by Lisa Unger
“Why does it matter?” Betty asked. “I mean, why did you ask me about that?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” said Jones, casting a glance at Finley. “We’re just looking for connections, no matter how remote.”
But Betty had her eyes on Finley. “I know you,” she said quietly. “I know your grandmother.”
Finley didn’t say anything.
“Are you a psychic?” Betty asked.
“I don’t know what I am,” Finley answered honestly.
Betty seemed to accept this with a nod, but her gaze kept returning to Finley. Betty went on to answer more questions from Jones about whether there had been any sign or word from her husband, or people close to him. There hadn’t been. Since the day eighteen months ago that they disappeared, there had been no cell phone or credit card activity, no word to friends or even his parents. The vehicle he’d been driving that day had never been located.
“Jed wouldn’t do this,” she said again. “He just was not that kind of man, not controlling or vengeful. He knew it would kill me to be away from my children. He didn’t love me anymore, but he didn’t hate me.”
Jones took notes while Betty spoke, and Finley watched the children playing on the floor. They were in a loop, a repeat of the same actions over and over. A show for Finley; she watched, wondering what it meant. Yes! Joshua said for the tenth time. That’s when she got it.
“Did your son ever play with trains?” asked Finley.
Betty stared at her, giving a slow blink. “My son is obsessed with trains. His father gave him a wooden train when he was two, and I swear that was all it took. It was nothing but trains for years.”
She rose and motioned for them to follow. They climbed a narrow staircase and into a room at the end of the hall. The space was dominated by a huge train track, a total environment with bridges and tunnels, a little town, a wooded area. The shelves on the wall were lined with engines in all sizes and colors. It was an extraordinary collection, which obviously took years and a great deal of parental indulgence to build.
“Lately, he’s more into his Xbox than his train collection,” she said. “But I guess that’s what happens.”
The bed was made and the room smelled freshly cleaned, waiting for its occupant to come home. Finley expected to see the little boy, but he wasn’t there. Strange.
“Can I see Eliza’s room?” asked Finley. And Betty led them to another room down the hall.
Pink, dolls, more stuffed animals and books than the shelves could hold. There were glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, an iPod Touch on the white bedside table, lamps shaped like flowers affixed to the wall. On the headboard a row of little birds had been painted and beneath them painted in a blue cursive: Little Bird.
“Little bird,” Finley said.
“That’s what her father calls her,” said Betty. “Well, that’s what we all call her. But it was my husband’s name for her when she was a baby because she used to make this little chirping noise that he thought sounded like a tiny birdcall.”
Finley waited for the flash of insight, the crashing into another space and time, a vision—anything. But there was nothing, just the flat, dead physical world.
Downstairs, Jones asked more questions about the days before the disappearance, where they were in town, where they ate. Other questions, too, about who worked at the house, local friends. Was there anything that made her uncomfortable, worried, seemed strange? It seemed dull, even pointless, to Finley but she got it. It was exactly like what she did on the computer, just searching for anything that offered the jolt of a connection being made. That’s all it was, detective work—asking, listening, looking, making connections, or discovering that there were no connections to be made.
The boy with the train. Little bird. What did it mean? She still didn’t know. Just pieces of a puzzle that she was unable to solve. Again, the rise of self-doubt, a restless kind of panic. She felt the urge to flee the house that had grown overwarm, the conversation that had grown dull and heavy, hopeless. But she didn’t run. She forced herself to sit and listen.
*
“See, I told you I wouldn’t embarrass you,” she said in the car.
“You did okay, actually,” Jones said. He cast her a grudging look. “But I’m used to working alone.”
He turned the ignition, and the car hummed to life, cool air breathing out of the vents, causing Finley to sit stiff with cold until it gradually warmed. She told him about the squeak-clink, about the rose-breasted grosbeak, about the boy with the train.
He kept his hands at ten and two on the wheel, his eyes on the road ahead, a muscle working in his jaw.
“So what does that mean?” he asked. “Who did you see in the woods?”
“I don’t know,” she said. The faces were fuzzy and indistinct, like on television when identities were being protected. She tried to explain it to him, but she could tell it wasn’t making a lot of sense.
“And ‘Little Bird,’ ” she told him. “That was the phrase I heard in my head when I found the rose-breasted grosbeak online.”
“Eliza’s nickname,” he said. “So that’s who you saw?”
“I’m just not sure.”
They drove, the road winding, rising, and falling, the trees thick and silent around them. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, she thought. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost. Miles to go.
“I went to see Agatha,” she said. “She says that I need to follow my instincts.”
“Agatha?”
“Agatha Cross? My grandmother’s mentor?”
He flashed her a strange look, which she didn’t understand. She guessed if he was still skeptical about Eloise, then someone like Agatha must seem like a circus freak to him. She waited for him to make some kind of crack.
“And what are your instincts telling you?” he asked instead.
“That you’re wrong about the way they went,” she said. “That they went north, deeper into the woods. That there was no vehicle.”
“The area was thoroughly searched,” he said, shaking his head stubbornly. “I was there myself. If they were on foot like you say, they couldn’t have gotten far enough to hide by the time search teams descended.”
“Unless they hid somewhere.”
Someplace dark and quiet, she thought. Deep beneath the ground, a hole, tunnel. Finley could see it, her consciousness wobbling. The girl could hear the sound of the people searching, yelling, moving clumsily through the trees. The dogs were barking, and voices calling. And she couldn’t yell, could barely breathe with his weight atop her, hand clamped over her mouth.
Help me. Help me. I’m here. The words pulsed through Finley, she found herself taking a labored breath as if there were a weight on top of her, too.
She expected Jones to argue that there was no place for them to hide, but she turned to him, he had the energy of consideration. He rubbed at his forehead as if an unwelcome thought had occurred.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking about the mines,” he said.
North of The Hollows proper, up in the woods the land was laced throughout with abandoned iron mine tunnels. They were largely undocumented, few maps existing, but an acknowledged hazard locally. Every summer, some kid fell through the ground or got lost after having snuck in one of the openings. There had been several fatalities over the years, broken limbs, frantic days of searching. Many of the openings were marked, and vulnerable areas, where the infrastructures beneath the ground were giving way, were cordoned off when discovered. There were rumors among the local kids about people living down there. And a couple of years back, a fugitive had successfully hidden there for weeks.
“Where’s the nearest opening to the trail?” asked Finley. She buried her frozen fingers deep under her thighs. This was it. Winter was coming. She was going to be too cold for months. A darkness crept into her spirit.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But if there was
a mine opening up there, I bet it was searched. It’s no secret. People have hid out down there before.”
“Let’s go there now,” she said, leaning forward. She had her phone out, was Googling “iron mines in The Hollows New York.” There were several news stories about injured and missing kids, the hazards of abandoned mines around the tristate area, historic tours, how they were a spelunker’s (dangerous, deadly) paradise.
He held up a palm.
“If we head up to the mines, we need a team and the right equipment. We need to let someone know where we’re going. Let me talk to Chuck Ferrigno first, and we’ll go from there. Maybe he can spare someone. There’s no point in going off half-cocked. You just make a mess of things.”
She’d heard this advice before, many times. It’s what grown-ups always said, not that she wasn’t a grown-up. But Jones Cooper was way more of a grown-up than Finley could hope to be. She exhaled sharply with frustration.
“But what if there’s something there? Something that was missed.”
“Then it will be there in the morning when we come with enough people and the right equipment.”
“What if it’s too late then?” she asked. A niggling urgency pushed her forward in her seat.
“This is a cold case, kid,” he said.
“Meaning what? That it doesn’t matter? That there’s no ticking clock? What if there is, though? Merri Gleason said that she felt Abbey’s life force, that time was running out.”
Jones gripped the wheel and looked ahead.
“The feelings of a distraught mother who’s lost a child are not a reliable guide for an investigation.”
“But what if they’re the most reliable source of all? Maybe she’s tuned in to her child, in to some kind of energy the rest of us aren’t.”
He tapped his thumbs on the wheel, beating out an impatient staccato. “Tomorrow morning first thing,” he said. “In the light with the right equipment and an extra man. It won’t be too late.”
A wind picked up outside and bent the trees, sending a spray of leaves onto the hood of the car.
They’re so often wrong, Agatha said. That’s why they need us.
There was something about him, though. He was sure of himself, so knowing. And she was so inexperienced, so not sure of herself. And even if he was old school, she knew he was right. It was dangerous, and Abbey had been missing ten months, the other children longer than that. There was almost no chance of evidence still being there, and what difference would it make now? She sank back, disappointed, the energy leaving her.
“First thing in the morning,” Finley said. “Fine.”
You don’t need him. He’ll only hold you back.
In the rearview mirror, she caught the flash of red hair, the pale fire of skin. Abigail.
You’re not a baby. You don’t need him to take you to the mines.
Finley knew better than to answer her. But she wondered if Abigail was right.
*
Back at the house, Eloise was waiting. She had tea steeping, as if she’d known Finley was on her way home. At the kitchen table, sipping the hot, sweet drink, Finley recounted the evening for Eloise, who listened carefully, nodding, making soft affirming noises in all the right places. Her grandmother was one of the few people who actually listened when Finley spoke. Her mother was always talking over her, then barking “Let me finish, Finley!” when Finley tried to get a word in. Her father always seemed to be just waiting for her to stop talking so that he could tell her how it really was.
“If you hadn’t been with him,” Eloise asked when Finley was done, “what would you have done next?”
Finley had to think about it a moment. “I probably would have gone back up to the trail and tried to find an entrance to those mines.”
Eloise rocked a little. She looked tiny, dwarfed in her big, soft gray robe that was nearly the same color as her salt-and-pepper hair.
“So, you would have gone up there alone, in the dark, with no supplies and no idea where you were going or what precisely you were looking for?”
“I’d figure it out,” said Finley.
Eloise sipped her tea. “Or you might have gotten yourself hurt, or into a situation from which you couldn’t extract yourself. And then you’d be no good to anyone.”
Ugh, so frustrating. Everyone was so methodical, so cautious. Sometimes you just had to go out there and do what needed to be done. There was value to a seat-of-your-pants methodology, wasn’t there?
“So what?” said Finley, that sizzle of frustration making her angry. “You just sit and do nothing while time runs out. What about following your instincts? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
Eloise wrapped her arms around her body as if warding off a chill, but she held Finley’s eyes.
“There’s a difference between following your instincts and being reckless, my dear. Only age teaches you that.”
“Then what’s the point of this?” said Finley. She leaned forward. “What’s the point of knowing when you can’t do anything?”
“Just because it’s ill advised to go off unprepared,” said her grandmother, “doesn’t mean you do nothing. What’s the next best thing?”
Finley leaned back in her chair, then got up and paced the room, from the door to the range and then back again.
“Maps,” she said. “I’ll find maps of the area, and research the mines.”
Eloise gave her an approving smile. “That’s my girl.”
Finley gave Eloise a big kiss on the cheek, then bounded up the stairs to her laptop. Sitting on her bed, she entered “Maps iron mines Hollows New York” into the search bar and waited for the information to load. They were all there: Faith, the boy with the trains, the squeak-clink. But Finley barely noticed them.
EIGHTEEN
Wolf sent Kristi a text, turned off the phone he used exclusively for some of his less above-board activities. Then, on the corner, he tossed it into the trash. He didn’t feel that bad about breaking up with Kristi via text. People of her generation were all about texting, which was just one example of their soullessness.
I’m sorry, Kristi. I can’t see you tonight. In fact, we should take a break from seeing each other at all. My family needs me and I can’t let them down. Please forgive me. I do love you. It’s just not time for us right now.
It was final without being hopeless. Romantic without leading her on, implying that in another time and place, they might be together. And anyway maybe it was even true.
Wolf ducked into The Parlor on West Eighty-Sixth Street, a kind of divey, not too crowded sports bar that he and Blake had been drinking at since college. He spotted his friend over by the bar, as usual with his face buried in the newspaper, glasses drifting down his nose. His blond hair was graying, his sleeves rolled up, and his jacket and briefcase rested on the stool beside him. Blake had been a middle-aged man since he was sixteen. Still, two girls at a high-top were looking over at him, whispering with curious smiles. But Blakey, as ever, was oblivious. He only had eyes for his wife, Claire.
*
Claire, who was not hot to begin with, had put on twenty since the kids and never bothered to take it off. Claire, who was a stay-at-home mom in spite of having a law degree, a searing, rip-you-to-shreds intelligence, and a knowledge of world events that shamed even Wolf, now seemed to care only about the kids—bedtime routines and the dangers of overscheduling and too much soy, or whatever was the hot parenting topic of the moment. Claire didn’t even always take care of her roots. And still Blake looked at her like she was a Suicide Girls pinup. Wolf didn’t get it.
“Hey, man,” said Wolf, sliding in beside him.
College football roared on the television above them. Wolf was so out of it that he didn’t even know who was playing. People cheering on the screen, happy faces, girls in hats and scarves. Who were those people with no fucking problems? Wolf hated them all in some nebulous, disinterested way.
“Hey, buddy,” said Blake with a worried frown, his
default expression for Wolf these days. “How’s everything?”
“You know,” said Wolf. He didn’t even bother trying to put on an act for his old friend. He put on one for everyone else, not just because it made him feel better but because it made everyone else feel better, too. People didn’t want to look into the face of grief; it was too terrifying.
“Yeah,” Blake said, patting Wolf hard on the shoulder. “I know.”
Blake folded up his paper and took off his glasses, put them in the pocket of his handmade Italian shirt. “How’s Merri holding up?”
Wolf told him about the psychic Merri had hired, how she’d gone up to The Hollows for a while. The bartender brought Wolf a Corona with lime, gave him a nod.
“Is she—?”
“Losing it again?” said Wolf. He shook his head. “She seems okay.”
When Merri went off the deep end a few months after Abbey disappeared, the psychotic break had hit like the strike of a baseball bat. One minute she was okay, on the phone with the detective who had been working Abbey’s case. Wolf wasn’t sure what the man had said, but whatever it was, it was too much for Merri. She just snapped. She put the phone down.
“What?” he asked her. They were back in the apartment, picking up some things to take back to The Hollows. Jackson, thankfully, was recovering at Wolf’s parents’ place in the West Village.
Merri had put her head in her arms, and when she lifted her face to him, she looked as glazed and blissful as a Hari Krishna.
“Merri?” For a second, his own heart had lifted. Had they found her? Was this nightmare over?
“Do you see them?” she’d asked. Her smile wide and beautiful; she looked so much like she had when they’d first met.
“Who?” he asked.
“The angels,” she said. “They’re all around us.”
“Merri,” he said, his heart dropping, growing cold.
“They’re everywhere,” she said, looking above him, starting to cry. “They’re taking care of Abbey.”
