The Disappearance

by J. F. Freedman

  He doesn’t have to say why. They all know to stay off the phones.

  “Of course, Mr. Lancaster. Let us know if you need anything.” She closes the door behind her.

  He comes back and sits next to his wife. “This could be completely different from what we think.” The bullshit sticks in his throat, even as he speaks it.

  Her eyes are bloodshot as she stares at him. “How?” she asks hoarsely. “She’s never done anything remotely like this.” She swigs the last of the wine in her glass. “Lisa saw it, for Christsakes!” she rants. “Has everyone forgotten that? She saw Emma being carried out of the room!”

  Doug nods. That’s irrefutable, however the police want to spin it. The girl was only half awake and she didn’t actually see Emma in the blanket, that’s the only straw they can grasp at for now.

  If there was someone in there—and all the evidence is pointing to that and only that: a missing girl, an awakening but still lucid witness, the disturbing footprint on the pathway that leads to one of the outside gates—what else could this be?

  Nothing else. Emma’s gone. Someone took her.

  DAY TWO

  NEITHER OF THEM SLEEPS all night. Until about eleven, the telephone rings intermittently, normal social calls from friends. Not the call they’re awaiting, hoping for, dreading. Doug fields these calls; Glenna’s in no shape to talk to anyone. He gives the same rote answer to each caller: “Glenna’s asleep, and I’m expecting an important long-distance business call, so I have to keep the lines open.”

  Finally, at four o’clock, Doug makes Glenna take a sleeping pill and puts her to bed. She’s out before he pulls the covers over her. Then he shaves, showers, puts on a good suit, white shirt, and tie (he often goes to work in khakis and golf shirt, he’s a notably laid-back boss), and drives the deserted streets to his television station.

  He takes Cabrillo Boulevard, the road that runs along the beach. It’s still dark out, but there’s enough moonlight to see the palm trees lining the road, swaying sentries against the nighttime sky. The beach stretches a hundred yards from the bike path that parallels the road and the ocean. The water is flat, baby waves lapping up onto the sand. Beyond that, looming in the gloom, are the Channel Islands, twenty miles offshore.

  He leaves the beach and drives up into the hills where his station is located. KNSB, Channel 8 on the television dial from Thousand Oaks to Monterey, is one of the most profitable regional television stations in the country. It and the other stations Doug owns have made him a multimillionaire. As “media moguls” (a term Doug despises), he is rich beyond any possible human need, want, or desire—which is a plausible and compelling reason why their daughter, their only child, is missing. They have a lot of money to buy her back, if that’s what this is about.

  Doug has never gone in for superelaborate security: the ever lurking bodyguards just out of one’s vision, the security firms patrolling one’s home twenty-four hours a day, the major video setups and other kinds of surveillance that some of his wealthy acquaintances swear by. That stuff happens to other people, he’s always thought, people with high profiles like politicians, film stars, ball players.

  Now he’s about to become one of those people—he and Glenna and (pray God) Emma. From now on, regardless of the outcome of this affair, their lives won’t be as unconsciously free and mobile as they always have been. They’re going to be, if not celebrities, notorious. Their pictures smeared across the pages of the National Enquirer, that kind of shit.

  It’s starting to hit home how heavy this might get.

  Normally at this time of the morning the station runs a skeleton crew, the minimum needed to get out the prenetwork news and feature program. The day really kicks in around 8:00 and goes until 11:30 P.M., when the nightly news is done.

  Today, however, his top people—Jane, Wes, Joe—are already there when he arrives. As soon as he walks in the door, Doug feels the tension. He’s aware that everyone at the studio—cameramen, floor managers, whoever’s there—is uneasily checking him out. That’s normal; he’s the owner. But this is different.

  It takes on a life of its own, he thinks. It’s like an invisible gas. You think you can contain it, but it finds all the nooks and cracks and oozes out, escaping into the world.

  He’s used to broadcasting the news, not being it. He’d better get used to it, he realizes with a pang. Glenna is going to have a hard time with this: reporters coming around, hovering at the edges of the house, waiting for her to come out so they can take pictures, ask questions. Television cameras in their faces—some of them their own.

  He and his keys meet in the conference room. It’s half an hour to airtime for the six o’clock news show. Everyone offers condolences. Jane Bluestine hugs him. To his surprise, he hugs her back harder than he’d have thought he would. They’re all solicitous, but careful—they’re walking on eggs here.

  Wes Cobb hands Doug the morning News-Press. “The local section,” he says tersely.

  Doug turns to the second section of the paper. The story is on the top page, in the lower right-hand corner. He skims it quickly. The phrases “missing girl” and “possible kidnapping” leap out at him. His heart takes a hard thud in his chest.

  The reporter got someone to talk. Doug feels a surge of anger coupled with a blast of impotence at not having been able to snuff it; he should’ve been more aggressive with the guy, except that would have been counterproductive.

  But that’s Doug the father who’s upset, not Doug the newsman. The man reported a story—that’s his job.

  At least there are no pictures, and his family’s name isn’t specifically mentioned, although the catchphrase “the daughter of a prominent Montecito family in the communications industry” narrows the players. Fortunately, because it’s Santa Barbara, most readers will assume it’s a show-business family.

  No one knows what to say initially, so Doug takes charge. “This is a story, it’s out there, we have to cover it,” he starts out. “The question is, how do we handle it?”

  “Where are you, Doug?” Jane asks. “I mean with the police, not personally.”

  “They don’t know anything yet, but they’re pretty certain”—God, it’s hard to say the words—“that it’s a kidnapping.” He pauses. “I am too, I’m afraid.”

  He fills them in on what Lisa Jaffe saw, and the gathering of material that might be evidence but may well come up dry.

  Wes, the producer, a hardheaded pragmatist, speaks out. “Until events tell us otherwise, we have to treat this for what it’s worth. We can’t give it any more or less importance because it happened to you, Doug.”

  Doug nods. “I agree.”

  Wes has the morning story lineup in his hand. He looks it over. “There was a gang-related murder on the west side last night,” he says, reading the items sequentially. “There’s seismic retrofitting on Highway 154 on the Paradise Road bridge, starting at seven this morning, that’s going to have traffic from the valley backed up to Santa Ynez. That’s a biggie—people are going to want to know how long the delay’s going to take, if they should divert all the way over to 101. We have Tina with a remote out there, we’ll go to her live.”

  “We should lead with that,” Doug offers, “and then come back to it at least once more the first half hour, then twice between six-thirty and seven. I think,” he adds diplomatically. He doesn’t run the news operation. He’s free with his opinions, but that’s why he hires pros.

  Wes and Jane agree. They don’t need to let the boss know that his suggestion is unnecessary, especially not today.

  “Lead with the murder.”

  Joe Allison has been standing off to one side listening. He’s the top anchorperson for the station, a rising star. Two years ago he was doing the local news in Cheyenne, Wyoming; two years from now, or less, he will be anchoring the 6:00 news in L.A. or New York or Chicago, or even working nationally, pinch-hitting for Tom Brokaw, sitting in on the Today show, doing the weekend news. Barely thirty, he’s photoge
nic, authoritative, aggressive, and smart. He came out of Northwestern’s journalism school M.A. program as a print reporter; he’s a good writer, and he knows how to tell a story the right way.

  “Then your story, then Highway 154,” he says to Doug.

  They all readily agree. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out, but someone had to make the call. Joe did.

  “Would you like me to do the piece?” Joe asks. “I’m here, I might as well do something.”

  The regular morning anchor is Wendy Gross, a competent if inexperienced young woman. She does a good, crisp job, but she isn’t part of the core group and doesn’t need to know the particulars of this. They’ll clue her in regarding Joe’s uncustomary involvement at the last minute.

  “Sixty seconds?” Wes asks, regarding length.

  “Or longer, if needed,” Jane says. She hesitates. “Do we go with footage?”

  The station had a team at Doug’s house last night. Tina Jones, who’s going to be at the Highway 154 scene this morning, did a brief standup, but they didn’t use it on the eleven o’clock news. The footage is innocuous, Jane tells Doug—a dark house with some sheriff’s department cars parked in front. Even people who know Doug’s house might not recognize it.

  Everyone looks at him.

  “I guess so,” he says grudgingly, feeling trapped. He has to—this is public news, particularly since the News-Press has put out a story. “But no footage of me or my wife, and no pictures of my daughter. Or her name,” he adds emphatically.

  “Are you sure?” Wes asks. Meaning, are you sure we shouldn’t be more specific?

  Doug takes a deep breath. “Fuck it. Name us. Just don’t belabor it.” They have to be professional, even if they’re the victims. He has a sudden insight into how people must feel who have had this public scrutiny happen to them. No wonder people hate the media, the way they lay open wounds.

  “You can proof the copy for me,” Joe offers. “If something’s offensive, we’ll excise it.”

  “Write it like it was anyone,” Doug tells him. “We can’t bend this to suit our needs.” He forces a smile. “Okay, people. Let’s go to work.”

  Upstairs in his office, he shuffles through some papers, trying for a few moments to take his mind off what’s happening to him. The office is a small space for a man of his stature. The only vanity touches are a few pictures on the walls of him with various notables—Governor Wilson, Senator Feinstein, Vice President Gore. The nicest feature of this office is the view, which looks down to the city, the harbor, the ocean. On a clear day he can see to the horizon. It’s still too dark now to see much of anything.

  He can’t focus. He’s too antsy. Jesus, he thinks. This is really happening. His child is gone, taken away. Every parent’s worst nightmare.

  Doug calls Sheriff Williams.

  “I saw the News-Press story,” Williams says. “They sure didn’t waste any time,” he says bitingly.

  Doug tells him about the story the local station is doing this morning.

  “I hope we have something by tonight.”

  That’s all Williams can say? Doug is pissed, angry. “No one’s called the house.” There’s an extension of his home telephone here at his office, as there’s one of his office at his house—his public and private lives can’t be divided.

  “I’ll let you know immediately if anything turns up on this end,” Williams says. “I’m going to put a car in front of your house, to keep the lookie-loos and kooks away.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  He touches base with Hampshire, his lawyer, then calls his house and speaks to Maria. Glenna’s sleeping; she’ll be out for hours with the pill he gave her. She needs to sleep; there’s no point in stressing her out any more than she is. She’ll find out about what’s happened overnight soon enough. “Call me when she wakes up. And don’t let anyone talk to her before I do,” he emphasizes.

  The story goes on the air. It runs two minutes. As soon as it wraps, Doug goes onto the floor and thanks the crew. He and Joe Allison talk briefly. For what it was, it went well. No histrionics, no doomsday predictions. A missing girl whose parents are grieving and worried about her, and hope that whoever carried her away from them will bring her home unharmed.

  Emma Lancaster’s disappearance is the first story after the first commercial break on the Nightly News on NBC, Doug’s home network. It’s seven at night in New York, four in the afternoon in Santa Barbara. Joe Allison does the standup in front of the Lancasters’ house. Sheriff Williams is interviewed briefly: there are, as of now, no clues, and no one has been in touch with the family.

  Doug and Glenna watch the live feed via satellite from inside their house. Glenna is a wreck. She slept until one in the afternoon, by which time Doug had done whatever he could do at the station and had come home to be with her. She was going to need his physical presence as much as possible, that he knew.

  Fred Hampshire watches with them. He and Doug have to talk about this, formulate a strategy. Doug can’t sit by passively and wait for events to unfold, they both agree on that. He’s going to have to take some action, force the issue.

  There have been requests for interviews from the other networks, CNN, Turner Broadcasting, Fox, the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, as well as the supermarket muck-rakers. Hampshire issues a blanket statement to one and all: “No interviews, no intrusions on the family.” Earlier in the day he hired a security agency to keep everyone at bay.

  It’s getting dark. Husband, wife, and lawyer sit in the study. “What do you want to do?” Hampshire asks.

  “What can we do until someone calls and tells us what they want?” Glenna laments.

  Hampshire steeples his fingers. “What if whoever did it doesn’t call?”

  “Why wouldn’t they call?” she says, wild-eyed. “Isn’t that the point? To get money from us?”

  “The kidnapper might not want money,” Hampshire says somberly.

  The ramifications of that fall on her like a slab of concrete from twenty floors. “Oh, no!” she wails. “That can’t be!”

  “You have to face the possibility that whoever did this didn’t do it for money, Glenna,” he says. “There are a lot of fucked-up, crazy people out there. He might just have wandered in, seen her, and taken her.”

  She starts crying uncontrollably. Doug pulls her to him, squeezing her in a fierce embrace. “That’s theoretical, honey,” he says, trying to soothe her while shooting a murderous glance at Hampshire, “but it isn’t what happened. Somebody wants money. He knew who we were, and that we can pay whatever it takes.”

  “How do you know that?” she rasps hoarsely. “We don’t know who did this, so how do you know what he wants, whoever he is!”

  He holds on to his composure—he has to, he can’t handle his daughter being abducted and an out-of-control wife too, if he isn’t in control himself. “It’s a feeling, honey,” he says as gently as he can. “I have to go with my instincts, there’s nothing else I can do right now. Or you.”

  “Well, my instincts tell me something horrible has happened to her,” she cries. “That she’s somewhere out there in pain, waiting for us to come and rescue her. And we aren’t doing a goddamn thing about it!”

  DAY THREE

  “GOOD EVENING. MY NAME is Doug Lancaster. I’m the owner of KNSB.”

  Doug is seated at the anchor desk staring into the camera, the TelePrompTer on top scrolling down. He’s in a dark business suit and has had makeup applied, something he’s never done before, even on the rare occasions when he has addressed a television audience, but another sleepless night, mostly spent holding his hysterical wife in his arms, has created monster raccoon rings under his eyes and given him an unhealthy pallor. For this presentation he wants to look healthy and in control, so he went with the pancake.

  “I am speaking to you tonight for a very personal reason.”

  It took an entire day to write this speech. Joe Allison and Jane Bluestine hel
ped him, and Fred Hampshire vetted it to make sure Doug didn’t say anything of a legal nature that could come back to haunt him later. He practiced reading the speech off the TelePrompTer several times, to make sure it would go smoothly.

  Off to the side he can see himself in the monitor. Forcing himself not to look, so he won’t be more self-conscious than he already is, he draws a calming breath and launches into it.

  “Two nights ago my daughter, Emma Lancaster, was taken from her bedroom in our home. By now, many of you have heard about that, on this station and others, as well as in the newspapers. Several of you have called in to the station with condolences, sent letters and faxes, and e-mailed us. My wife and I are extremely grateful for that support.

  “To this moment, however, we have had no communication whatsoever with the person or persons who took her. While the police, sheriff’s department, state police, and FBI have all been working around the clock to try to find her, they have not come up with any clues.”

  He straightens himself in his chair—here comes the punch line.

  “Tonight, here and now, I am taking the special step of using this public forum to offer a reward of two hundred fifty thousand dollars for Emma’s safe return. I will pay that reward to anyone who can give us evidence that will enable us to find her alive and unharmed. If anyone out there watching knows anything about Emma, and you don’t want to reveal who you are, we can arrange a way to get you the money without anyone knowing about it. I have discussed this with the police, and they have assured me that they will not interfere with this in any way.”

  A photo of Emma, taken at their resort home at Telluride over the Christmas holidays, comes up on the monitor. Doug glances at it out of the corner of his eye before proceeding. “This is what Emma looks like. She is fourteen years old, five feet four, weighs one hundred and ten pounds, and has light brown shoulder-length hair and hazel eyes.”

  Seeing her picture up there causes the words scrolling down the TelePrompTer to begin looking fuzzy to him. He forces himself to concentrate, to get through this without losing it.