by Tami Hoag
She pulled open the door to the garage and gasped at the dark figure of a man standing on the stoop with his fist raised.
“Hannah!”
“Oh, my God! Father Tom! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
The priest offered a sheepish smile. He was young—mid-thirties—tall with an athletic build. Her nurse and friend from the ER, Kathleen Casey, always teased him that he was too good-looking to have taken himself out of the eligible bachelor pool—a joke that never failed to bring a little blush to Tom McCoy's cheeks. Hannah didn't think of him as handsome. The word that came to her when she looked at Father Tom was kind. He had a strong, kind face, kind blue eyes. Eyes that offered understanding and sympathy and forgiveness from behind a pair of round wire-framed glasses.
He had been the priest at St. Elysius for two years and was enormously popular with the younger parishioners. Hardliners found him a little too unconventional for their tastes. Albert Fletcher, St. Elysius's only deacon, was a vocal opponent to what he called “this New Age Catholicism,” but then, Albert was also against women wearing slacks and often hinted that Vatican II was the work of the Antichrist. Paul derisively called Father Tom's off-the-cuff homilies his “lounge act,” but Hannah found them refreshing and insightful. Tom McCoy was a bright, articulate man with a degree in philosophy from Notre Dame and a heart as big as his home state of Montana. On a day as black as this one, she couldn't think of anyone she would rather have as a friend.
“I thought it would be better if I came in this way.” A hint of the West accented his warm voice. “There are an awful lot of people watching your front door.”
“Yes, it's Eyes-on-Hannah-Garrison Day,” she said without humor. “I was just trying to escape for a few minutes.”
“Would you rather I left?” He stepped down to the garage floor, showing his sincerity, giving her the chance to answer honestly. “If you need to be alone—”
“No. No, don't go.” Hannah walked out onto the stoop and listened to the soft hiss of the storm door as it closed behind her. “Alone isn't really what I want, either.”
As her eyes adjusted to the faint gray light, her gaze wandered the cavernous garage, hitting on Josh's bike. Hanging on the wall. Abandoned. Forgotten. A fist of emotion slammed into her diaphragm. She had managed to cocoon herself in numbness all day, as the watchers and well-wishers and sympathizers came and went. But the sight of the dirt bike punched a hole in the gauze, punched a hole in her heart, and the pain came pouring out.
“I just want my son back.”
She sank down on the cold concrete step, her legs buckling as her strength drained away. She might have fallen to the floor if not for Father Tom. He was on the step beside her in an instant, catching her. He slid an arm around her shoulders and held her gently. She turned her face into his shoulder and wept, the tears soaking into the heavy wool of his topcoat.
“I want him back. . . . Why can't I have him back? Why did this have to happen? He's just a little boy. How could God do this? How could God let this happen?”
Tom said nothing. He let Hannah cry, let her ask the questions. He thought she didn't really expect answers, which was just as well, because he didn't have any answers to give. He himself had asked all the same questions of a higher power, and his ears still rang with the silence. He didn't know a better person than Hannah. So gracious, so caring, dedicated to her children and to helping others. Her soul was as good as they came. In a just world, bad things wouldn't happen to people like Hannah or innocent children like Josh. But the world was not a just place. It was a hard place full of random cruelty, a truth that always brought him to question God. If the world is an unjust world, then is God therefore an unjust God? The guilt that accompanied the question was heavy and cold inside him. Blind faith remained beyond his reach. Doubt was his cross to bear.
He couldn't offer Hannah answers, only comfort. He couldn't take away her pain, but he could share it with her. So he sat on the hard, cold step with his arms around her and let her cry, his heart aching for her, his own tears rolling down into the thick tangle of her honey-blond hair. When she had cried herself out he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, edging away from him, lifting her face from his shoulder and turning it away. “I don't cry on people. I don't fall apart and make other people pick up the pieces.”
“I'll never tell,” he promised, gently stroking the back of her head. “I'm a priest, remember?”
Hannah tried to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. She stared down at the handkerchief, her brows drawing together.
“It's clean,” he teased, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “I promise.”
She sniffed and tried to smile. “I was looking at the monogram. F?”
“Christmas gift from a parishioner. F for Father Tom.”
The naïveté of the gesture struck her as sad and sweet and squeezed another pair of tears from her eyes. She wiped them away with the linen and blew her nose as delicately as she could manage. They sat in silence for a while. Night had fallen. The temperature was noticeably dropping. The front security light outside had come on automatically and burned brightly against the dark, warding off danger. What a joke.
“You're entitled to fall apart, Hannah,” Tom said softly. “The rest of us are supposed to lift you up and hold you together. That's the way it works.”
He didn't understand, she thought. The lifting and the holding had always been her jobs. Now that she was the one in pieces, everyone just stared at her and didn't know what to do.
“Has there been any word?”
Hannah shook her head. “I feel so helpless, so useless. At least Paul can go out with the search party. All I can do is wait . . . and wonder . . . This must be what hell is like. I can't imagine anything worse than what's gone through my mind in the last twenty-two hours.”
She rose slowly, went down the steps to the door that opened to the backyard, and stared out the window into the dark. Weak yellow light seeped out the kitchen window, staining the snow. Gizmo lay in the amber rectangle, a huge immobile lump of shaggy hair. Beyond the dog, the shadow of the swing set stood out, black on white, then the yard melted into the thick woods that wrapped around the north end of the lake, giving the neighborhood a sense of seclusion.
“I did my residency at Hennepin County Medical Center,” she said, her voice a flat monotone. “That's a tough ER, a tough part of town, you know. I've seen things . . . the things people can do to one another . . . the things people can do to a child. . . .”
The words faded. She stared out through the window, but Tom could tell she was seeing another place, another time. Her face was strained and pale. He stood beside her and waited quietly, patiently.
“. . . Unspeakable things,” she whispered. Even with the oversize coat, he could tell she was breathing hard, trembling. “And I think of Josh—”
“Don't,” he ordered.
She looked at him sideways and waited. There was no expectation in her eyes, no hope that he would say something that could brighten her perspective. Seldom in his years as a priest had he felt so impotent, so ill equipped to give anything of worth to someone who was suffering. She stared at him and waited, her eyes big and fathomless in the absence of light, her lovely face cast in shadows.
“It won't help,” he said at last. “You're only torturing yourself.”
“I deserve it.”
“Don't say that.”
“Why not? It's true. If I'd been there to pick him up, he would be with us now.”
“You were trying to save a life, Hannah.”
“Kathleen told you that, didn't she?” He didn't answer. He didn't have to; she knew Kathleen too well. “Did she tell you I went 0 for two last night? Ida Bergen died and I lost Josh in the bargain.”
“They'll find him. You have to believe that, Hannah. You have to have faith.”
“I had faith that this would never happen,” she said bitterly. “I'm a
ll out of faith.”
He couldn't blame her. He supposed he should have tried to prod her into retracting the statement. He could have wielded that favorite old Catholic club of guilt, but he didn't have the heart for it. In times like these he had enough trouble hanging on to his own faith. He wasn't hypocrite enough to castigate someone else.
The fire went out of Hannah abruptly. She heaved a sigh and rubbed her mittened hands over her face and back through her hair. “I'm sorry, Father,” she whispered. “I shouldn't—”
“Don't apologize for how you feel, Hannah. You're entitled to react.”
“And rail at God?” Her mouth twisted up at one corner as a new sheen of tears glazed across her eyes.
“Don't worry about God. He can take it.”
He reached out and tenderly brushed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. For the first time Hannah noticed he wasn't wearing gloves. His thumb was cold against her skin. Father Tom, the absentminded. He routinely forgot little things like wearing gloves in freezing weather, eating meals, and getting his hair cut. The trait brought out the maternal qualities in all the women of St. Elysius Parish.
“You forgot your gloves again,” she said, drawing his hand down and holding it between hers to warm it. “You'll end up with frostbite.”
He shook off her concern. “More important things on my mind. I wanted to let you know I'm here for you—for you and Paul.”
“Thank you.”
“I've organized a prayer vigil for Josh. Tonight at eight. I'm praying we won't need it by then,” he added, squeezing her hand tight.
“Me, too,” Hannah whispered. She couldn't tell him that she had the sick, hollow feeling her prayers weren't going anywhere, that the pleas did nothing but bounce around inside her head. She clung to his hand a second longer, desperate to absorb some of his strength and faith.
“Would you like to stay for supper?” she asked, scraping together her manners again, and again need and honesty cut through them. “I have a house full of women who don't know what to do except stare at me and thank their lucky stars they aren't in my shoes,” she confided. “It would be nice to break that up. On the menu we have a variation on the miracle of the loaves and fishes—the miracle of the tuna casseroles. I can't imagine there's a can of tuna left in town.”
“Did Ann Mueller bring the kind with the fried onions on top?” he asked, giving her a gentle comic look of speculation, giving her something other than pity.
“And a pan of crème de menthe brownies.”
He grinned and draped an arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the kitchen door. “Then I'm all yours, Dr. Garrison.”
5:28 P.M. 17°
Mitch walked alone down the hall of Deer Lake Elementary School. Immune to his teasing, Megan had gone off with two of his officers for round two of questioning Josh's hockey buddies and the youth team coaches. Had they seen anything at all? Had Josh talked to them about being afraid of somebody? Had Josh been acting differently? The questions would be asked again and again by this cop, that cop, the next cop, all of them hoping to shake loose a memory. All of them hoping to find some small piece of information that might seem insignificant in itself but fit together with another piece to form a lead. It may have seemed tedious to the people being questioned, and it certainly created mountains of paperwork, but it was necessary.
Mitch had chosen to meet with the schoolteachers and other school personnel for the same purpose. One of his men had already questioned Josh's teacher, Sara Richman. Mitch addressed the entire staff in the cafeteria, conducting the meeting as an informal question-and-answer session. He told them what little he knew, tried to stem the flow of wild rumors, asked them for any information they had. Had anyone been hanging around the school? Had any of the children reported being approached by a stranger?
Mitch studied the faces in the room—the teachers, the cooks, the janitors, the office help—wondering, as a cop, if any one of them could have done this; wondering, as a father, if any of the people who came into contact with his daughter every day could have been a danger to her.
After nearly two hours, he left them to their own discussion of plans for a schoolwide safety assembly, and headed down the long hall for the side door. His head felt like a walnut in a vise. Questions chased each other around and around his brain. Questions with no answers. He had his own staff meeting at six, to talk with his men about what the day had yielded in terms of information, and to brainstorm for ideas. With no real leads and no real suspects, it was difficult to focus the investigation.
As he walked, Mitch couldn't help but notice the miniature lockers that made him feel like a giant, the artwork taped to the walls at his hip level. He caught glimpses of classrooms with pint-size desks. All of it served only to make him more painfully aware of the vulnerability of children.
He had asked to look inside Josh's locker. One of O'Malley's evidence techs had beat him to it, cleaning out Josh's desk and locker of notebooks and textbooks, leaving behind a stash of Gummi Bears and Super Balls and a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo. The detritus of boyhood. Evidence of nothing more than Josh's normalcy and innocence.
Every day this hall was filled with little kids just like Josh, just like his Jessie. It pissed him off to think that all of them would be touched by this crime. Their innocence would be marred like a clean white page streaked by dirty fingers.
Mitch didn't bother to zip his coat as he stepped outside, but he dug his gloves out of his pockets and pulled them on. Day had yielded to night. Security lights shone against the brick walls of the school and illuminated the parking lot at intervals.
The school had been built in 1985 to educate the children of baby boomers and the influx of new families into Deer Lake. The site was on Ramsey Drive, in a newer part of town, just two blocks from the even newer fire station, ensuring disruptions of class every time a fire truck rolled out for duty. The parking lot stretched out before Mitch, edged on two sides by thick rows of spruce trees. The playground sprawled across three acres just to the west. A handy arrangement for parents picking up their kids—or for anyone looking to steal a kid.
Now everywhere Mitch looked he saw hazards, potential for danger, where before he had seen only a nice, neat, quiet town. The knowledge served only to darken his mood. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he headed for the Explorer.
The truck sat alone in the second row, just out of reach of a light. Mitch stuck the key in the lock of the door, his mind already on the meeting to come and the night beyond that. He wanted to make it to his in-laws before eight o'clock, before Joy could get Jessie into pajamas. He wanted his daughter home with him tonight. A brief oasis of normalcy before another day of madness and frustration.
As he moved to open the truck's door, something caught his eye, something out of place, something on the hood.
Even as he turned, the reaction began—the rush of adrenaline, the tightening of nerves, the instincts coming to attention. Even as he reached for the spiral notebook, his heart was pounding.
He picked it up gingerly, pinching the wire spine between left thumb and forefinger, lifting the opposite edge with the tip of his right forefinger. The cover was dark green, decorated with the image of Snoopy as Joe Cool. Printed in Magic Marker across the top was “Josh Kirkwood 3B.”
Mitch swore. His hands were shaking as he eased the book back down on the hood. He went into the truck and returned with a flashlight and a slim gold pen. Using the pen, he opened the notebook and turned the pages.
Nothing remarkable, just a little boy's doodling. Drawings of race cars and rocket ships and sports heroes. Notes about kids in his class. A boy named Ethan who puked during music—He herled chunks all over Amy Masons shoes! A girl named Kate who tried to kiss him at his locker—gross! gross! gross! On one page he had carefully traced the Minnesota Vikings' logo and drawn a jersey with the number twelve and the name KIRKWOOD in block letters.
A little boy's dreams and secrets. And tucked in before the fin
al page, a madman's message.
i had a little sorrow, born of a little SIN
CHAPTER 11
* * *
DAY 2
8:41 P.M. 16°
Hannah took one look at the notebook, turned chalk white, and sank into the nearest chair. It was Josh's, no question. She knew it well. He called it his “think pad.” He carried it everywhere—or had.
“He lost it,” she murmured, rubbing her fingers over the plastic evidence bag, wanting to touch the book. Something of Josh. Something his kidnapper had tossed back at them. A taunt. A cruel flaunting of power.
“What do you mean, he lost it?” Mitch asked, kneeling beside her, trying to get her to look at him instead of the notebook. “When?”
“The day before Thanksgiving. He was frantic. I told him he must have left it at school,” she said. “But he swore he hadn't. We tore the house apart looking for it.”
She remembered that all too well. Paul had come home from racquetball and blown up at the sight of the mess. His family was coming for Thanksgiving. He wanted the house to be perfect, to rub it in to his relatives how well he had done. He hadn't wanted to waste time looking for a stupid notebook he thought could be easily replaced.
Hannah looked down at that “stupid notebook” now and wanted to hug it to her chest and rock it as if it were Josh himself. She wanted to turn to Paul and ask him how he felt about Josh's stupid notebook now, but Paul had yet to come home. She imagined he had gone straight from the search to the prayer vigil—something she couldn't think of facing. Father Tom had understood. Somehow she knew Paul would not.
“He was upset for days,” she murmured. “It was like losing a diary.”
Megan exchanged looks with Mitch. “He must have found it again, though,” she said. “He must have had it with him last night.”
Hannah shook her head, never taking her gaze off the book lying in her lap. “I never saw it again. I can't believe he wouldn't have told me if he found it.”
