I settle my cup in the console holder. “You don’t know Andrew like I do. He’s a planner, and that call to Stefanie, pretending to be the kidnapper? It’s exactly something he would do to throw the police off his trail. He’s sneaky that way.”
“We questioned him all night, Kat. We’ve got a tail on him just in case, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”
Frustration rises, pounding against me like hurricane waves against the shore.
“We’re still sorting through the tips. Most of them are from crackpots or false leads, like that little boy in the backseat of a car in Murrayville. It was a boy and his grandfather on a fishing trip. But a woman called in a suspicious man sneaking through the woods behind her house in Gainesville. That’s only twenty miles or so from Dahlonega and right around the corner from Murrayville.” He pauses, and I brace. “We’re taking a hard look at that area, and that includes the houses and cabins around Lake Lanier.”
My heart trips at the thought of all that water, at the miles and miles of coastline. There must be thousands of houses on that lake, which means a door-to-door search will take forever. “What about the other students and their parents? Did you talk to them?”
“We’re in the process of reinterviewing everyone, but it’s going to take another day or two to get through them all, then more time to chase down whatever new leads come out of the interviews. I’ve requested more manpower to help us get through everything as quickly as possible, but even that takes time.”
Time we don’t have. It’s been fifty-five hours since Ethan was taken, and every passing minute beats like a war drum in my head. How much more time does he have?
Suddenly, the smell of the coffee is too much. I hit the button for my window and breathe in the outside air—exhaust and fast food. “Last night at the school, Stefanie mentioned something about Sammy’s online friends. She said she passed the information on to you.”
Mac nods. “That’s one of the items on my list for today, actually, but don’t go pinning too many of your hopes on this one. If it’s true what Sammy says, that the handles belong to kids from school, they’ll likely lead us nowhere. Honestly, our best shot is that phone call to Mrs. Huntington, specifically, the statement about the Bell Building. That’s where I’m concentrating most of my energy, on the mayor.”
I can’t hide my shock. I think about Sam’s phone call at the camp, Stefanie’s prompting of reward money just last night and I feel sick. “You think the mayor had something to do with this?”
“Not necessarily, but we know whoever took Ethan meant to take Sammy instead, in order to force Mayor Huntington’s hand. That phone call is the best lead we’ve got.”
“But you couldn’t trace it. And he hasn’t called back.”
Mac concedes with a one-shouldered shrug. “Which is why I’m working on other ways to come at it.”
I fall silent. Since the moment he showed up on my doorstep, Mac has not missed a call, ignored a text or skipped an update, which come at all hours of the day and night. That he’s holding back now feels like a slap in the face.
“Come on, Kat, don’t look at me like that. This is the mayor we’re talking about. I’m not going to make any accusations I can’t back up, not even to you. I will tell you as soon as I have something concrete to report, but for now, give me a little leeway here.”
I stare across the console at Mac, wondering why on earth anybody would want a job like his. Especially in a city like Atlanta, where every day is a fresh barrage of evil and tragedy. How does he sit down at his desk and face yet another murder, yet another missing child? How does he stand it?
“Why?” It’s a million questions in one. Why this job, why not tell me more about the mayor, why all this effort for a boy you’ve never met? I settle on the last one, for now the most pressing. “Why did you take this case? Why Ethan?”
“Because I took an oath to preserve, protect and defend, and I meant every word.”
“Did that oath include carting me all the way to Dahlonega and trampling through the woods in your nice clothes? Did it include not eating or sleeping except at your desk? Because I’ve seen the time stamps on the texts and emails you send me. You’re not sleeping any more than I am, and I want to know why. You don’t know me, and you’ve never met Ethan.”
“Honestly?” He gives me a sheepish shrug. “When I came to your house Friday night, you said you didn’t have anyone to call, and that struck me as unequivocally unfair, especially after what you’ve been through with Andrew. And yes, I read your file before I knocked on your door. I saw the pictures from the assault. I know what he did to you.” He shifts in his seat. “But mostly, I don’t know why Ethan’s disappearance keeps me up at night, and I also don’t care. One of the things I’ve learned in this job is not to ask why. Some cases just grab on more than others. When that happens, you just grab on right back.”
The cars coming and going in the lot, the low hum on the radio speakers, the swoosh of traffic on Lawrenceville Highway—it all disappears. Mac’s words are not the answer I expected, and yet they are exactly what I needed to hear.
He twists to fully face me. “Look, in case you haven’t figured it out already, this case is my number one priority. Scratch that. Ethan is my number one priority. And I promise you, Kat, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I will find him. I am going to find him and put the monster who took him behind bars.”
I have no reason to believe him, this man I barely know, and yet I do. I am certain he will live up to his promise to bring my son home, just as I am certain of the words he intentionally left out—even if it’s only his body. The thought snags in my chest, and it occurs to me there’s more to ask of him.
“Okay. But I need you to promise me something else, too.”
He gives me a reluctant nod.
“When you find Ethan...” My voice cracks, then dries up completely.
“Kat.” His voice is soft, kind, but I hold up a hand to stop him. I need to say this. I need to get it out of my head, out of my heart.
“When you find him, if he’s not...okay...” I squeeze my eyes shut, squeeze out two hot streams. I’m crying, again, and I wonder if my tears will ever stop. I open my eyes and focus on Mac’s blurry face. “Whatever you do, please do not tell me that news over the phone. My heart couldn’t take that. I need you to tell me to my face, and I need you to be gentle.” I reach over, wrap my hand around his wrist, hard like stone. “Please, Mac. Promise me you’ll be gentle.”
“I promise,” he says, and just in case, he says it again. “I promise you, Kat. You have my word.”
STEF
55 hours, 34 minutes missing
“What’s taking so long?” I’m pacing the kitchen, trembling not from the air-conditioning but from fear.
Mom is standing at the sink, filling a half-dozen glasses with filtered water. “Sammy’s energy is strong.”
“Is that what the spirits are telling you?”
It comes out mean and hopeful at the same time, neither of which I intend. For the first time since Mom traded in her psychologist’s couch for tarot cards and crystals, I understand the appeal of her craft. Why people would plunk down their hard-earned savings for some self-proclaimed expert to prod their deepest, most private thoughts. Mom’s words reach into my chest and squeeze my heart, because they’re exactly the ones I want to hear. That wherever Sammy is, he’s safe and unharmed.
And yet the rational part of me knows her sorcery is hokey.
“I’m sorry, it’s just...I need a little more proof before I believe that.”
“Proof is not always visible with the naked eye. Sometimes it’s here—” she pounds her chest “—a tingling that tells you things will work out in the end.”
“How? Sammy disappeared out of a two-story window. I don’t know where he is, who has him. If you want to make a believer out of me, I’m going to
need something a little more tangible than a tingling, Mother.”
The front door opens, saving us from this argument, and a jumble of heavy voices enters the house.
I run around the corner into the foyer, where Sam is trailed by two uniformed cops and a man I assume is a plainclothes detective, until Sam introduces him as a reporter from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He’s tall and thin and overly eager, taking in the place with an almost-giddy grin. His gaze sticks to details like he’s cataloging them for a piece he’s already begun writing in his head.
“Mrs. Huntington, it’s a real honor.” The reporter almost trips over himself to offer me a hand, soft and slippery like rubber. “Truly. Though I’m awfully sorry to be meeting at a time like this one, of course.”
“Did you see Sammy?” I don’t have time for niceties.
“Yes, ma’am. He came out his bedroom window like these gentlemen said, like a little Cirque du Soleil acrobat, then took off around the side of the house. Almost missed him, though, because we were all talking about the truck.”
“What truck?” I glance at my husband, flanked on either side by the two officers. The three men look interested but not all that surprised. This repeat is mostly for me.
“A souped-up F-150. Tinted windows. Oversize wheels. Like something out of a car show. It must have driven by a dozen times. We joked that if the driver was casing the joint, with all us journalists standing with cameras right there, he was the dumbest robber alive.”
One of the officers takes over the questioning. “Sir, how do you know the driver was male?”
The reporter turns to face him, hiking a shoulder. “I don’t. Like I said, tinted windows. But I’ve never seen a woman drive a truck like that one.”
The cop grunts. “Did you catch the plates?”
The reporter shakes his head. “Only that it was a Georgia one.”
My blood tingles with equal parts anger and disappointment. What kind of rinky-dink journalist is this guy?
“What about the county?” the cop says.
“No, Georgia as in UGA. The red-and-black ones with the bulldog on it. Pretty sure those don’t list the county.”
The questioning goes on for a little longer, but when it becomes apparent the reporter has nothing more to add, the policeman escorts him outside.
“The truck doesn’t belong to a neighbor, that much is certain,” Sam says to the second policeman, and he’s right. Our neighbors drive foreign-made SUVs, not souped-up pickup trucks. There are plenty of yard and pool service trucks ambling up and down the leafy streets, but they don’t all drive pickups, and the ones that do come with a logo splashed on the side. “Let’s see if it shows up on one of the camera feeds.”
“Gary’s down there now,” I say, referring to the small room at the back of the basement, the one we jokingly call Mission Control.
We hurry down the stairs and through the long hallway to the neat and functional space almost completely swallowed up by racks of hardware. Cable and internet, audiovisual, solar and geothermal controls, gray water irrigation system, the rooftop’s photovoltaic panels—it’s all run from these machines. When Sam had everything installed, I asked him if he secretly worked for NASA.
We huddle behind Gary, seated at the desk against the wall, staring over his shoulder at four matching screens displaying feed from the security system. Each screen is divided into four sections, with views of every entrance, every bank of windows, the pool and terrace area, and several sections of the yard. Dozens of spying eyes recording our every movement.
“I started at the front,” Gary says, glancing over his shoulder, “since Mrs. Huntington said Sammy left through his bedroom window, and started working back from 9:23 a.m., which is around the time she hollered out the window.” He taps one of the screens, a partial still of the right front side of the house, then skips back until he finds what he wants. “I found him here, at 9:11.”
I check my watch. Nine-eleven is almost an hour ago.
Gary pushes Play, and I hold my breath and watch a dark blur take shape behind Sammy’s window. He flips the locks on either side of the glass, then moves in a rhythmic motion I recognize as his arm, cranking the lever. The glass peels away from the front of the house, and his determined face appears. He swings his head left and right, and then he unhooks the bar that keeps the window from blowing around in the wind.
“Oh my God.” I want to reach through the computer screen and strangle him for being so reckless, because I know what I’m about to see. I know what he’s going to do. “He’s going to swing out onto the overhang.”
The sloped roof just above the front door, providing shelter. A good six feet from Sammy’s window. Too far for him to jump.
Gary nods like this is a test, and I just gave the right answer. “Watch this.”
On the screen, Sammy climbs up on the windowsill, grabs onto the frame with both hands, shoves off with his feet, and swings out over the yard, his body dangling twenty feet above the ground like the world’s most perilous jungle gym. Fear electrocutes every hair on my body, and I gasp and swat at Sam’s arm. His biceps is tense like a slab of concrete.
Sammy undershoots the overhang on his first try, his scrawny legs cycling in the air so hard that his fingers almost lose their grip on the wood. The window swings him back toward the house with a clap, and he pushes off again with a toe, this time too hard. The window arcs him through the air for a second time and slams him into the siding. He lets go, falling a few feet, and lands on the overhang like an acrobat, arms wheeling around as he works to catch his balance. One foot skids out from under him, and he skates down the sloping surface, cedar shingles flying, and I clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t scream. Sammy stops his downward slide just in time, by planting a foot in the gutter right before he pitches over the side.
For a long moment, all I see are his white-knuckled hands, clutching the copper gutter at the bottom of the frame. A second later, they’re gone.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam mutters.
Gary reaches for the mouse. “I picked him up on the right side cameras.”
I steady my nerves with the knowledge Sammy survived the fall. He made it to the ground without breaking his neck. I force myself to draw in air, to blow it out, to fight my building hysteria. He survived the fall. That’s the good news.
Gary taps the left monitor. “Here he comes.”
Sammy streaks across the same path along the side of the house that I ran down, his sneakers kicking up the dirt and mulch, then disappears from the screen.
Gary points to the other monitor. “And then here.”
The blur that races across the bottom of the screen is only the bottom half of Sammy. He’s skirting the edge of the pool, sprinting toward the very back of the yard, and suddenly I know where he’s going. To where just last week, in a fit of Spanish I understood less than half of, one of the yard guys coaxed me to the back right corner of the yard and showed me a gap in the fence. A gap just wide enough for an animal to squeeze through—or a tiny body.
I watch Sammy disappear into the trees, and my mouth goes dry. I check the time on the feed—9:16 a.m.
“Where the hell was he going?” Sam says from right behind me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“A friend’s house?”
I shake my head. “None of them live within walking distance, and even if they did, this isn’t the 1950s. We don’t just let Sammy stroll down the street unsupervised, especially with a kidnapper on the loose.”
Gary pokes a finger at the place on the screen where we last saw our son. “That is one determined kid. He knew exactly where he was going.”
“Yes, to a hole in the fence.”
“And then where?” Sam’s voice is impatient, and it sparks my temper.
“If only he’d thought to tell me before he jumped out of a twen
ty-foot-high window,” I snap.
“What do you think was in his backpack?” Mom says, almost conversationally.
Sam and I exchange a look. He didn’t notice it, either. Both of us were too busy watching our son dangle from a twenty-foot ledge to notice anything hanging from his back.
“Show me,” Sam says.
Gary rewinds the first video and pushes Play, and there it is. Not really a backpack but the vinyl drawstring bag Sammy got from Kevin Macy’s birthday party at the batting cages last summer. I recognize the Nike swoosh, remember thinking what a cute idea it was, a sports bag filled with Cracker Jack and Big League Chew and other sports-themed swag. Now Sammy has jerry-rigged it to hang from his shoulders, and there’s not much in it, judging from the way it flops about when he runs.
“Can you get a view of street traffic?” Sam says to Gary, telling him about the souped-up truck. “The reporters out front thought it was odd that it kept driving by, but not odd enough anybody remembered the plate number.”
While Gary fiddles with the feeds, Sam turns to me. “Start making calls. Start with whoever lives closest and go from there. The kid I saw climbing out the window had a destination in mind.”
“That’s just it. I’m telling you, there’s no one. Liam is the closest, and Sammy would have to cross Paces Ferry to get to him. And I’m pretty sure he’d get lost. Argonne Forest is a maze of streets he’s only ever seen from the backseat of a car.”
“Call anyway.”
My heart skips more than one beat, both at his dangerous tone and the idea of Sammy dodging traffic on the major Buckhead thoroughfare. Even on Sunday morning, West Paces Ferry is a madhouse, bumper-to-bumper cars whizzing by on their way to church. Nobody will be watching for a lone kid to dart across.
I scroll through my phone, looking for the number for Liam Lark’s mother.
Three Days Missing Page 20
