Then the cars were gone and they were making the turn, accelerating up a long incline on this narrow highway. When they reached the summit, there was still no sign of the van, but Roger kept going anyway.
Breathing hard now, Peter said, “Uplands just ended,” into the phone. “I don’t know the name of this new road, but it’s paved and we just turned left. Right now we’re not even sure if this is the way he went.”
“Okay,” Sergeant Taylor said. “Are you the one driving?”
“No.”
“Then tell your friend to calm down. You’re no help to us dead.”
Peter wanted to explain to her the depth of Roger’s commitment to catching this man, but this was not the time. He said, “I will.”
“Can you see the van?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s okay, I’ll stay on the line with you. Cars are already on their way and we’re in the process of arranging a helicopter.”
Peter said “Okay,” and kept the phone pressed to his ear, as if this slim link with authority might somehow extricate him from this insane situation.
The road leveled out for about half a mile, then banked sharply around an outcrop of rock. Roger took the curve too fast, and when they barreled out the other side, the van was stopped in the middle of the road, straddling the center line with the rear doors gaping open. The kidnapper was standing on the road in the V of the open doors, a black ski mask on his head and the Cade boy clutched in one arm. The boy was in his pajamas, his blond hair a luminous halo in the glare of the headlights, and as the Corolla bore down on him, his eyes popped open flashing red and Roger said, “Jase?” and cranked the wheel hard right, the car going airborne as it left the road to splash nose first into the swamp that bordered the highway. Peter struck his head on something and saw black water explode over the hood to splatter the windshield. The airbags deployed as they plowed deeper into the swamp, the front bumper shearing off bulrushes and whippy saplings.
Then the car jerked to a stop. The engine stuttered and died and Peter saw blood trickling out of Roger’s scalp, Roger leaning limp against the door.
Fighting panic, Peter collapsed his airbag with both hands, then dug the Leatherman tool Dana had given him as an anniversary present out of the glove box, flipping it open and finding the knife blade, using it to puncture Roger’s airbag. As the bag collapsed, Roger struck out with both fists shouting, “Did I hit him? Did I hit Jason?” and Peter grabbed him hard saying, “That wasn’t Jason, Roger, it was the Cade boy, and we’ve got to get out of here now.”
He got his flashlight out of the glove box and shoved the door open with his knee, foul water sheeting in over the running board.
He saw the phone on the floor mat, glinting silver under two inches of algae-clotted water, and plucked it out, then slopped his way around the hood to help Roger out of the car.
But Roger was already out, slogging back toward the road as fast as his legs would carry him, first his left shoe, then his right oozing to the surface in the beam of Peter’s flashlight.
Peter picked up the shoes on his way to the road, a distance of about thirty feet through broken scrub, soggy hillocks and muddy sinkholes. When he got there, he found Roger standing on the soft shoulder covered in muck, breathing hard in the wash of a transport’s high beams, blood still streaming from his scalp.
The van was gone.
13
PETER LED ROGER AWAY FROM the roadside to a flat boulder at the edge of the swamp. Using the flashlight, he sat the man down and examined the laceration in his scalp. It was about a half inch long but superficial, and Peter doubted it would require stitches. He asked Roger if he was hurt anywhere else and got only a vacant stare. Gingerly touching the bump on his own head, he sat next to Roger and turned the flashlight off.
They sat in silence for a while, nothing left to say, watching the occasional vehicle speed by on the roadway, listening to the lively chatter of insects and night birds in the swamp. The air was cool and Peter started shivering in his wet clothes, the ebbing rush of adrenalin making him feel ill. The whole thing seemed unreal to him now, sitting here at the side of a road he’d never been on before, miles from home, alone under a starlit sky with a man he barely knew, a man driven by an obsession Peter not only understood but had freely adopted as his own. The quiet was maddening; in it, all Peter could hear was the kidnapper getting farther away.
It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of sirens approaching fast, and he got up to flag down the first police car. Roger didn’t move, just sat there with his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. Peter told the officer what had happened, saying he couldn’t be sure in which direction the van had fled after their vehicle left the road, assuring him that neither of them had been seriously injured. The officer said he’d have an ambulance dispatched anyway, then repeated into his radio exactly what Peter had told him.
Another police car appeared now, slowed, then kept on going. Within seconds an unmarked car ground to a halt behind the first cruiser. The driver introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Laking, his handshake firm, his expression grim in the glare of head lights. The tall, freckled woman who got out on the passenger side said her name was Sergeant Taylor and identified herself as the lead investigator. Peter shook her hand too, saying he was pleased to meet her, apologizing for his filthy clothes. She told him not to worry, then glanced at the Corolla in the swamp and asked the officer to call for a tow truck.
Peter led the investigators over to Roger and made the introductions, but Roger only grunted, not responding when Laking held his hand out to be shaken. Sergeant Taylor asked Peter if he was sure his friend hadn’t been seriously injured and Peter said, “I’m a doctor,” and told her he was confident Roger was fine. Then he led them a discrete distance away and said, “I think I should explain how we came to be involved in this thing.”
Sergeant Taylor said, “Are you telling us it’s more than coincidence?”
“Much more,” Peter said, glancing back at Roger, who was staring at them now. “To do it properly, though, I’m going to need a computer.”
* * *
Graham felt the van come to a stop and let his eyes open halfway, hoping he was finally back home. But they were parked in a row of cars behind a long brick building with a bunch of red doors. The ceiling light came on now, making Graham squint, and he heard the man say, “Okay, kiddo, we have to change cars.” Then he felt a sting in his leg and saw a needle stuck in him, right through his jammies, and now the man was squeezing something into him with his thumb, saying, “Sorry, little man, but we’ve got a long drive ahead of us and you’re going to have a nice little nap.” The man pulled the needle out and Graham started to cry, hiding his quiet sobs in his pillow.
The light went off and the man got out of the van with his hair on, locking the door behind him. Graham watched him go to the small silver car parked next to them on Graham’s side and take something out of his coat...a set of keys. Then he turned his back to Graham and unlocked the car door. Graham rubbed his eyes and saw the man get in behind the wheel. He wanted to see what the man was doing in there, thinking maybe he could climb out the other side and run away, but his head felt funny now, heavy, like his neck couldn’t remember how to hold it up anymore.
Graham lost track of things for a while, then he heard the man’s voice, the man saying something that didn’t make sense. It was hot in the van and Graham was very sleepy. When the man picked him up and Graham felt the cool night air on his skin, he curled his hands under his chin and rested his head against the man’s chest, thinking his daddy had him now and he’d fallen asleep again on the drive home from Grandma’s.
A little smile found his lips and he knew that soon he’d be safe in his own bed.
* * *
After performing a cursory neurological assessment, the paramedic closed the wound in Roger’s scalp with a butterfly bandage and suggested he see a doctor should he experience any dizziness or headache over the next
twenty four hours. The tow truck, Jonesy’s Towing, arrived as Peter and Roger climbed into the back seat of the unmarked car.
Both men were quiet during the half-hour drive to the Oakville police station, Peter at one point almost falling asleep in the quiet hum of motion. When they arrived, Sergeant Laking showed them to a staff restroom, suggesting they take a few minutes to clean themselves up. He returned a short time later with some bright orange prison fatigues, saying that if they didn’t mind, they could pull these on over their dirty clothes. Peter thanked the Sergeant, agreeing that it was a good idea.
Surprising Peter as they were pulling on the fatigues, Roger said, “You look right at home in those,” and grinned.
Peter felt a knot loosen in his chest. No artist at quick comebacks he said, “I’m sorry he got away, Roger.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Lowering his voice, Peter said, “They’re probably going to interview us separately.”
“Why do you say that?”
Peter said, “C.S.I.,” and both men chuckled. Then, more soberly, Peter said, “I thought I might just...leave out the stuff about David. You know. Keep it simple.”
Roger said, “You and I met four years ago at the boys’ daycare. You saw that Missing Person photo of the Dolan kid at work and brought the resemblance to my attention, but after discussing it we decided it was probably just a coincidence. When I saw the news about the Cade boy on TV, I got in touch with you right away and asked you to make the trip to Oakville with me. I wanted to be there when they caught the guy but I didn’t want to do it alone. It was simple curiosity that took us into the Cade’s neighborhood.”
“What if they ask us why we didn’t notify the police the instant we made the connection? If it was the resemblance of these other kids to Jason that brought us down here, why didn’t we speak up right away?”
“Because we could hardly believe it ourselves.”
Peter said, “I suppose,” but he was worried.
Laking came back a few minutes later and led them through a big room partitioned into work stations, most of them abandoned at this hour. Sergeant Taylor got up from one of the desks and fell in step with the men, following them along a narrow corridor to a series of offices with plain gray doors. Laking held the door to the first one open and said, “Mr. Mullen, why don’t you come ahead in here with me.”
Roger glanced at Peter, then did as he was told.
Peter followed Sergeant Taylor through the next door and, at her polite invitation, sat at the desk in the corner of the room, facing a flat screen computer monitor.
There was a tape recorder on the desk and the policewoman turned it on, telling it the date and time, then saying that she, Sergeant Vickie Taylor, was the interviewing officer and that he, Peter Croft, was the interviewee.
Then she pulled up a chair and sat next to Peter saying, “Okay, show me.”
Peter said, “I need the Internet,” and Vickie took over the keyboard, logging in and getting him online. Peter brought up the Child Find site and clicked on the letter D. When he scrolled down to Clayton Dolan’s photograph and enlarged it he heard Vickie Taylor draw a sharp breath.
Now he said, “Do you have a printer?” and Vickie took over the keyboard again. A printer on a side table hummed to life and spat out a color copy. Vickie picked it up and said, “Who—?” and Peter said, “Wait,” clicking on the M now, clicking again to bring Jason Mullen’s smiling face into center screen. He said, “This is Roger’s son.”
Vickie said, “Oh, my God,” and printed this one out too.
* * *
Staff Sergeant Laking sat at his desk with the pictures of the three kids lined up on the blotter in front of him. He said, “Unbelievable,” and looked at Vickie, seated in the chair across from him. “Pretty clear we’ve got a serial on our hands.”
Vickie said, “Looks that way.”
“What did you make of the doctor?”
“I think there’s more to his story than he’s admitting,” Vickie said, “but I don’t think there’s anything criminal going on. I don’t believe he’s involved. It got a little weird when I told him his name popped up on CPIC, though. Turns out he ‘saw’ the face of the Mullen boy’s kidnapper in a dream or a vision of some kind. Mullen was desperate, so he talked a cop friend of his into letting Croft go through some photo line-ups. I got the copper on the horn a few minutes ago, staff Sergeant by the name of Bernie Eklund up in Sudbury. Said he checked Croft out and the man came up clean. Croft’s own son died recently and he and Mullen attended the same bereavement group.”
“Strange, but benign.”
“That’s how I felt,” Vickie said. “What was your impression of Mullen?”
“About the same, though he didn’t mention anything about visions.”
“I can understand his reluctance. So how do you want to proceed?”
“We’ll need copies of the case files on these other abductions,” Laking said, “but I’m not sure it’s going to make much difference.” He pointed at the data under the photos. “I mean, look at his intervals here. If we can’t pick this guy up on the evidence we’ve already got—or just get plain lucky—how long before he surfaces again? Three years? Longer?” Laking shook his head. “If we don’t nail him now, before he holes up for good, we’re going to have to hope for a DNA match. And if he’s not in the system...”
Vickie nodded. She was dog-tired and felt a migraine coming on.
Laking said, “Did you hear we got the van?”
“No, where?”
“Stashed behind a motel, five miles down the road. Guy doubled back after he lost our two friends. Must have had a second vehicle waiting, or an accomplice. Nobody saw anything.”
“I take it the van was stolen?”
Laking nodded. “Off a long-term lot at Pearson International. Lifted the plates off an SUV in the parking lot of a strip mall right here in town, after he tried to grab the kid in the park.”
Vickie thought of Cade’s wife screaming blame at her and felt a fresh stab of guilt. “I really believed he’d rabbit.”
Laking said, “Me too, Vick, me too.” He reached across the desk and patted her hand. “But you’ve got to let it go. It’s not your fault and I’m going to need you sharp.”
Vickie nodded. “What are your thoughts about motive?”
“Outside of the usual? Nothing yet.”
“What about the wig?”
“What about it?”
“Disguise or part of his kink?”
“I think it was just a disguise. We were looking for a bald guy, not a big frumpy broad with a bad dye job. Bates and McNamara had no idea what hit them, so I’d say the ruse worked rather well.”
Vickie checked her watch. It was almost five-thirty. She said, “What do you want to do with Mullen and Croft?”
“Let them go. I don’t imagine they’ll stray very far; not for the time being at least. Any word on their car?”
“Jonesy towed it to the Esso on Elgin; says it’s wet and smelly, but it runs. He found Frank’s gun in it. I’ll have someone drop them off there now.”
“Sounds good. See you back here in ten? We’ve got a press conference at seven. It’s gonna be a long day.”
Vickie stood. “Okay, Rob, see you in ten.”
* * *
Peter fed some more quarters into the big Esso station vacuum cleaner and got busy on the slop in the back seat. The rug was soaked with the stuff, rancid water mixed with dark ropes of algae. Fortunately, since they’d gone into the swamp nose first, the trunk wasn’t so bad, the mat back there just a little damp. Their luggage had been spared too, and Peter couldn’t wait to find a hotel and get out of these foul clothes.
Roger was sitting on the curb by the car wash, drinking a Swiss cream soda and staring at his feet. Peter was worried about him, this brooding silence he kept lapsing into. Since they'd left the police station, every attempt Peter had made at conversation had been met with either a blank stare or a dismissiv
e grunt. Part of him wanted to just drive home now and be done with it; but it was almost dawn, the eastern skyline a pale sapphire, and he was bone tired. And though his gut told him the kidnapper had gotten away, he couldn’t let go of the hope that something still might break in the case, some fresh piece of evidence surface that would finally lead to closure for Roger.
The vacuum cycled down and Peter thought, Good enough.
The car was going to need body work and a professional cleaning anyway; right now he just wanted to make it halfway tolerable to drive.
He put the rubber mats back in and told Roger he was done. Roger tossed his empty pop can into the garbage and got in the car. Peter drove the short distance to the pumps and topped up the tank, then merged into morning traffic. Sergeant Taylor had told him there was a hotel about a mile east of the Esso station and Peter found it without difficulty. He got them registered in a room with two double beds and Roger followed him along the carpeted hall.
At the door to the room, as Peter fiddled with the card key, Roger put a warm hand on his shoulder and said, “Thanks, man.”
Peter faced him. “For what?”
“For everything. Hanging in. Being a friend.”
Peter felt himself blushing. “Glad to do it, Roger. And for what it’s worth, I still think they’re going to catch this guy.”
Roger said, “I hope you’re right,” and Peter unlocked the door, holding it open for Roger.
Brushing past him, Roger said, “Dibs on the shower,” and Peter felt the tension break like spring ice. Feeling giddy from fatigue, he tossed his bag on the bed closest to the door and said, “You got it. But this puppy’s mine.”
Roger dropped his bag on the other bed and started peeling off his clothes. Peter dug a T-shirt and a pair of scrub pants out of his bag and went into the bathroom to change. When he was done, he came out to find Roger sitting on the foot of the bed in his shorts and undershirt with the TV on, flipping through the channels with the remote. He stopped at a news update on the kidnapping, the reporter saying that police were no longer looking for the white van, which had been found abandoned behind a local motel, and that an Amber Alert was now in effect.
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