by Rachel Brady
I hadn’t eaten yet, and needed to. I took my journal to the hotel restaurant and paged through it during breakfast.
***
April 10—10:30 a.m.
Conference, coffee break
I skipped yesterday’s morning session to meet Keith and Nora at the airport for brunch. Nora could hardly look at me without bursting into tears and gushing thanks. Mattie sat through lunch, cute as a button, munching tater tots and smearing ketchup on his face. I have to wonder about that kid. Three weeks away from his parents and none the worse for wear.
I said goodbye to them at the security checkpoint and called home to assess the damage. So far, it’s surprisingly minor. Jack’s biggest lapse has been sending a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich to daycare for Annette’s lunch.
When the last session finished yesterday, I walked to the Cineplex and caught a movie. Some would say that’s a bad use of time in a new, exciting town, but to those people I say: you don’t have a toddler. It was great to see a movie on the big screen with a giant bag of overpriced popcorn. A DVD in our living room with a slightly burned bag of the microwave stuff isn’t the same. I hardly missed the company of unfolded laundry and an overflowing toy box at all.
Tomorrow I’ll catch a 5:20 flight back to Cleveland. It would be so nice to walk into a clean home, but I’m afraid it will be a successful three days for Jack if our house is still standing and he brought the right child home from daycare.
April 11—10:25 p.m.
Home again
This is funny. Jack thinks I’ll sleep with him. When I unpacked my underwear, he winked at me and told me I wouldn’t need them. A while ago he gave me a dopey grin and asked if I was “ready for bed.”
Sure, after I pick up the living room. Pack a lunch for Annette. Move the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Put away bath toys. Pay the gas bill. And unload the dishwasher. All while he watches sports highlights on ESPN.
It must be nice to live in a self-cleaning house, watch sports, and think you’ll get lucky at the next commercial break. I’m not sure if he’s expecting I-Missed-You sex or Thank-You sex. The Thank-You variety in these circumstances would seem unlikely, but he did keep Annette clothed and fed.
It’s so wonderful to be home with her! I hugged her so hard tonight I thought I’d squish all the goo out of the poor kid. There’s no better feeling in the world than a hug from my baby!
But the sex? Not happenin’. The only thing that could turn me on is the sight of Jack with a mop and a bottle of Mr. Clean.
April 12 – 12:05 a.m.
Home again II
…or, the sight of him turning off sports, jumping up from the couch, and chasing me around the kitchen table.
I pushed him off at first. I mean, really—the nerve. But, let’s be reasonable. What he had in mind was more fun than housework. I made it twice around the table before I slipped and he caught me. He spun me around and started kissing my neck. I accused him of trying to get out of trouble. He said he was trying to get into trouble. Then there was more kissing, less of the socks, less of the shirts, way more laundry on my floor…And to summarize: Welcome home to ME!
I give it a 9.5. Technical merit was certainly there but I think he might have been trying to wrap it up in time to watch an interview with the Indians’ coach.
Now he’s sleeping, but I’m wired. I checked voicemail and e-mail.
Detective Cole sent a photo line-up to the local FBI office. I’m supposed to go tomorrow morning. That’s intimidating. He explained that because Mattie was kidnapped and taken across state lines, the FBI is investigating. The truck we saw on the surveillance tape was registered to a body shop, but no employees resembled my computer sketches. Detective Cole said after they put some “heat on”—his words—during questioning, one employee admitted loaning the truck to his cousin. They later discovered the cousin did resemble my sketch. Thus, the photo line-up.
I won the eBay auction for the baby jogger. It shipped yesterday and should arrive by the weekend. I browsed for guitars, but held back. Must. Wean. Self. Off. eBay.
***
Baskets of overflowing laundry on the couch and a dirty plastic lunch box on the kitchen counter would be a welcome sight now. Even Jack on our couch, wielding his remote, would be a blessing. I’d die a happy woman to have him chase me around the table one more time, the way he did that night.
And sweet Annette. What I wouldn’t give to trip over her toys or wipe peanut butter off my silk blouses again.
When I think about these things too long, I get into a funk. But Dr. Raleigh used to say it was healthy to remember, that I needed to let myself do that. So I do, several times a day—I can’t help it—but not for too long. For example, the stinging in my eyes at the breakfast table meant it was time to close my journal and think about something different for a while.
Marie answered the phone when I called the drop zone later that morning. Skies down south were overcast, but she thought the clouds might burn off by afternoon. What I saw from my hotel window made me skeptical anything would burn off that day, but I decided to make the trip anyway. In the best case, I could spend the afternoon jumping and looking for clues. In the worst, maybe I’d get more names for the list Richard was taking to Karen.
Chapter Nine
On the coast, the sky was a charcoal dome. Rain assaulted the roof and windshield of my borrowed car to the point the wipers had trouble keeping up. The dirt drive leading through the tiny airport had deteriorated to mud. Clumps of it thudded against the undercarriage of the car.
I thought back to the Sheltons. Mattie’s kidnapper walked free, thanks to a botched trial. When I’d finally put the pieces together, I accused Richard of being part of that mess. Though he’d never admitted it, he’d never denied it either.
The hangar’s sliding door was open enough for a person to squeeze through. I parked next to two other cars, as close to the building as I could, and dashed for shelter.
Inside, the little Cessna seemed enormous. I wiped my wet forehead on a damp sleeve and pulled open the office door. Marie peeked from behind a computer monitor to greet me. Her smile was strained. An open and partially disassembled computer case was on the table beside her. I was surprised to find Big Red’s friend in the office too, kneeling over an open tandem rig on the floor.
Rick popped up from behind the counter and grinned when he saw me.
“This is Craig Clement,” he said. “Newest hire, meet newest regular.” He winked at me when he said that last part.
Craig nodded wordlessly and returned his attention to the parachute cells spread before him. He not only had the face of a rat, but was so quiet and unobtrusive, I could imagine him sneaking around like one in the dark.
“Son of a gun,” Marie muttered. She smacked her mouse on the desk. “I hate this machine.”
She eyed the disassembled computer suspiciously, like a creature might crawl out.
“What are you trying to do?” I moved closer.
Craig rose onto his knees and looked from the fabric he was folding toward Marie. He opened his mouth to say something, but Marie spoke first.
“I bought a RAID card and another hard drive to back up the computer, but I’m doing something wrong. When it boots up, it doesn’t find the second drive.” She stared at the instructions in front of her like she was missing something obvious.
Rick shoved a stack of papers into an accordion file. “That’s the reason I leave the techno mumbo-jumbo to the little woman. Sure, she’s got brains. But how ‘bout my good looks?”
He flashed me his cheesy grin.
For once, I was thankful for Peter Bowman’s anal-retentive micromanagement style. BioTek scientists were responsible for our own data archival and backups, and he routinely audited our files. I knew I could help Marie. A bonus would be getting a glimpse at her computer files in the process.
“I’m glad you’re backing up,” I said. “One power surge in weather like this…you could be in a wo
rld of hurt.”
I lifted the instructions and looked them over. “What would you say to a free balloon jump Saturday in exchange for this hardware installation?”
Rick answered before she could. “Sold. To the good looking red head with brains and nice legs.”
“Good riddance,” Marie said into the open computer case. She crossed the room to a table stacked with several boxes and began pulling out sacks of party supplies. I took her seat and plotted my first theft since high school. Back then, it was a lipstick from the corner drug store. Today, it was files.
“We’re getting ready for the weekend,” Marie said. “We’ve got plates, cups, and utensils for the barbecue. We’ve got kegs. Cameras and videotapes are handled. Stereo equipment’s handled. There’s extra soap and shampoo for campers—this’ll be our first boogie since we got our indoor plumbing…”
She sounded like a bride planning reception details. I glanced at Rick. He made gabbing gestures with his fingers pointed toward his ear.
Craig kneeled over the canopy and arranged its navy and gray cells. He seemed oblivious.
Installing the new card and hard drive into the Hanes’ computer didn’t take any time. They tracked their finances with Quicken, like I did. But what really popped out at me was an Access database called Clientele. Would I find Casey’s abductor there? Richard could never have foreseen this windfall.
I opened a web browser and brought up the Weather Channel’s homepage, then minimized it.
“You a tandem master, Craig?” I aimed for distraction.
“Tandem and Accelerated Freefall,” Marie bragged. “And a rigger.”
Craig didn’t seem one for words. He kept on with his work without looking at us. I wondered if he found us just as boring.
Rick ducked into the rigger’s loft and returned with my repacked equipment.
“If I’d known you were going to jump yesterday,” Marie said, “I’d have loaned you my one-twenty.” She shot a frown at Rick. In her mind, evidently, he’d been rude to put me under the enormous Manta.
“Slow ride’s better than no ride.” I tried to give a reassuring smile. But I was nervous. Marie’s financial data was open on my screen. My hands were leaving wet marks on her mouse and keyboard.
I copied the Quicken data into a webmail application, all the while considering what it would be like to pee with no privacy in jail. I addressed an e-mail to myself from my own webmail account, pasted in the financial files, and pressed Send.
Craig stood and stretched, then walked toward me.
I changed to my decoy screen and told him things looked good for the computer, but bad for the forecast, and when he came around to inspect my screen, we looked at cloud coverage on a Weather Channel map of southern Texas.
He went back to close the tandem rig, and I e-mailed myself the drop zone’s clientele database.
When I was satisfied with the file transfer, I pronounced Project Free Balloon Jump a success and collected my gear.
Rick and Marie asked me to come back the next day if the weather broke. Craig only gave a weak wave in my general direction as if to say “don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
Yeah, you have a good day too, Prince Charming. I hoisted my gear onto a shoulder and headed back to the rain.
Chapter Ten
An hour later, Richard tossed a Best Buy bag onto the bed in my hotel room.
“I can’t believe you stole files.”
“Hello to you, too.” I pecked the miniature keys of my laptop. It was open on a small desk, wedged between a telephone and two empty Coke cans. I knew Richard was shaking his head but I refused to look at him. “Got some good stuff today,” I said. “I’m feeling very Nancy Drew. Very James Bond.”
When I finished what I was typing, I leaned back in my chair and waited for him to admit interest. His eyes were red, the skin beneath them sunken and gray.
Finally, he caved. “Well?”
I described the clientele and financial files I’d found at the drop zone. “I’ve got the customers, their contact info, and notes about them on the thumb drive.” I nodded toward the drive beside me on the table. Richard lifted it and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
“The financial part is trickier. That’s where you come in.”
We installed the Quicken software he’d brought and used it to open the files I’d e-mailed myself. Soon we were paging through screens of spreadsheets and accounts for Gulf Coast Skydiving. Several people on the list appeared to carry a declining balance. I figured Rick and Marie might offer discounted tickets to people who bought jumps in bulk.
“Let’s figure out who’s on the staff,” Richard said.
I ran a report to categorize payroll expenditures for the last six months. Richard scribbled names on hotel stationery. He asked me to do individual reports for everyone on the list so we could figure out how long each had worked there. Most had been around for years. Craig Clement had come on board two months ago.
A few hours later, we’d made a comprehensive list of employees and regular skydivers. We even knew how often each group worked or jumped. It was time to call it a day.
“If somebody there is involved,” I said, “I’d think it would be a jumper, not staff. Why would a staff member need a jump ticket?”
“Good question. Another thing you can find out.”
I slumped. My list of things to do and watch and find out at the drop zone was getting longer by the day.
By the time Richard left, it was mid-afternoon. I was convincing myself to buckle down and do the work I’d promised Bowman when my cell phone rang.
The number for BioTek’s main line was on the display. I was glad Jeannie was thinking of me, and it was like her to call at the perfect time.
But when I answered, I heard, “Glad I caught you. Pete Bowman calling.”
Well, shit.
He was brief, making clear in Bowman-esque terms that I was expected back at the office on Monday. There were meetings to attend and butts to kiss, his included.
“I’d like to see your reports,” he said. “Please e-mail them.”
The reports I’d been putting off ever since I got to Houston.
“Of course. Sure.”
He clicked off the line, and in the silence that followed, I had the feeling he’d called about more than my reports. Either he was suspicious or I was paranoid. Maybe both. Jack would have said I was over-analyzing.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon and I’d skipped lunch. Too tired to face the world, I called in a pizza. I told myself that after I ate, I would work on Bowman’s stuff for the rest of the afternoon until it was finished.
While waiting for the heart attack in a box, I picked up my old journal again and flung myself over the bed. I was closing in on the tough parts.
***
April 12—8:45 p.m.
Had quite a scare at the office today but have calmed down a bit since. Jeannie and I were at my desk, waiting for the Columbus group to tie in for our 1:00 telecon. She was annihilating my M&Ms, yammering on about Sexy Henry. My phone rang, I answered on speaker, but instead of Columbus, it was a lunatic threatening me about Nora’s case! He said, “You’ve got an important meeting coming up, Emily. Be a smart girl when you see those photos.” Then he hung up. Just like that.
Jeannie said, “Does shit like that actually happen in real life?” And then she smiled and said that was a good joke, I had her going, and she shook a finger at me like…shame on me and she’d be getting even soon. I lost it right there. Bowman walked by right before Jeannie closed my door.
Who was that? How does he know who I am? And, how does he know where I work, or that I was planning to look at a photo line up of the man I saw with Mattie?
We reported it to the police. I called Detective Cole in Austin and filled him in too. I feel better now. Jack’s more upset than I am.
I decided not to tell Nora. This would only make her feel responsible in some twisted way, and she doesn’t
need that on top of everything else.
April 13—Bus ride
Heading back to office. Photo line up was exciting. I identified the guy from the restaurant: Wesley Reed.
I mentioned that crank call to the agent who helped me. She said I should certainly keep my guard up, but she suspects it was an empty scare tactic. How much time before I can know for sure?
April 13—Rant
I’m not sure if all moms feel this way, but it seems this way to me. You ask your husband to watch your daughter—his daughter, too—so you can get some me-time. He agrees. You’re happy. And when you come home, your absence has created way more work than if you’d never left in the first place.
All I wanted was dinner with Nora. A nice restaurant meal with my friend to catch up on how she’s doing, how Mattie’s doing, what’s going on with their case.
I got dinner all right. Its price was a 22-ounce container of Johnson & Johnson’s baby powder completely emptied all over Annette’s room. While Jack was absorbed in his sports channel, Annette got into her diaper supplies.
Powder on picture frames. The bookcase. The Little People farm. Skydiving Snoopy. Mickey Mouse clock. Dresser. Window sills. Stuffed animals. Puzzles. Valences. Bed. Mini-blinds.
I will kill him.
Windex, Pledge, blah blah blah…I finally got around to the Hoover and that’s where the story gets creepy. I opened Annette’s closet door to sweep—the powder was even in the closet—and found an earring on the floor. Not mine. Maybe it’s something Annette pocketed on one of our walks. But I can’t help feeling spooked, considering.
April 15—Annette’s bedside, keeping watch
I got to work this morning and the day instantly collapsed. Message light blinking, signature folder waiting, 27 e-mails. What did I do first? I opened my damned office mail and my heart has been in my throat since.
I ripped open a cardboard mailer, reached inside, and pulled out a tiny dress. It was Annette’s—the one with ladybugs embroidered on the lapels. There was a message pinned to the front:
