wind carried her words.
I’ve heard love can conquer anything,
Be a fortress in the storm.
It can lift you to the mountaintop,
And hold you safe and warm.
Holy shit, Radhauser thought. The kid had a voice. And not just a singing-in-the-school-choir voice. Brandy Michaelson had a flat-out-grab-the-heart-and-rock-the-world kind of voice. The kind of voice that could make scars disappear. Make even the coldest heart melt a little.
When the world is dark with sorrow,
And you think it’s yours alone,
With doubt and fear assaulting,
Only love can bring you home.
The song was somewhere between country western and folk. As her singing soared and then came back, Brandy seemed oblivious to everything except the sound her fingers and voice made. She sang as if a door in her heart broke open and there was no one in the audience except Emily and God. She was all breath and sound—a shiver up the back of Radhauser’s neck, a catch in his throat, and a reminder of everything beautiful and easily lost.
And now our prayers for Emily,
Are lifted loud and high.
In hopes that she will find them
In the stars that light her sky.
In her clear pitch, there rang so much sadness and loneliness that Radhauser wondered how she could continue to sing. Or how he could continue to breathe and still listen. He had no idea this kid was so gifted.
So, in this night of crisis, Lord,
When she’s scared and all alone,
We beg you, Father, please,
Please love her safely home.
Brandy stopped singing.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Radhauser closed his eyes, trying to hold on to the incredible feeling she’d provoked for as long as he could. With the last notes of her song still ringing in the cool night air, it was a magical moment—one when time literally seemed to float above them. A moment when anything seemed possible. Even finding Emily alive.
When he opened his eyes, his first thought was about his son, about Lucas, and how much he’d wanted to be a rodeo cowboy. It was the dream of his boyhood. Who knew that dream would disappear? Out of nowhere, Radhauser was walloped again with the powerful grief of missing his boy. Had he lived, Lucas Radhauser would be twenty-three years old now—a grown man. But for his father, Lucas had been forever frozen as a thirteen-year-old boy.
He sighed.
The moment passed.
A man started to clap, a soft respectful sound. A woman joined in, then another until the audience went wild, roaring, stomping their feet and whistling, like in the sixties at a Beatles concert.
In the commotion, Brandy put her guitar into its case, stepped off the stage and disappeared behind it.
Radhauser hurried to the back of the stage where he found Brandy sitting on the ground, her head in her hands. He stopped in front of her, touched her shoulder, and waited for her to look up at him.
When she did, her eyes were puddled with tears.
“What you did up there was brave and beautiful.”
“Maybe.” Her tears spilled over. “But what good did it do? It won’t bring Emily back.” She stood and started to walk away, but stopped when she spotted her stepmother. Brandy looked as if a truckload of pain barreled straight toward her.
Before Radha
user could stop her, Christine grabbed Brandy and shook her back and forth. “How dare you turn this into a rock concert when my baby is missing.”
“I didn’t mean…I didn’t know anyone would clap. I just…” Brandy stopped talking, as if she knew there was nothing she could say.
“That’s enough,” Radhauser said, grabbing Christine’s wrist and pulling her away.
She jerked her arm free and took a step backward, her gaze tumbling over the playground, her face lifeless.
Brandy stood motionless, before she stumbled backwards.
Gracie, holding Lizzie by the hand, turned the corner and leaped into action. She led Brandy to the back edge of the stage and lowered her into a sitting position. Gracie introduced herself and then sat down beside Brandy and opened her arms. As Brandy seemed to collapse into Gracie’s embrace, he’d never been more proud of his wife.
Christine balled up the hem of her T-shirt in her fists and stared at the ground.
“I know you’re hurting,” he said. “But Brandy had no idea people would applaud. That’s not what she was looking for and I think you know it.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said, her voice quivering. “It’s like I’m not even me any more without Emily.” Her gaze shifted to Lizzie—sitting on the stage beside Brandy—then back to him. “All those people clapping. You have no idea what it feels like to lose your child.”
He looked at her, then turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Brandy returned home from the vigil at a little after 9p.m., Christine sat alone at the kitchen table, red-faced and surrounded by broken pieces of dishes. Brandy pulled out a chair, hoping they could talk. “Where’s Dad?”
“We had a fight,” Christine said. “He stormed out.” Her gaze swept over the broken dinner plates on the floor. “Can you blame him?”
Her father’s car was in the garage, so he couldn’t have gone far.
“Ever since she disappeared,” Christine continued, “I’ve been destroying things and I can’t seem to stop myself.”
In the last thirty hours, her stepmother had become a totally different person.
“It’s okay,” Brandy said. “I understand how you felt about the applause. I didn’t expect it to happen. I sang because I hoped it would make people rally around and help us find Emily.” She stood, got the whiskbroom and dustpan from beneath the sink, and cleaned up the broken dishes. After dumping them into the trashcan, she returned to the kitchen table.
Christine said nothing. She drew in a long, shaky sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. It was the cheering, like they were all so happy, holding onto their kids’ hands. What kind of a person would leave those sweet curls for a mother to find?”
Brandy didn’t have an answer.
Christine talked as if she were in some kind of trance. “Half the time I have no idea what I’m saying, because underneath my words there’s so much fear. It’s Emily. Every minute. Emily.” Christine stood, laid her hand over her chest, and walked away.
The shower came on.
Brandy sat alone at the kitchen table and stared at the phone equipment the police had installed. The kidnapper had made no attempt to pick up the ransom money or deliver Emily. He wanted the stuffed animals. Did that mean he wouldn’t call again?
She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she picked up her guitar case and tiptoed into her bedroom. Sitting on the bed for a few minutes, she studied the corkboard with her pathetic little 3 x 5 cards. She thought about the vigil, feeling more alone than ever. If only her mother had lived, she’d understand how hard Brandy had tried, how much she loved Emily, and how she’d done something stupid, but not because she’d wanted to hurt her little sister.
Exhausted, she fell back against her pillows and fingered the quilted surface of her flowered bedspread. She watched the moon as it rose like a face in her window. Then she remembered the photo album with pictures of her and her mother. Together.
Brandy got up, pulled out her dresser drawer and removed the box containing her parents’ wedding album. Inside, she found a leather book, white as an Easter lily. In the bottom right corner the words, Daniel and Rose Michaelson, June 10, 1978, were embossed in gold leaf.
She pressed her face into her arm to stifle her joy. She wanted to reach out and feel the skin of her mother’s thin arms, close her eyes and hear the musical sounds of laughter, of Rose Michaelson singing in the garden. Maybe now that she had the album she really could make her mother come back to life.
With each flip of the page, time ran backwards to a place when Rose Michaelson lived and Brandy didn’t. A time when her mother was so in love that the mere photographs made Brandy’s throat ache with a desire to touch this woman she had never really known.
The first page, the one used to record the specifics of the day, had been carefully removed. A thin, ragged strip of parchment peeked from the binding.
Brandy dawdled over it, certain her dad had taken it out. She wondered what information it could have held that he didn’t want known. The names of their bridesmaids and groomsmen. He didn’t want Brandy to find any of her mother’s friends. But why?
In the first shot, her mother peered into an oval mirror, her face smooth and flushed peach at the cheekbones with the extraordinary joy of her wedding day. She wore a lace slip, long and elaborate as a bride’s beaded gown. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in loose mahogany curls. Sparks spilled from her blue eyes, and they were so bright Brandy could almost see the burst of laughter that must have come after the shutter clicked.
She turned to the back of the album and the photographs of three-year-old Brandy with her mother. It was incredible how much the little girl in those photos looked like Emily—the resemblance so striking. In the photos, both Brandy’s cheeks were flushed and flawless.
In four shots she sat beside her mother in the thick grass in front of a garden. They wore matching yellow sundresses. In all the photographs, her mother looked at the camera. But Brandy was turned, ever so slightly, her gaze on her mother. There were green hills in the background, all of them covered with grape vines planted in rows so straight it looked as if they’d been drawn with a ruler.
In another photo, Rose stood in a maze of green. She’d lifted Brandy into the air where the photographer caught them—staring into each other’s faces. A mother’s hands, slender, warm braces, that linked them to each other and to the sky that Rose must have believed would forever curve, polished and blue, around them both.
Brandy tried to visualize her mother alive, pressed her hands against her closed eyes until stars blossomed behind her lids. In that different world, the world that held her mother, Brandy wouldn’t know Kathleen, Christine or Emily.
The thought opened her eyes. Unable to imagine a life without her little sister, Brandy sighed and flipped the pages back to a series of photographs by the sea. Her mother was barefoot and wore the same slip she’d worn in the mirror shot. The photographer had caught her running in the sand, hair streaming in dark waves. Her father held her hand, running by her side. He wore black tuxedo pants with bright satin stripes on the sides. He’d removed his shoes, coat, and tie. His white pleated shirt was open at the neck. Wind caught inside the fabric and ballooned out around him.
In the final shot, her mother turned a cartwheel on the sand. Like a white bird caught in flight, the photographer had captured a wildness in her mother’s eyes. Yet at the same time, upside down, she looked fragile and brave. Somewhere within, Brandy felt the passion of that day as if she’d absorbed it. And it was almost too much to comprehend—this peculiar, yet distinct love affair that lifted itself off the photographs and landed so many years later inside the daughter they had not yet conceived.
Again, she studied each one as if it were an opening, a doorway leading to the other side, an unknown world where her mother waited to comfort her now.
She was halfway through her second viewing when she noticed the pendant her mother w
ore. A heart-shaped red stone set between two clear stones. Brandy rushed across the room to her desk, dumped the contents of her drawers onto the floor and rummaged through them until she found her old stamp collection, the magnifying glass still tucked inside the cover.
Her hand shook as she held the thick glass circle over the photograph of her mother’s neck, and a heart-shaped red stone with a diamond on either side emerged. Brandy dropped the magnifying glass. Maybe she was wrong. If it were the same necklace her mother had worn at their wedding, why hadn’t her dad recognized it?
And then she remembered. Her father hadn’t seen it. She’d given it to Detective Radhauser while her dad and Detective Vernon had gone to the hospital to identify the little girl they’d found in Jacksonville.
Brandy’s thoughts jumped from one thing to another so fast she could barely keep up with them. Was it a coincidence? Even if it were the same necklace her mother had worn in the wedding photos, how would the kidnapper have gotten it? Could her mother have given it away before she died? Sold it? But what were the chances it would end up in Ashland?
She pulled the photograph out of the album, slipped it into a manila envelope, opened her window and climbed out, carefully closing it and replacing the screen. Crouching beneath the windows so Christine wouldn’t see her, Brandy made her way to the side door into the garage and grabbed her bicycle. Racing down Granite toward the Plaza, she prayed she wouldn’t run into her father. She needed to bring this new information to Radhauser.
* * *
After Gracie and Lizzie left the memorial, Radhauser returned to his office and sat at his desk in the Ashland Police Department. He stared at the pocked tiles of the drop ceiling, then resumed checking the lists of registrations for late-model Volvo station wagons. He reviewed the notes Corbin and Vernon had made as they called each owner. So far, no one admitted to purchasing the giant Pooh bear. Of course, if that purchase had anything to do with Emily’s kidnapping, the perp would be an idiot to reveal herself.
When Time Is a River Page 23
