Idyll Fears

by Stephanie Gayle

  Silence.

  “Please,” Peter said. It sounded genuine.

  A shaky breath, hers, most likely. Then a rumble. He must’ve touched the recorder. “Tell them you knew about the affair with Farraday. That I told you and begged forgiveness,” she said.

  “What about the car? Farraday said that you told him to steal the car Cody was abducted in.”

  “We’ll say he got angry when I broke it off. That he had a hand in the abduction.”

  “Did he?” His voice was soft, almost inaudible.

  Ahead, the FBI vehicles took the next exit. I followed.

  Jane said. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” Her voice caught. She cried. He let her.

  “Where’s Cody?” he asked, his voice soft. What that must’ve cost him, I could only imagine.

  She sniffled, but said nothing.

  “Janey, where’s Cody?” His voice was harder.

  “He’s with Sharon,” she said. “Safe, with Sharon. She loves him, you know. Like her own son.” Peter said nothing. “And she has money, plenty to care for him. She always did.” There it was, envy. Envy that Sharon had money. Jane did not.

  “Where?” Peter said. “I need to know, in case they ask questions. In case they start to get close. We can redirect them, right?” He was too eager. She must’ve sensed it.

  “It’s safer for you not to know,” she said. A rustling. She must have hugged him. The noise was terrific. Skylar barked.

  The road ahead was rougher, less well-paved than the highway. I glanced at the speedometer. Eighty miles per hour.

  “Janey, tell me where Cody is,” Peter said. There was steel in his words.

  “I can’t. If you don’t know, you can’t slip up. If you don’t know—”

  “If I don’t know, I can’t move on. Please.” Peter’s voice broke. “Just tell me. Tell me and I can sleep at night, and we can, we can move on.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please, Janey, please. I need to know.” His voice dropped to a ravaged whisper.

  Maybe it was the grief in his tone, but she told him, “The Thimble Islands. They’re staying at a house that belongs to some guy from Sharon’s church. He doesn’t live there. No one does in the winter. It’s a safe place. Cody is safe. I promise.”

  “Does the church guy know about Cody?”

  “No. She made a copy of the key without his knowing. The cops were all over people Sharon knew. He hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t know. They’re just going to stay there another month. Maybe less now that we have this boy.”

  “The boy in the photo?” Peter asked.

  She was close to him. Her voice louder now. “We’ll do just as you said. We’ll say the boy in the photos is Cody. They’ll stop looking. We can start again, fresh. Like when we were first married. I’m sorry, Pete, but it was so hard. You don’t know what it was like, being stuck at home, day after day. Having to keep Cody from hitting Anna with a golf club or doing stunts. We were always in the hospital. One day I saw this haggard-looking woman across the street, and a second later I realized it was my reflection. I didn’t recognize myself. Poor Anna never got my attention because Cody was always leaping off the picnic tables and jumping off the swing sets. He’d never stop. I asked him; I begged him. I couldn’t do it anymore.” Her voice broke.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peter asked.

  “I did, but you always told me it would get better when he got older. It wasn’t getting better. And the house was always a disaster. I just wanted a break.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning? All this time, I had no idea.”

  “It was safer, baby, for you, and us. I was going to tell you. I just needed things to quiet down.”

  “But I thought he was dead!” Oh no. He’d lost his temper.

  “He’s not. He’s fine. You know how much experience Sharon has with his disease. I promise. He’s fine, just fine.” Another rustling. Another embrace.

  He took a moment. “So we bury him? This boy?” He must’ve pointed to the photo.

  “People will stop looking for Cody. Sharon will take good care of him. She has more resources, and far more time. It will be okay, you’ll see. I did this for us, sweetheart, and for Cody. He’ll have her undivided attention. If we stick together, we can get through this,” she said. “Trust me. I love you.” A kiss. And silence.

  “I’d better get this over with,” Peter said.

  “What?” her voice pitched up. Worried.

  “Tell them I’ll go to the morgue and identify the body.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll take Anna home. We’ll have dinner ready when you get back.” Another noise from the microphone. She’d hugged him again. She whispered, “I love you. More than anything.”

  Yankowitz said, “I can’t believe her.” He shook his head.

  Peter said, “Back soon.” The door opened. The tape went click. He’d turned it off.

  We drove, in silence, lost to our own thoughts until ahead of us, the cars braked, pulling off into a turnout. Agents got out of cars, pulling binoculars from their vehicles and putting them to their eyes. Scanning the islands for signs of life. We got out of the car and were assaulted by chill winds, pushing us. The islands looked small, their bases pink rock, covered with scrub and wind-whipped pines. A few had homes. Many were barren.

  Yankowitz had told me that most of the islands were uninhabited. Two were home to stone quarries. One had produced the rock used in Grant’s Tomb and the Lincoln Memorial. The largest island, Horse Island, was owned by Yale University.

  “There it is,” Yankowitz said, pointing. “Yale operates it as an ecology lab.”

  In summer, it was probably lovely. Now, it was cold, and the waves were white-capped. Not a nice beach day. The March winds blew the agents’ hair every which way. I exited the car. Agents milled in small groups, conferring. We had to figure out which island Cody was on before we set off. Agent Waters stood near Mulberry, who looked at a map. “My money’s on Money Island,” Mulberry said, tapping the map. The paper flew up and nearly escaped his gloved hand. “Damn wind.”

  C’mon, God, give us a sign. One sign. He’s just a kid.

  “Money has the most houses,” Yankowitz told me, pointing to another craggy shape rising from the sea. “No one lives there after fall.”

  “No one lives on any of these after Labor Day most years,” Mulberry said. “I got a sister in Stony Creek.” Stony Creek was the town behind us. “She says in the summer it’s crazy down here. Everyone going to their summer homes. Tourists out on water taxis.” He lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned them, left to right. “Wouldn’t know it now.”

  Sea spray made the air cold and damp. A group of feds tromped over, dressed in tactical gear, their black, heavy boots rattling loose pebbles. “Fred saw a thin trail of smoke there,” one said. He pointed.

  Mulberry said, “What did I tell you? Money Island.”

  “Do we know which house?” the fed asked.

  “Not yet,” Waters said. “We sent agents to interview members of her church, but so far they’ve not found him.”

  “What do you think?” the fed asked. “Wait for the intel?”

  My pulse accelerated. Sharon may have killed her son. If Cody was alive, he was in danger. Knowing exactly where to go was a huge tactical advantage, though.

  “No,” Waters said. “We follow the smoke. Is everyone ready?”

  “Let me get Skylar,” Yankowitz said.

  “She okay on boats?” Waters asked.

  He said, “The challenge will be to keep her from swimming.” We all shivered at the thought of that freezing saltwater.

  Yankowitz led Skylar down the dock to the second boat. The first carried Waters and the SWAT guys. The loud gurgle of the engine and the back-and-forth to maneuver out of the dock had me clutching a rail.

  “Not a sailor?” Yankowitz asked. He stood, legs loose, not seeming to mind the salty spray attacking his face. Skylar sat, ears peeled back by the bre
eze.

  “Which island?” I asked, looking at the islands, some so small you could fit ten people on it, others miles across. I was guessing Money Island was one of the bigger islands.

  Yankowitz said, “There,” pointing.

  I blinked against the spray and focused on his pointer finger. Money Island was ahead, several islands between it and us. I could see a row of houses near the waterfront. Whoever had spotted the smoke had sharper eyes than mine. I couldn’t make it out. The cold nipped at bits of exposed flesh, and I was thankful once again for my new hat. The boat rocked up and down, up and down. I fought a surge of nausea. I would not get sick. I would not. I clutched the railing harder and breathed out my nose. As we got closer, the agents got on the radio. Had a confab about which dock to land at. There were several, but not many could accommodate our big boats. We puttered, watching the first team disembark their boat and prep. After minutes bobbing on the water, we pulled into a dock several hundred yards away. The boat jolted forward, and I nearly fell. My death grip on the railing saved me.

  Skylar barked, the noise sharp. Yankowitz silenced her with a command.

  We waited while they got everything ready and secured the lines. Then we filed off the boat, onto a worn deck, splintery and gray, that creaked beneath our combined weight. God, I hoped we wouldn’t fall in. I hurried off it, onto the rocky soil, to glance at the houses. Some were simple cottages; others were grander summer homes with huge windows and large decks.

  “That way.” An older fed named Chuck, pointed. “The smoke is coming from there. We’ll wait for the alpha team to secure it.” We followed in their wake, walking a path between two houses. The wet sand felt unsteady. I kept scanning the area. There. The yellow house four hundred yards ahead and to the right. From its chimney curled a thin strip of smoke.

  The team divided and approached fast and low. They looked ready for war, armed with flash grenades, a rammer, and plenty of guns. There was enough stopping power to take down the entire island if it had been filled with people. The only sounds were of shrieking birds and the hiss of sifting sand across the ground.

  We watched and waited as they covered all entrances and exits. I was too far back to see them break in the door, but I heard it. Heard their yells and then a woman’s scream. We waited, shifting, trying to see better, craning our necks and squinting while we waited for the all clear. It came minutes later. We surged forward, rushing toward the house. Waters stepped outside and called, “He’s not inside. She won’t tell us where he is.”

  “He is with God!” Mrs. Donner yelled from inside the house. Fuck. With God? My skin prickled.

  Yankowitz unsealed the bag holding Cody’s coat. Knelt and proffered it to Skylar. He gave her the search command. Skylar sniffed it and went to attention. Then she turned toward where we’d come from and set off.

  “You want the other dog?” a fed behind me asked. The cadaver dog. If Cody was with God, it was the dog we needed.

  “Give them a minute,” I said. Yankowitz followed Skylar back the way we’d come. I walked in their wake. Skylar padded along the sandy road, headed past where we’d docked. I looked toward the boats, bobbing on the ocean. Christ, what would we tell Peter Forrand?

  Skylar paused and headed away from the docks, toward the island’s interior. Scrubby pines protected us from the worst of the wind. Ahead was a shed. Probably used to store swimming equipment and summer furniture that would grace a patio four months from now. All the summer people, drinking beers from ice-filled coolers, and rubbing sunscreen into their pale skin. Would the dead, kidnapped child intrude on their summer fun? Would Money Island become known as the island where Cody Forrand died?

  Skylar trotted around the shed and barked twice. Yankowitz hurried to the door. “Good girl.” He reached into his pocket and gave her a treat.

  I peered through a small window, but the crusted salt and dirt made it impossible to see inside. The door was locked with a simple lock, the kind kids put on their school lockers. It was fastened high, at shoulder height. Fuck. I ran back toward the house. “Crowbar!” I shouted. “Crowbar!”

  The guy who made it to me first said, “What?”

  “We need a crowbar!” I pointed to the shed. Skylar was digging at the dirt near the door.

  The fed’s eyes went wide. He ran back to the others. When he returned, he brought a team of six. The first levered a bar between the lock’s hasp and yanked hard. Nothing. He tried again, and the doorframe broke, leaving the intact lock outside. He pushed the door open with the flat of his hand. Skylar barked. Inside, it was dim. I saw kayaks with yellow life vests inside. Two Adirondack chairs stood to the right.

  “He’s here!” The door breaker called. A second later, “Medic!”

  I rushed forward, after the medic. Inside, the first fed knelt by a small white figure I’d mistaken for driftwood. Twisted to one side, his back to us, I hadn’t recognized it for what, for who, he was. Cody. His right arm hung at a wrong angle. Broken. His face turned toward us. His left eye was swollen, bruised. His lip split. His body thin, so much thinner than when I’d last seen him. His eyes looked enormous in his pale face. His hair was matted. The medic covered him with a shiny foil blanket and put two pairs of socks onto his bare feet. “Hell,” I heard the medic whisper under his breath. “His arm.” He crouched before him, uncertain how to move him.

  I stepped forward and scooped him up, mindful of his arm. Cody’s eyes locked onto mine. “Chief,” he said. His voice cracked.

  “You should watch his arm,” the medic said.

  I strode forward, anxious to get him to the boat so we could get him to the hospital. “He can’t feel pain,” I said. But I could. Every stumble, every jounce, hurt as I held him to my chest.

  “Where’s Mom?” Cody asked. He looked around at the men in their black body armor and shrank into me. Couldn’t feel pain? Maybe not physically. He was in for a world of hurt when he found out what his mother had done.

  “Your family will meet you at the hospital. You’re safe.” I took big steps and tried not to jostle him. He was so light in my arms. His face against my chest was cold.

  I said, “Is there an ambo on shore?” We needed to race him to the hospital. We couldn’t lose him, not now that we’d found him. God, you listening? If you let him die now, I’m not going to church again, not ever.

  “Yes, and a team at Children’s is expecting him,” Mulberry said. “Go to the first boat,” he said, correcting my course. I’d headed to the boat I’d come in on. “It’s faster.”

  The medic wanted to set Cody on a bench but worried the movement would disturb his broken limb. “I’ll hold him,” I said. Cody was shivering. I tucked the foil blanket about him a fraction higher. And though the boat sped off, hitting waves hard and bouncing more than during the initial journey, I didn’t loosen my grasp on him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Suds was empty except for Nate and me. He handed me my mug of coffee and slid the Idyll Register across the bar. “Cody Forrand Found!” A picture of Cody, propped in his hospital bed, took up half the page. Next to it was a photo of me carrying him in my arms off the boat, to the ambulance.

  “Nice picture,” he said.

  I pushed the paper away. “Fucking feds. They love their photo ops.” Agent Waters was behind that. She’d tipped off the press. If it went well, she wanted coverage. Mine was the photo dominating the papers. She’d told me she was happy to be in the photos with her arm on Sharon Donner’s, leading her into custody. “Your photo makes you a local hero,” she’d said. “Mine makes me the woman who nailed a monster, and a clever monster to boot.” A nice memento to show the bosses when promotion time came around. Waters would do all right.

  To show I could play nice, I’d given the FBI almost all the credit for the solve, though I held back some for Yankowitz and Skylar. They deserved it for finding Cody.

  “You hear anything about Sweet Dreams?” I asked Nate. The store was still shuttered.

  He f
rowned. “David and Charles are still at war. Sharleen is representing her dad. She says he’s lost weight. I saw Dave yesterday, and he didn’t look so hot. He’s renting a place in Willington. It’s a shame.”

  I hadn’t known a lot of gay men who had partners for life. That wasn’t my scene. But I’d liked Charles and David. They’d presented an alternate possibility . . . and now they didn’t.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” Nate tapped the photo of Cody. In it, Cody smiled, but his face was a mess. Hard to conceal the beatings Sharon Donner gave him.

  “He’ll go home in a week or so. His foot got frostbitten and his arm was broken and healed badly. They had to re-break it to reset the bone.”

  Nate winced. “Ouch.”

  “He can’t feel pain,” I said.

  “Right. That’s hard to imagine. Still, even if it didn’t hurt—” He rubbed the bar top hard. “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “Sharon Donner?” Her face had been front-page news too. Woman of a dead kid with CIPA steals another. The press loved the idea that she’d killed her son and was looking to do the same to Cody. I’d seen her neighbor, Geraldine Howard, on two TV interviews, talking about how she’d never liked Sharon Donner and had always thought she was up to no good.

  “No. Cody’s mom. What’ll happen there?” he asked.

  “It’s up to the prosecutors now.”

  “Do you think she’ll do time?”

  “Yup.” I finished my last swallow of coffee. “People love a woman in distress. Pretty mom with a kidnapped kid, around Christmas? They loved it.” I shook my head. “People hate things, too. And the only thing they hate more than a mother who hurts her child is to be taken in, to fall for a scam. She did that. She made them feel stupid. No jury will forgive her for that.”

  Nate said, “God Bless America,” and then, “Refill?”

  The hospital seemed like an oasis of calm compared to the last time I’d been inside. Two days ago, it had been doctors yelling, nurses running, and Cody on a bed, two steps from death. Today, he sat up, a Lego truck kit on his lap. His battered face was a mess. His arm was in a cast. And his foot was wrapped. The foot they were afraid they’d have to amputate. What had they done?