by Dan Walsh
“We’re about thirty minutes north of Jacksonville, in a diner off US-1.”
“A diner? What are you doing there? Did Colt and Timmy miss their bus?”
“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that. But listen, you better just let me explain. You keep asking questions and this phone call’s gonna cost you a fortune.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Please, continue.”
“The bus stopped here for people to get a snack and use the restroom. During that time, Colt went to the bathroom by himself. When he came out, Timmy was gone.”
“I told him to stay put,” Colt said. “But he didn’t listen.”
“Gone?” Rose said. “What do you mean, gone?” She sounded frantic.
“It appears that someone took him, a man wearing a gray hat.”
“Oh Lord . . . no.”
“A waitress saw him—this man—leading Timmy out the door of the diner while Colt was in the bathroom. It looks like he lured him away with comic books.”
“Oh no, please, God.”
She was crying, but he had to continue. “Colt ran outside in time to see Timmy and this man riding south on another bus.”
“Where?”
“We don’t know where right now. It was heading toward Jacksonville, but once it got there, we have no idea which direction it went. This all just happened about thirty minutes ago.”
“Can’t you do something? We’ve got to find him! We’ve got to get Timmy back!”
“We’re going to do everything we can. Right now, I need to get word to his parents. Colt said they’re both still at work. He knows his own number but doesn’t have those numbers memorized, said they’re written down on a pad next to the telephone at home. Do you have those numbers by any chance?”
“I believe I have Gina’s work number, but not Scott’s. This is terrible.” She was crying again. “Excuse me, I have to get some tissues.”
“Ma’am?” She was gone. He heard noises on the other end.
“I found Gina’s work number,” she said when she returned.
She gave it to him, and he wrote it down.
“Can I ask you a favor?” she said. “Would you let me try to reach her first? I understand you need to talk with them yourself, but I’d rather she hear something like this from family. It’s going to be horrible no matter who tells her, but it might be a little less painful for her if she hears it from me first.”
“I guess we can do that, but I will need to talk to her right after. Call me when you’re done.”
“Okay. Is there anything you want me to ask her?”
“We’re going to need a recent picture of Timmy to put out over the wire.”
“How’s she’s supposed to get the picture to you?”
“My partner Nate and I are gonna drive Colt down there now. It might take us a few hours, with all the traffic. Tell her to have it ready when we get there. We’ll be contacting all the bigger police departments in central and northern Florida, see if they can get some squad cars to patrol the bus stations. Maybe we’ll get lucky. But it’ll be a lot better if we have a picture to work with.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean by some squad cars? A little boy’s been kidnapped by a strange man. What could be more important than that? Every policeman in every city should be out looking for him.”
How could he explain this? “I agree with you, ma’am. They should be. But something big is going on in the country right now. I’m not sure if you’re seeing anything in Savannah, but we’re seeing them all over the place here in Florida.”
“You mean the Army trucks and soldiers?”
“Yes,” Vic said. “President Kennedy’s getting on television tonight to explain what’s going on. I don’t know everything. But I do know this, it’s making life pretty crazy for law enforcement right now, on every level. But I promise you, we’re going to do everything we can to find Timmy.”
There was a long pause. Vic heard her quietly crying on the other end. Finally she said, “How’s Colt holding up? He must feel terrible about this.”
Vic looked at the boy sitting in the booth, staring at the floor. “He’s holding up okay, I guess. But he’s very worried about his little brother.” At that, Colt looked up at him. Tears filled his eyes.
“But please tell him for us, for his Uncle Mike and me, that we love him and we’re going to pray nonstop that God protects Timmy and brings him home safe. And also tell him that we’re gonna drive down there tonight, to Daytona Beach, to be with him and his folks.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that,” Vic said.
“Is there anything else I need to know?” she said.
“I’ll take care of anything else. You going to call her now?”
“As soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“Then we’ll wait here at the diner a few minutes. Have her call me here after you’ve talked with her. She won’t be able to reach me once we get on the road.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.”
He gave her the number to the diner then heard Rose start to cry again and say, “What am I going to tell Gina?”
16
The black-and-white cityscape appeared on the small square screen of her television set, accompanied by the soothing voice of the network commentator: “And now. . . The Edge of Night, brought to you by . . . Tide. The one that works the hardest to get your clothes the cleanest clean there is.” She waited as the familiar piano and organ music finished playing the theme song.
Gina hadn’t been able to watch her stories for so long.
She sat back in her chair, knowing this show couldn’t take her mind off her missing boys. Nothing could. But maybe some noise would help to fill the empty space.
She glanced out the front window. Scott had left the house five minutes ago, said he couldn’t sit there anymore doing nothing. He was going to drive around, see if he could find the boys. Since the policeman had left, the two of them had tried to stay out of each other’s way. It felt hopelessly awkward. There was so much to talk about, so much that needed to be said. But now just wasn’t the time. It would only end in another fight, and a big one. Half her thoughts were about blaming Scott for creating the situation they were facing in the first place, by cheating on her with that secretary. And for the ongoing neglect of his sons since he’d moved out. The other half were even worse: flashes of memories—too many of them—of her yelling at the boys for little things that seemed like a petty overreaction now. She’d never used to do that; she wasn’t a yeller. But now she did it so much, Colt and Timmy felt the need to run away.
To escape from her.
The TV characters blurred as tears filled her eyes. The phone rang. She jumped and hurried to turn off the television. She stood by the phone, took a deep breath, wiped the tears from her eyes, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Gina?”
It wasn’t them. It sounded like her sister, Rose. And she sounded upset. “Rose? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Gina. So, you’re home? I thought you didn’t get off till five.”
“I don’t, normally. Why are you calling? Is everything okay?”
“Up here it is. How are you doing?”
Could she know? “Not very well, to tell you the truth.”
“Because of the boys?”
“You know about the boys?”
“I’ve spoken with Colt.”
“You’ve talked with Colt! When? Are they with you?” Please say yes.
“No, they’re not. I wish they were.”
What did she mean by that? Gina heard her inhale deeply over the phone. “Rose, when did you talk to Colt?”
“Just a few minutes ago. He’s with some agents from the FBI.”
“The FBI?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She felt instant relief. But why did Rose say “I’m afraid so”? “Then they’re safe, right? The FBI has them?”
“Gina, listen . . . there’s someth
ing I have to tell you.”
“What, Rose? What’s the matter?”
“Colt’s all right. He’s a little shaken up, but that’s all.”
“What about Timmy? Where’s Timmy?” A too-long pause. “Rose, where’s Timmy? Isn’t he with Colt?”
“Gina . . . something’s happened. Is Scott there with you?”
“Scott? No, Scott’s out looking for the boys. Rose, tell me. What’s the matter?” She heard Rose begin to cry on the other end. Her legs began to feel weak. She sat in a hardback chair.
“Timmy is missing,” Rose said. “He’s not with Colt.”
“What do you mean, missing? Why isn’t he with Colt? Colt would never leave his little brother.”
“He didn’t mean to. He only left him a few minutes while he went to the bathroom. Apparently, some man lured him out the door with comic books. They were at some bus stop or diner, a little north of—”
“No!” Gina screamed into the phone. “He can’t be missing. Oh God, no!” She let go of the receiver and dropped to the floor. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It seemed like her whole body was sobbing. How could Timmy be missing? Taken away by a strange man? This couldn’t be real. She pulled her knees close to her chest and buried her face as she cried.
A few moments later, she heard a faint voice calling her name over and over through the receiver. She didn’t want to, but she picked up the phone.
“Gina? Gina, please pick up the—”
“I’m here,” she managed somehow.
“I know,” Rose said. “This is horrible. I can’t believe I’m having to tell you these things. I wish I didn’t.”
“You said they were at a bus stop,” Gina said. “Where was this? Were they on a bus?”
“Colt and Timmy took a Greyhound bus this morning. I guess their plan was to come here, to see Mike and me. Really, I don’t know what’s going on, but Colt said you guys are having some problems and you’ve been separated awhile. I guess whatever’s happening was really starting to bother them, and for some reason, they thought coming here might help the situation. Or maybe they were just trying to escape. I don’t know. The bus stopped awhile at this diner, and that’s when . . . that’s when Timmy and Colt got separated.”
She pulled herself back to her feet. “So Timmy took a bus somewhere? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Looks that way. I don’t have that many details. The FBI agent wants to talk to you. He said they’re going to leave in a few minutes to take Colt back to Daytona.”
“But what about Timmy? What are they doing to find him? Do they know which way the bus went? Where it’s going?”
“I don’t think they do. He said something about there being too many buses and bus stations all over Florida and not having enough people to search them all, because of all these army trucks.”
“Army trucks? How can that be more important than finding a little boy?”
Rose started crying. “I don’t know, Gina. It’s not. I don’t know what’s going on. But listen, Mike and I are gonna drive down there to be with you guys. I called him before I called you. He’s on his way home from work right now. We’ll leave as soon as he gets here.”
“Thanks, Rose. That means a lot.”
“I don’t know what we can do, but we’ll help any way we can. I’m gonna call that FBI agent as soon as I hang up. His name is Vic Hammond. He’s supposed to call you in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be here. I’m supposed to stay right by the phone.”
“Gina, Mike and I are going to keep praying that God will protect Timmy. Don’t give up hope.”
Gina said she would try not to, but that was just something to say. What little hope she had been clinging to had just shattered.
17
Scott decided to make one more stop before heading back to their house on Seaview Avenue. He hadn’t found the boys or even a trace of them. But then, he hadn’t really expected to. There was at least a chance he could have been successful, and it had gotten him out of the house for a while. The tension between him and Gina was too much to bear.
He had stopped and asked several children playing throughout the neighborhood if any of them had seen Colt or Timmy. None had. He wasn’t looking forward to this last stop and didn’t really expect to find the boys here. But there was a chance, so he had to make the effort.
Old Weldon lived four doors down from them, and Scott had always considered him something of a wacko. An overly talkative, thoroughly boring wacko. But Scott knew the boys—particularly Colt—loved to play in Weldon’s bomb shelter. Weldon didn’t allow it, but Colt and his friends occasionally snuck in his backyard when he wasn’t home to use it as a fort when they played army.
The last time they had—at least, the last time Scott knew about—was a month ago. Weldon had found Colt, Murph from across the street, and one other boy whose name Scott had forgotten, hiding inside. He had about blown his stack. The boys’ moms, including Gina, heard him yelling at them from inside their homes. They wouldn’t put it past old Weldon to take it upon himself to start spanking them with a paddle. So the three moms had run over there to rescue the boys.
Colt had told Scott about this the following weekend when he picked the boys up. He had to laugh as Colt mimicked his mother’s part in the shouting match that ensued. Weldon considered his bomb shelter to be serious business, life or death serious. He’d spent almost fifteen hundred dollars having it built two years ago and wasn’t about to let it become some kind of playhouse for a bunch of spoiled brats running loose all over the neighborhood.
Scott pulled into Weldon’s driveway to find him unloading boxes from the back of his station wagon. Weldon lived on the corner lot, so his garage faced the adjoining street. And Weldon’s home was the only one on the street that actually had a real hill. The entire east coast of Florida was notoriously flat. But in Daytona Beach, a handful of homes built within a block of the ocean had sand dunes on their property. Weldon’s was one of them. It was a matter of some pride for him, since it allowed him to save tons of dirt being shipped in when they’d built his bomb shelter. He used the savings to add an additional three feet of living space to the dungeon he and his aging wife planned to live in, all alone, should the “big one” come.
Gina had said she’d rather be vaporized by an atom bomb than face that fate.
As Scott got out of the car, Weldon turned to face him, his arms still filled with boxes. He snarled a moment before shifting to a fake smile.
“Afternoon, Mr. Weldon. Could I talk to you a moment?”
“Can I set these boxes down first?”
“Sure, can I give you a hand?”
“Not with these, but there’s three more just like them in the back of the car there. Could you get those for me?”
“Sure, I can do that. You want me to bring them into the house?”
“Not the house, the fallout shelter.”
“Really?” Scott said as he opened the back door of the station wagon. “That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about.”
Weldon stopped walking, set the boxes on the hood of his car. “Finally gonna take my advice and put one in? Afraid it’s too late, my friend. I think the big one’s just around the corner now. I’m sure you’re seeing all these military trucks and tanks driving through toward south Florida.”
Scott stood up behind the car, the boxes stacked, ready to be picked up. “You think we’re going to war with Cuba?”
“Not Cuba,” Weldon said. “We could crush them like a bug if we wanted to. That Bay of Pigs fiasco last year, Castro only won that ’cause he was fighting a bunch of other Cubans. Our Marines had gone in there, or even just a few of our jet fighters, Castro would be gone by now. I think we’re about ready to go to war with the Russkies.”
“The Russians?”
“Don’t you read the papers?” Weldon pulled the cigar out of his mouth, flicked the inch-long ash on the driveway. “That’s what Kennedy’s gonna be talking
about when he gets on TV tonight. Mark my words, it’s the Soviets. They’ve been sending all kinds of weapons to Castro ever since we invaded the Bay of Pigs. It’s all about to hit the fan, my friend. That’s why I’m stocking up supplies in the shelter. The big one could come any day now. When it does, Sarah and me will be ready. Looks like we’ll be the only ones, at least on this block.”
“I would have liked to put one in,” Scott said. “We just didn’t have the money. I think that’s why most of the people on the street don’t have one. President Kennedy urged everyone to get one last summer.”
“That’s because he knows secret things they never talk about on the news,” Weldon said. “Classified things. He wouldn’t tell everyone to build shelters unless he thought we needed ’em. He said the same thing in Life magazine. Life magazine,” he repeated, as if that made it more official. “The big one’s coming, and that’s a fact.”
“Maybe so,” Scott said, “but everyone can’t afford to have one built like you did. And the do-it-yourself versions they’re selling are just junk. I checked them out. I’m an engineer. People who get them don’t stand a chance in a nuclear attack.”
“You might be right,” Weldon said. “But I think it’s a matter of priorities. People spend money on what they think is most important. You got money for a car, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“A good shelter costs about the same. What good’s a car in a nuclear attack? Can’t take shelter in that.”
Scott realized this conversation was going nowhere. He needed to change the subject. “Mind if I take these boxes into the shelter ahead of you?” He picked them up and started walking toward Weldon.
“Mind if I ask why?”
“Well, it’s just . . . there’s a slim chance my boys are hiding out in your shelter again.”
“What?”
“I’m not saying they are, just saying they might be. They played hooky from school today, and we haven’t found them yet. I’ve been all over the neighborhood, talked to all their friends. No one seems to know where they are. I know the boys liked to use your shelter for a fort.”
