Paradise Falls

by Jacobs, Jonnie

  Suddenly Ty’s mood shifted. “I don’t know. Maybe she just wanted sex.”

  “And you didn’t?” Rayna was having trouble finding the story believable. But maybe she was simply out of touch with this generation. Kimberly’s generation, she thought sadly. If her daughter was alive, would she be scoring points for sex and lording it over her friends? Rayna couldn’t reconcile the image with that of the rosy-cheeked eleven-year-old who was forever etched in her mind.

  “Is that why she broke up with you?” Rayna asked.

  Ty crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the side window. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “What about Karen Holiday? Did she play the game?”

  “I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.” Rayna backed off. “No more sex. Tell me about Caitlin.”

  He shrugged. “She was fun to be around. Smart. Interested in things besides the latest color of nail polish.”

  They were nearing the discount mart and Rayna slowed, stretching out the minutes. “Was Caitlin friends with other guys?”

  “No one special.”

  “I heard something about her and Rob Hardy.”

  Ty’s eyes widened. “What did you hear?”

  “Rob’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Not really. We went to preschool together. Our moms have known each other for a long time. I don’t hang with him much, but sometimes, you know, our families rent a ski condo together or something.”

  Rayna slowed as the stoplight turned yellow, again milking the travel time for all she could get. “When was the last time you saw Caitlin?”

  “Friday. After school. I saw her at volleyball practice.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “No. She was playing. I was just passing by the gym.”

  “But you have talked since you broke up.”

  “Not really.” Ty’s hands twisted in his lap.

  “You never tried to get back together again? Never asked her reasons for breaking up?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “We dated. It was no big deal.”

  Rayna pulled into the mart’s parking lot. She hadn’t fully stopped the car when Ty opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Before she could respond, he was bounding across the pavement toward the store entrance.

  ~~~~

  At the station later that afternoon, Rayna was writing up a report when Chief Stoval leaned into the alcove that was home to the detectives. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “It’s coming along.” If he wanted particulars, she knew he’d ask for them. It wasn’t his style to get involved in the details of a case.

  “I’ve got something you’re not going to like,” he told her.

  Rayna’s heart stopped. “Caitlin’s body has been found?”

  He shook his head. “The FBI’s getting involved.”

  She pushed back her chair to face him directly. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Such language. From a woman, no less.”

  “Who invited them?” Rayna shot back. “We don’t need them. This investigation has just begun.”

  Stoval looked uncomfortable. “We’ve still got Karen Holiday. It’s been five months.”

  “But the two cases might not even be related. The Feebs can’t just come waltzing in on their own. We have to ask for their help.”

  “I know.” He looked at his fingernails, then back to her. “I made the call.”

  “You?” Rayna couldn’t believe it. Stoval wasn’t a hands-on kind of guy. He was great at smiling for cameras and dealing with the press. And at smoothing ruffled feathers in the community. He was good at what he did and he knew enough to leave the field work to others.

  “The mayor asked me to. Phone lines have been jammed all morning with concern about serial killers and madmen in Paradise Falls. Seems the general feeling is that we didn’t do enough to catch Karen’s killer and now he’s struck again.”

  “Seth Robbins. He’s been stirring things up, I bet.”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it. But there’s real worry in the community, too. You and I both know bringing in the FBI probably isn’t going to make a difference, but perception is important. We want to look like we’re on top of it.”

  “We are on top of it.” Rayna fought to control her anger. The mayor was openly wooing voters for a potential congressional bid and rumor had it that Stoval was interested in stepping into the mayor’s slot. The appearance of doing something was important to both of them but it didn’t help Rayna.

  “How about stalling them for another week or so?” she asked.

  Stoval shook his head. “It’s already arranged.”

  Chapter 8

  Grace knew media coverage was helpful when a child was missing, but she’d been ripped so raw by Caitlin’s disappearance she hadn’t been able to muster what it took to be part of the effort. Until today. It remained a struggle, but one Grace felt she needed to make, even though Jake had already been talking to the press. She’d seen him interviewed on the Portland news last evening.

  Now, in less than forty minutes, it would be her turn. Already media vans and unfamiliar cars were jockeying for position in front of the house, although not as many of them as Grace had imagined. And from what she could tell, they were all local. Grace experienced an unexpected pang of disappointment. Had she really expected there to be broader interest? Her own world had been turned on its head, but one more missing teen in a land where children were abducted with alarming regularity wasn’t likely to capture national attention. She felt certain Caitlin’s disappearance wouldn’t even have gotten the attention it had if Karen Holiday hadn’t disappeared first. Serial killer was now a household word in town.

  Carl came into the bedroom where Grace was standing in front of her open closet trying to decide what to wear.

  “You’re sure you’re up to this?” he asked her.

  “It’s something I have to do. The more we can keep Caitlin in the headlines, the better the chances she’ll be found. Maybe the publicity will even frighten whoever took her into letting her go.”

  Carl nodded but his expression was strained. Grace knew he walked a fine line between giving into his own sadness and remaining upbeat for her benefit. And she could read in his eyes how unlikely he found it that Caitlin’s kidnapper would simply let her go.

  “I’ll be there beside you.” He placed his hands on her bare arms. “We’ll do it together.”

  When Carl had gone back downstairs, Grace sat on the edge of the bed. The past forty-eight hours felt surreal. How could something so awful actually be happening to her? Tragic events were what you heard about on the nightly news, not what you lived yourself. Grace had always thought of herself as a survivor, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  She glanced again at the closet and pressed her fingers against her temples. She was going to be on television, pleading for her daughter’s safe return. What did it matter what she wore?

  She went to the closet and grabbed the first thing she found—a pair of charcoal slacks and a blue sweater. One of her standard work outfits, and comfortable. Minutes later, touching up her makeup, she remembered Caitlin had been with her when she bought the sweater.

  It’s a good color on you, Mom. You hardly ever wear blue and you should. It makes your eyes sparkle.

  Grace’s throat closed in a choke hold of emotion and she felt the sting of tears. What if she never saw Caitlin again?

  ~~~~

  Grace stood beside Carl on the front steps of their house and read the brief statement she’d prepared. The glare from the camera lights was disorienting, but she tried to look into the camera often.

  “We implore anyone who has any knowledge of Caitlin’s whereabouts,” Grace concluded, “to come forward, and we beg whoever took her to let her go. Caitlin, we love you.” Grace’s voice cracked. “So much. I miss you and want you home again.”

  Grace pressed her lips t
ogether to keep them from trembling. Her chest felt so tight she could barely breathe.

  “Do you think your daughter’s disappearance is connected to that of Karen Holiday?” one of the reporters asked.

  “Did your daughter know Karen?” another called out.

  “They went to the same school,” Grace said, “but they weren’t friends. They weren’t even in the same grade. As to the first question, that’s something you’d have to ask the police.”

  “Do you think they’re doing enough to find Caitlin?” the first reporter asked.

  “They seem to be doing everything they can.”

  A woman asked, “Do you have any theories about what might have happened or who’s responsible?”

  “No,” Grace replied. “Caitlin is a level-headed girl. She wouldn’t do anything foolish.”

  “Do you think she’s still alive?” called out a voice from the rear.

  Grace had the sensation of a ball of ice rattling through her chest. She felt her lungs might collapse.

  Carl put his arms around her shoulders. “That’s our fervent hope,” he answered for her, then led her back into the house.

  ~~~~

  Later, while Carl worked in his study, Grace wandered aimlessly through the house. She’d spent yesterday in a fugue state of denial, at some level going on as if everything were normal. If she didn’t acknowledge what had happened, maybe it would go away. She’d tried instead to focus on Lucy and Adam and making sure they were okay. But inside a panther had been gnawing at her heart.

  And today it was more voracious than ever.

  Grace found herself now in Caitlin’s room. Her gaze fell on the collage of photos Caitlin had framed on her wall. It had been an eighth-grade English assignment initially, but in typical Caitlin fashion, she’d taken the idea beyond the parameters of the classroom.

  There was a photo of Caitlin and Jake taken on Caitlin’s first birthday. She wore a silly party hat and had a face smeared with cake. Another photo showed Caitlin at seven in the garden with her grandmother. It had been taken soon after Grace’s divorce, when her mother’s small townhouse seemed like the only safe haven she knew. And one of Grace’s favorite photos, a headshot of Caitlin and herself, cheek to cheek, both smiling broadly. People said they looked alike. Grace had trouble seeing that. Maybe a faint resemblance through the eyes, but Grace knew with certainly that she’d never been as lovely as her daughter.

  Caitlin had put together a second photo collage more recently. It was filled with snapshots of her friends. Fern Daniels, who had been Caitlin’s best friend for years before she’d moved away, and some of her newer friends—Traci Redding Jenna Priestly, and a handful of other familiar faces Grace couldn’t come up with names for. And Ty Cross. Ty was a good-looking boy, what in her day had been called “a catch.” But she’d been secretly pleased when Caitlin broke off the relationship. Grace was a little surprised that Caitlin hadn’t removed Ty’s photo from the collection.

  Looking at the spread of Caitlin’s life before her, Grace felt again the gnawing fear in her gut.

  Caitlin had to be alive. She simply had to be.

  Chapter 9

  Monday morning, Grace went to work. Anything was better than sitting at home paralyzed with fear and waiting for the phone to ring. But the routine of her job offered no solace at all.

  The Dean’s office bustled with its usual activity, and although her co-workers were quick with hugs and sympathy, they eventually drifted off to share news of their weekends and families. Grace felt as though she were entombed in glass, more alone than ever.

  She settled at her desk with a cup of coffee and tried to focus on the tasks at hand. Normally, she enjoyed her job. She liked the energy of the office, the rhythm of the work, the sense of teamwork. But today she found herself growing angry. Angry at her associates for having uninterrupted lives. Angry at the students for being alive and safe. Angry at the mounds of paper and multiple forms that tracked class schedules and GPAs and petitions for candidacy. She knew she was being unreasonable, but the more she tried to rein in her annoyance, the more irritated she became.

  She was talking with a particularly perky, gum-chomping sophomore about a schedule change when the girl’s phone rang.

  “Hi, Maya,” she said, cutting Grace off mid-sentence. “Yeah, I can’t talk long. I’m in the Dean’s office trying to get out of that sucky psych class.”

  Grace waited for her to hang up, but she didn’t. “That’s so cool,” the girl said into the phone. “He really said that?”

  Grace drummed her fingers on the counter. The girl ignored her. Grace ripped the request form in half and handed it back.

  The girl looked startled. “What’s your problem, lady?”

  “You, for starters. It’s rude to be carrying on a conversation with your friend at the same time you’re talking to me.”

  “I wasn’t exactly talking to you,” the girl replied. She brushed her bangs from her eyes with a dismissive flip of her wrist.

  “You know what you are?” Grace said, her voice rising. “You’re a shallow, immature, self-centered brat.”

  “What did you call me?” The girl’s voice had risen even louder than Grace’s and the entire office was staring at them.

  Grace’s hands shook. She thought she might throw up. What was happening to her? It was as if some alien had crawled inside her and taken over.

  Dean Johnson stuck his head into the front office. He called to one of the women, “Marcia, can you help this young lady?” Then he put a hand on Grace’s elbow and took her aside.

  “Go on home,” he told her kindly. “You didn’t need to come to work today. We all understand what you must be going through.”

  She shook her head. Johnson was a kind man, popular with students and faculty alike. But he couldn’t understand. No one could unless they’d been there themselves.

  “Take some time off,” he suggested. “You’ve got more important things to deal with right now than the stuff that goes on here.”

  “I thought work would be good for me,” Grace replied bleakly. The anger had suddenly dissipated, like helium from a punctured balloon. “I thought it would give me something to do. I’m so sorry, I just . . .” She felt her throat choke.

  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”

  ~~~~

  Outside, the day was overcast and blustery. Grace got into her car and stared blankly into the flat gray of the horizon. What was she supposed to do with herself? She thought of the articles she’d leafed through in magazines over the years—“How to Handle a Fussy Baby,” “When Your Child Has Nightmares,” “Talking to Your Teen About Sex.” Never once had she come across advice to mothers of missing children.

  Grace felt terribly alone. Her friends were doing their best to be supportive, but they had families and jobs and worries of their own. Even Sandy, who’d taken on the volunteer effort and come by each day with a prepared meal, a willing ear, and a powerful hug, couldn’t slip into Grace’s skin. Carl was her only refuge, and wonderful as he was, Caitlin wasn’t his daughter. He didn’t feel what Grace felt.

  When Caitlin was little, one of her favorite books had been The Runaway Bunny—the last book they read together each night before Grace tucked her daughter into bed. One night Caitlin, still dewy and smelling sweetly of strawberry bath soap, had turned to Grace and, out of the blue, asked, “But what if I’m stolen? Will you still find me?”

  That such a worry should cross her child’s mind about broke Grace’s heart. She’d hugged Caitlin tight and, like thousands of mothers before, promised to go after her and bring her home, no matter what.

  Now, she wondered if Caitlin remembered and was holding on to that promise by whatever thin thread she could muster.

  Please, God, Grace pleaded silently, Please let her be okay.

  Five minutes later, Grace still sat in her car in the parking lot. The car radio aired an annoying commercial for a supplemen
t that claimed it could make you lose weight while eating as much as you wanted. Grace changed stations, only to land on another commercial, this time for an all-natural male enhancement formula. Too bad there wasn’t a quick fix for grief, too. She turned the radio off and ran her hands over the steering wheel.

  What am I supposed to do?

  One thing was certain, she couldn’t very well spend the day sitting in the parking lot. With no clear idea where she’d go, Grace put the car into reverse and backed out of her spot. Then it hit her. Someone would understand what she was going through because she’d gone through it herself. Karen Holiday’s mother.

  Grace didn’t know the woman, but she knew where the Holidays lived—a green single-story house near the railroad tracks. The local media had perched there for several days following Karen’s disappearance, just as they’d descended on Grace and Carl’s home over the weekend. She drove there now with a dry mouth and a pounding heart, fervently hoping Mrs. Holiday would be home.

  Grace felt as though she’d been lost at sea and unexpectedly tossed a lifeline. If she couldn’t speak to Karen’s mother, she’d sink into the inky blackness of despair.

  ~~~~

  Grace rang the bell, noting the pot of dead petunias by the door. That’s what happened when the bottom fell out of your world, she thought. You lived in freeze-frame mode. The simplest tasks became overwhelming.

  The woman who answered the door was younger than Grace expected by seven or eight years. She had a toddler on her hip and another, slightly older child, following at her heels. She wore no makeup and her dull brown hair was pulled into a limp ponytail secured by a simple rubber band.

  “Mrs. Holiday?”

  The woman peered at Grace cautiously. “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Grace. I’m Caitlin Whittington’s mother.”

  The toddler began fidgeting, and the woman slapped the girl’s thumb from her mouth. “Keep your hands away from your face, Mary.” She turned back to Grace. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  Grace shook her head. “My daughter, Caitlin, disappeared Friday afternoon. I thought you might have heard about it on the news.”