Little Girl Lost

by Addison Moore

  The whoop of a police siren fills the night air as a flashing red light strobes through the darkness. “That would be Richard.” He nods past me as I make my way outside. Richard Olsen, my first cousin on my mother’s side, is a bona fide police officer, and right about now, I’m damn glad he is.

  “James.” He jogs around his patrol vehicle and offers me a hearty embrace. Something about the sight of that heavy, weighty black and white parked in my driveway makes all of this real and sends a whole new shrill of fear bumping up my spine.

  Richard looks the same since the last time we met—dark crimson hair, same pale freckled face as my mother. Tears come to my eyes, and I give a hard blink trying to stave them off. The Olsens all carry on the Irish traditions as far as those rosy features go, that hair of fire as my mother called it. She once called me her little dark knight who rushed into her life to save the day. How I wish I could have saved the day when we lost Wilson and Rachel—Aston, too, but that was my boneheaded move and one I will never forgive myself for. My mother, however, forgave me right off the bat, stoic and stiff as if she had no say in the matter. Live twice as hard for the both of you, she charged me with. As an unemployed civil engineer with a wandering eye and a badly misplaced daughter, I’d say I was fucking up for the both of us instead. And I’m sure as hell no hero—least of all to my own daughter.

  We head inside and Allison and I give him a detailed description of both Reagan and Ota. Alarmingly, Richard asks more questions about Ota than he does Reagan.

  “We don’t think she has anything to do with this,” Allison mumbles through the tissue wadded up over her mouth. “She’s a little kid for God’s sake.” Her eyes bulge crimson and swollen as if I took a baseball bat to her, and I cringe because that’s what this surreal pain amounts to in the end.

  Before Rich has the chance to offer any comfort, my father escorts a petite woman with a mop of dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a heavy frown this way.

  Rich stands to greet her. “James, Allison, this is detective McCafferty who will be assisting us this evening.”

  “Detective?” Allison squawks. “We don’t need to open up an investigation. What we need is to send an officer knocking on every damn door in this town!”

  I wrap my arm around my trembling wife as I pull her in. “I agree. Let’s get people combing the area. Have Ota’s parents called in yet?”

  “No.” Detective McCafferty kneels next to Allison, studying her face as if examining a corpse. Allison is a beautiful, strong woman, and something about the way this chick in her gray zoot suit is sizing her up makes me feel like I want to punch a hole through every wall in this house. “I’ll call the schools and see if there’s a student who goes by that name. It might have been a misunderstanding. We should work well together as long as there are no secrets between us. Every little detail could help bring home your daughter.”

  “I agree.” Ally nods. “The girl’s name—it isn’t Ota,” she says it slow like the vital information it’s panning out to be, and that knot in the pit of my stomach gets a little tighter. “It was Otatay or something like that. I remember thinking it sounded like pig Latin. But she mentioned everyone called her Ota.”

  Allison and I give them a detailed description of the girl, along with the odd detail of what Allison calls her affinity for Easter dresses.

  I strip a few frames of Reagan’s pictures and give one each to Rich and Detective McCafferty. “She’s a sweet kid.” My voice breaks as I swallow down the painful knife in my throat. “So now what do we do?”

  Rich looks over his shoulder at a couple of patrol cars that have pulled up to the front of the house. “I’ll have my guys comb the woods. McCafferty will call the schools like she said, and I’ll run a scan on that name. It’s unique, so if she’s ever been in a talent show, science fair, Girl Scout troop—we’ll know about it soon.”

  McCafferty steps in, only a little more than half his height as she sheds a crimson-lipped smile. Her skin is pale, pulled back too tight, and there’s something corpse-like about her in general. “Why don’t you comfort your wife? I should have information to you in about an hour or so.” She scowls over at Allison as if she didn’t harbor one good thought about my wife. “Maybe get her a glass of water. She looks like she needs it.”

  She fucking needs vodka, but I don’t say a word. Instead, I do as I’m told and Allison nearly knocks the glass out of my hand.

  “Are you kidding? Our daughter is out there somewhere. She could be wandering the hills freezing, hungry, and afraid.” Her voice hikes to terrible heights on its way to the stratosphere. “We can’t just sit around all night and hope for the best. Nobody is going to look for her the way we will.”

  She snaps the keys off the table before pulling the heavy flashlight from the hall closet. “Are you coming with me or what?”

  Both Rich and McCafferty give a subtle shake of the head as if advising against it.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Reagan is out there.

  I’ll be damned if I’m not looking for her.

  * * *

  All night and well into the morning, Allison and I scour the back hills beyond our property, scaring off coyotes and raccoons alike, looking into the startled eyes of a small mountain lion, but there’s not a single sign of human life.

  At about five thirty, while the sun is busy flirting with the horizon, I drive us home and Allison does a thorough room search in the event Reagan has decided to turn this into a game.

  “That little demon she’s with probably talked her into playing some twisted version of hide-and-seek.” She drops her head into her hands and sobs convulsively.

  “Come here.” I pull her in and carefully stagger us over to the bedroom. “Lie down. I’ll make some coffee and call Rich. He said I could reach him anytime.”

  “Good.” Her tired eyes look up at me with hope for the first time in hours. “The detective said she’d call the schools. Call her, too. Tell them to screw the red tape. We’ll head over to where this Ota girl lives ourselves. I don’t want anything to get bogged down in some shitty police protocol. Reagan is scared and she needs us.”

  “Will do.” I plant a wet kiss over her forehead and help her lie onto the mattress before heading downstairs. In the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee hits my senses, and for a brief moment I expect to find Reagan playing the part of barista. She’s been known to whip up a cup of cocoa on the Keurig. She knows how it works. I’ve seen her make a cup of tea for Allison on occasion. But it’s not Reagan whipping up anything spectacular. It’s my father dressed in an unremarkable sweater vest, his corduroy pants a little too baggy. It’s fair to say he’s dropped a little weight since Mom passed, and if my lack of appetite is any indication of what happens when you’ve lost your mind, then I suppose I’m not too far behind on wasting away to skin and bone.

  “What’s going on?” He whistles out a quick tune and I stop short. My father has been an impenetrable bastard when it comes to dealing with death, with unimaginable situations in general. The day my sister died he whistled long into the night while my mother screamed as if her flesh were on fire. That whistling of his unnerved my brothers and me to no end, but that was simply who he was, the whistling bastard. He did it the night Wilson died as well. In all fairness, my father is prone to whistle on most days, but the fact he chose those occasions and this one above all of them offends me.

  “I’m making coffee.” I blow past him and retrieve a mug for Ally.

  “I beat you to it.” There’s a rise in his inflection that grates on me.

  “Why are you so damn happy?” I pluck the creamer from the fridge and the sight of Reagan’s thermos stops me cold.

  “I’m not happy, son. You know that. I’m trying to help you out. I thought I could—”

  “Well, you can’t.” I shut the fridge with a slap. “Look, Reagan is missing. If Allison hears you down here dancing around, whistling fucking Dixie, she’s bound to run after you with a ha
tchet. She’s losing her mind and so am I.”

  His forehead erupts with thick lines, but it’s my agitation, not Reagan’s disappearance that’s sponsored them, and it pisses me off. “You’ll find her. Reagan is probably off having the time of her life.”

  “She’s six for God’s sake!” My voice riots throughout the cavernous space. “She’s not sixteen.” I tone it down a notch as I make a quick cup for Ally. “Reagan is a little girl. She’s scared is what she is. She’s in a new state, with a girl she’s only known for five minutes.”

  “Then why in God’s name did the two of you let her run off like that?” His voice comes at me hungry with accusation. “Any fool knows you don’t let your kid head to some stranger’s house for the night. I don’t care how comfortable you felt with the little demon she was playing with.”

  Little demon. That’s exactly what Ally called her upstairs. “Look, nobody is accusing the little girl of anything. As far as we know, she’s a victim in all this just like Reagan. They probably went off for a little adventure and got lost.” Who am I kidding. My mind skipped to the worst-case scenario as soon as Allison staggered out the door last night—a band of hippies, an evil man with nefarious intentions.

  “But who is this little girl? Where did she come from?” His voice peaks in an odd manner as if those were lines from a play and we were starring in some bad summer stock. Nobody grates on me like my father. I have never understood why. Yes, he was oppressive as hell to live with, but you’d think I’d be over it by now.

  It’s best I leave him before my coffee finds its way to his face.

  I tread lightly upstairs, only to find Ally fast asleep. I head back down and plant myself on the couch next to my father, putting in a call to both Rich and McCafferty. About an hour later, they both show up on my doorstep looking like shit and I offer them a cup of coffee.

  “No, thanks.” Rich bows his head at my father as we make our way to the sofa.

  “I’m fine, too.” McCafferty pulls out a paper and pen, old school, and something about that technological setback makes me wonder about the care my daughter’s case is getting. Case. My blood runs cold at the thought of Reagan’s picture plastered on telephone poles, on milk cartons for God’s sake.

  McCafferty looks up at me with those stone-cold eyes, her features unmovable like a death mask. “I contacted every school district in the state.”

  “The state?” A fist builds in my throat because instinctively I know this isn’t going to end well.

  “Private and public. There’s not a teacher who’s heard of a child who goes by the name of Ota—Otatay or anything like that.” She glowers at me a moment as if I had the audacity to make the whole thing up. “We’d like to send a sketch artist to the house this afternoon to work with you on a composite.”

  “Yes, of course.” My pulse runs wild. Holy shit. Little demon is right. “You think this was a setup?” I look to Rich with his plain open face, and for a moment I can see my mother in his features and I fight the urge to bawl. For so long after she died I wished it were my father instead. I have always imagined he would go first and, somehow, he had weaseled his way out of my death fantasy scenario. I bet he was whistling Dixie the second that impact took her life.

  “A setup?” Rich looks to McCafferty as if asking for permission. “It’s too soon to tell. You mean one of those child porn rings or something?”

  “Shit.” I slap my forehead because for fuck’s sake the thought of someone harming my baby in that way hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Rich pulls my hand away. “It’s not like that. My boys are still combing those woods. The fire department has pitched in, and we’ve got a volunteer league that’s due to meet at the Boys and Girls Club in a few hours. You want to be there for that?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’d better stick around and make sure Ally’s okay. We’re going to want to keep looking ourselves. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

  “Good.” McCafferty clicks the tip of her pen. “I need you to tell me a few things about yourselves.”

  “Such as?”

  “Have the two of you had any marital problems lately?”

  I shoot a quick glance to my father. So help me God, if he starts whistling away, I’m going to throttle him myself. “No, of course not. Nothing out of the norm. We’re here, excited about our move. I’m looking for work.”

  “So you’re unemployed,” she says, jotting it down as if it were a point of interest.

  “Yes, but so is half the damn country.”

  “And your wife?” She never looks up from that yellow notepad.

  “She’s staying at home. She used to work real estate for a time before we moved, but we agreed we didn’t want nannies raising our child. She’s been home ever since.”

  “And she’s happy with this arrangement?” McCafferty scowls up at me as if I’ve imprisoned my wife to a form of servitude.

  “Yes, she’s happy.” The words spit out like razors. “Up until last night, we were both very fucking ecstatic.”

  “Calm down,” Rich whispers. Rich has always been the levelheaded one, the voice of reason, but at this moment he feels more like the devil’s advocate. Between my father’s chipper mood and Rich’s command for me to cool it, I’m about to shoot through the roof.

  “Are there any weapons in the home?” McCafferty gives the place a quick once-over as if she might see one.

  “Yes, I’ve got a gun with a hair trigger sitting on Reagan’s nightstand. No—I don’t have any guns. Allison and I both frown on it. We had a security system at the house back in L.A. We didn’t think we needed one here.”

  “You didn’t think you needed one?” Her penciled in brows rise into her forehead, giving her an alien appeal, and it unnerves me.

  “Concordia is safe—or so we thought.” I lean into the sofa, good and pissed at the fact I ever ventured out this way. What the hell was I thinking? You could smell the stench of death all the way back to L.A. on a clear breezeless night. Deep in my heart, I knew it was a mistake before the suggestion ever left my lips.

  “It is safe.” McCafferty clicks her pen shut and leans in with those sad, drooping hound dog lids. “Or at least it was until last night.”

  “We’ll know more this afternoon.” Rich slaps me on the knee and rouses me from my stupor. “The first forty-eight hours are critical in an investigation like this. Just keep those prayers going up. My mom has the entire damn town on bended knee.”

  “Good to know. Thanks, man—appreciate it.”

  The four of us walk outside, and I watch as McCafferty hops into her midsized SUV and whips out of the driveway.

  “You like her?” I nod to the dust she left in her wake. I’m not sure why I don’t have an easy feeling about the woman, but something about her rubs me the wrong way.

  “She’s good people. Means well. A little butch if you ask me, but that’s just how she rolls. She’ll get to the bottom of things, though, and that’s what you want. That woman knows her shit. There’s never been a case in Concordia she hasn’t cracked.”

  “How many missing children have you had around these parts?” I didn’t really need to ask the question. I already know the answer.

  “None up until yesterday. But the girl knows her stuff. Mark my words. She’s going to have a solid lead before the sun goes down.”

  “She’d better have two solid little girls.” Dad nods to Rich before ducking back into the house and out of the icy air.

  It’s so cold out Reagan could have frozen to death last night. I wait until the door shuts tight before stepping in close to Rich.

  “What was up with those questions?”

  “Just routine, man.” He slaps at the back of his neck and his face lights up like a plum. “She asked me a few things in the hall, but in all honesty I don’t know the two of you well enough to answer any of it. What have we seen of each other? A few holidays here and there? I told her to ask you herself. It’s not so b
ad. She has to do a thorough investigation.”

  “Of what, us? Dude, there’s some motherfucking maniac out there—”

  He raises a hand and winces. “And that cussing of yours. I get it. You’re on the brink, but I’d hate for you to give her the wrong impression.”

  “What do you mean the wrong impression?” It takes all of my self-control not to knock him back into that patrol car and remind him there’s an angry, hostile world he’s sworn to protect and serve. “I get it. Life moves at a snail’s pace around here and old school values and morals still reign supreme, but so do perverts and you’d be a salty son of a bitch too if your daughter was out there somewhere and you didn’t have a clue.” I give his tire a kick before thrashing my shoe into his front bumper. “You fucking piece of shit.”

  Rich waits until I settle down, remaining calm, cool, and collected like he always is, like he always has been. “You know where the Boys and Girls Club is. We’re starting the meeting at noon. Bring your wife. Everyone’s looking forward to meeting her.”

  “I will.” I scratch the back of my head and watch as he gets into his comfortable car and pulls out of the driveway with that comfortable look on his face.

  Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was whistling Dixie.

  * * *

  Noon comes like a bastard without my daughter and both Allison and I force ourselves to throw some fresh clothes on and drive down to the Boys and Girls Club. The lot is brimming with cars and so is the overflow in the street. A police officer stands in the middle of the intersection directing traffic and flags us over.

  I roll down my window as he slows me to a stop. “You here for the missing kids?”