The Disappearance

by J. F. Freedman

  “Most importantly,” he says, fixing the lens with the firmest look he can muster, “if you are the person who took my daughter, I am asking that you return her safely. That’s all. I give you my word that I won’t try to pursue you in any way. I will do whatever you want me to do. I will pay you any way you want. I can even transfer money into an untraceable foreign bank account if that would make you feel more secure.”

  He’s losing it—he needs to get this over before he breaks down.

  “Please,” he says, hearing the begging in his voice and not caring, “if you know anything about my daughter Emma’s whereabouts, call us at this toll-free number.” He glances at the monitor again as the 800 number comes up on the screen, and he reads it aloud. “If you are the man that took her and are afraid of how to get yourself out of this, call us. We are not monitoring this line. I repeat, the police are not monitoring this line. Your call will not be traced. Just call us, please. We’ll do anything you want. Anything.”

  He comes to the end of his speech. He feels his voice beginning to crack, but that’s all right. He can’t hold his emotions in check any longer.

  “Emma,” he says. “If you’re watching this, sweetheart, don’t give up. Your mom and I and everyone we know are doing everything we can to find you.” His eyes begin to tear. He has to get off.

  “And we will.”

  DAY FOUR

  A MASSIVE MANHUNT IS SET in motion, all up and down the Pacific Coast. Dozens of suspects are brought in for interrogation, not only from California, but from all over the West—Oregon, Washington, Arizona, Nevada. Every man with a history of sexual deviance, assault, or abduction is rounded up and questioned fiercely. Boys from all the local high schools she might have known, men who in any way had an association with her, even the choirmaster at St. Martin’s Episcopal Church where she sang in the Sunday choir, are talked to.

  Tens of thousands of flyers are distributed. People from the community, all kinds of people, people the Lancasters have never met in their lives, volunteer their time to hunt for Emma. In Goleta alone, at least a hundred people show up at the search command headquarters at the sheriff’s substation to team up and go out looking. People search the hills, the beaches, every crack in every sidewalk from Los Angeles to Monterey.

  While this is going on, the police lab finishes analyzing all the stuff they took from the gazebo, the footprint that was found outside Emma’s room, the pictures taken of her room and the immediate surroundings.

  “We didn’t get any prints we can’t account for,” the sheriff tells Doug the day after the televised appeal. He has come to the house to present the bad news. “If this was a premeditated snatch, he was probably wearing gloves.”

  “If this was premeditated,” Doug retorts, “why haven’t we been contacted?”

  “To mess with your head,” the sheriff answers succinctly. “So that when he finally does get in touch, you won’t be thinking of any retaliation.”

  “Well, it’s working. My wife is on tranquilizers around the clock, and I’m wiped out.”

  “Hang in there, Mr. Lancaster. You’ve got to keep yourself together.”

  “Why? Why do I have to keep myself together? Why should I have to?” Fuck this presenting-a-calm-face-to-the-world shit. This is his child they’re talking about.

  “Because he might be watching you. Or having you watched.”

  Whoa! That’s heavy. He never thought about that at all.

  “If someone took your daughter because of some slight in the past, whether it’s real or not, they could be playing all kinds of games with you.”

  Doug buries his head in his hands. “That’s insane! What kind of bastard would do something like that? I can’t think that way. It’ll drive me crazy trying to figure out who would do something like that.”

  “Don’t let it,” the sheriff admonishes him. “And do start thinking that way. Because right now, we don’t have a thing. Not one clue. Believe me, this is driving all of us up the wall.”

  Doug forces himself to calm down. “All right,” he agrees. “I’ll start putting together an enemies list.”

  There is a noteworthy detail that has come out of the evidence analysis. “There were condoms in that debris we found in the gazebo,” Williams tells Doug. “Somebody was using the place as a love pad.”

  Doug is incredulous. “Are you serious?”

  Williams nods. “All the same brand. The lab’s going to do an analysis of the semen. I’ll give odds they’re all from the same person.” He gives Doug an inquiring look. “Any guesses on who it might be?”

  “No, but I’m damned pissed off about it. If there was one rubber, I guess it could’ve been from someone who was here for a party or something and snuck off, but several means someone who’s here on a steady basis.” He thinks for a moment. “Should we get semen samples from all my male employees?”

  “That might be helpful,” Williams says, “but not legal. Anyway, what connection would that have with Emma’s disappearance? We have to keep our focus.”

  Doug shakes his head in frustration. “Where does this all lead us?”

  “Hoping for a break” is the only answer the sheriff has to give him.

  DAYS FIVE AND SIX

  ANOTHER DAY GOES BY. Still no word.

  The story is covered by every media outlet in the country. Doug patiently sits and gives interviews—he abhors the notoriety, but he’ll do anything that might help. Maybe someone has seen Emma but wasn’t watching television or reading the papers the first couple of days, or has seen her but, for whatever reason, is reluctant to come forward. More pressure from the media might do the trick.

  There is some solace in going to work. It keeps him from sinking into self-pity. There is a world out there and he is a part of it, regardless of anything. And by getting out of his house he sees how much sympathy for him and his family this has engendered. Sometimes, coming home at night when it’s dark, he will see groups of people standing near his house holding candles, conducting a silent vigil. He doesn’t know these people, has never met them. Yet here they stand, mute support for his family and his daughter’s safe return from whatever hell she’s living in.

  And there are ribbons. Yellow ribbons, thousands of them. Tied to trees all over the city. Every palm tree along Cabrillo Boulevard, the street that parallels the beach, has a yellow ribbon tied to it. He feels incredibly grateful and thankful to all the people who have done this work. And who are out there every day in search parties, looking for Emma.

  DAY EIGHT

  EIGHT DAYS AFTER EMMA Lancaster’s abduction from her Montecito bedroom in the dead of night, two UCSB college students, one male, one female, intrepid hikers, are making their way up the trailhead of Hot Springs Canyon. It’s a tough climb; the trail is still muddy from the winter’s rains and hasn’t been cut back by the Forest Service since the fall. But they’ve wanted to get out for over a month, and they’re experienced, so they plunge along, breaking trail if they have to. Moose, their black Lab, races ahead of them, then behind them, then ahead of them again.

  They keep to one side of the stream. It’s running full, and has been since before Christmas—too full and fast to cross. The rocks you’d normally use as stepping stones are either submerged or too slippery to step on. A fall and you’d be wet, cold, and likely injured.

  The trail switches back, and they climb up single file, the actual width no more than two feet, barely wide enough to traverse. The dog, running ahead, is barking loudly, racing up and down in a small circle near where a piece of the trail has recently collapsed under the pressure of the water. Old tree roots protrude under the caved-in ground, and water from the stream has diverted to cut a new stream running parallel with the main one.

  “How are we going to get around this?” the girl asks. She’s a healthy outdoors lady, freckle-faced even in winter.

  “Ford it, I guess,” the guy says. “It doesn’t look too deep.” He looks down. “Go ahead, lead the way. It’s on
ly knee high.”

  “You lead the way. I don’t want to get soaked if it’s too deep.” She peers into the dark, muddy water. “It looks deeper than that to me. Up to my thigh, anyway.” She sticks one leg in. Immediately her leg is wet all the way to the bottom of her shorts. “Too high,” she declares.

  “Damn. I wanted to get to the top,” he says, disappointed.

  “Can’t today,” she consoles him. “We’ll come back next week.”

  She turns to head back down the trail, shifting to one side to avoid their dog, who is running in a tight circle, barking at something off to the side, slightly up the hill. “Moose,” she calls to him, “leave the rabbits alone. Or whatever it is. If it’s a skunk, boy, you’re riding home in the trunk. Come on, now, move your ass.”

  The dog keeps barking, going out of his doggie mind.

  “What?” she exclaims with some annoyance. She wanted to go to the top too. Now they have to walk back, and they’ve got a stupid barking dog who doesn’t want to come with them.

  “Come on, dammit,” she says, reaching for Moose’s collar to pull him, and as she reaches out, she slips on the soft mud that’s collapsing under her feet. Instinctively she puts her hand out to break her fall.

  Her hand hits something hard, like a tree root or a rock. Except it has soft covering on top of it, like moss. But it isn’t moss. She knows the feeling of moss.

  She gropes into the underbrush. It’s long, whatever she’s put her hand on, and …

  She screams.

  Sheriff’s vehicles, the coroner’s wagon, paramedic trucks, all converge on the scene as soon as word goes out over the police scanner that a girl’s body has been found. The police set up a cordon around the scene, keeping everyone out, including the press.

  Sheriff Williams doesn’t have to look at the body. He knows.

  Emma has been dead for days. The coroner ascertains that immediately. Probably within twenty-four hours of when she was abducted. The body is already in an advanced state of decomposition due to the weather.

  The crime scene has been polluted due to all the people that have converged on it. Even so, there are footprints, not fresh ones, that scream out as soon as they’re discovered by one of Williams’s men.

  The left shoe print with the gouge in the treads. The same shoe print that had been found outside Emma Lancaster’s bedroom.

  Whoever had left that print at the Lancaster house had left it here, as well. Which means that whoever had been there had almost certainly brought the body of Emma Lancaster here.

  Her abductor. Her killer.

  Williams drives to the Lancasters’ home to tell Doug and Glenna, dreading what’s coming. He isn’t going to tell them this over the telephone. He’s barely out of his car before they rush outside to meet him.

  “Is she—?” Glenna starts to ask, then she sees the expression of grief on the lawman’s face.

  “Emma’s body has been found,” Williams tells them immediately, before they can have any hope. Better not to arouse hope, even if only for a microsecond, he knows from past, distressing experience.

  “Aaaaahhhh!” Glenna starts keening, a low animal moan, eyes rolling back into her head, her body swaying, then collapsing in sections, a slow free-fall. Doug lunges, grabbing her and preventing her from hitting the ground. He lifts her in his arms. Her body is shaking uncontrollably now.

  He carries her into the house and lays her on a couch in the dark living room. (The house has gotten progressively darker every day, as Glenna has been closing curtains against the life outside.) He spreads an afghan over her supine form. She’ll sleep for a while, he thinks, a defense against a reality that is too much for her to handle.

  DAY NINE

  NEWS OF THE DISCOVERY of Emma’s body spreads like wildfire. Within an hour the house is surrounded by television crews and teams of reporters. Doug has called the station and told them. Now he stands in front of his house facing a barrage of reporters. He looks into the bright lights of the television cameras, a platoon of microphones held out towards him to catch his words.

  “I have a brief statement to make, but I won’t answer any questions.” He straightens his shoulders against the onslaught of emotion. “As you know by now, our daughter Emma—our only child—has been found dead. The police assume she was murdered. There will be an autopsy done to determine the cause of death.”

  He pauses to collect himself. “My wife and I are in shock. I cannot begin to describe how deeply hurt and wounded we feel. As painful as our lives have been since the night Emma was abducted from our home, it is nothing compared to how we feel now, because until now we could hold on to some hope that she was still alive and would be returned to us. Now that hope has been shattered.”

  He stops again, to pull himself together, as much as he can.

  “I have only a few things to say. The police have assured me that the hunt for Emma’s killer will not diminish. Instead, they will intensify their efforts to find out who did this, and bring him to justice. In that regard, I am doubling the reward I offered last week. I am now offering half a million dollars for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of the inhuman bastard who stole my daughter’s life—from her and from us.”

  A woosh rises from the assembled reporters and their entourages—talk about a story! This is going to flush out every weirdo and freak who envisions getting rich off a family’s grief. And it may even help in finding the kidnapper—half a million dollars will loosen a lot of lips that know secrets meant to be buried. Most people would turn in their mothers for a sum like that.

  “The other thing I want to say is, now that this ordeal is over, my wife and I want to be left alone. I know that we are semipublic figures, and that we ourselves are members of the media, and that we are, and unfortunately will continue to be, news. But, please, folks—this is a horrible time for us. We ask that you act decently, and give us some space to try and put our lives back together.”

  A few reporters, not heeding his entreaties, begin to shout questions at him. But he turns his back on them and goes into his house.

  The television reporters, including one from his station, do their standups with the house in the background. Then they all pack up and leave, and the house stands alone in darkness.

  The postmortem comes back two days later.

  Glenna and Doug are in their house. Williams stands in front of them, feeling incredibly ill at ease. When he saw the coroner’s report an hour ago he couldn’t believe it, but Dr. Limones, the county coroner, assured him that there could be no doubt the findings were accurate.

  Williams has the document with him. He reads from it. “Cause of death was from an object striking the head.”

  “Was she sexually assaulted?” Glenna asks hoarsely.

  She’s been up and around since yesterday, after she woke up, first from the sleep-shock of hearing the news, then from the sedative their doctor had given her, she decided she couldn’t keep doing this—denying what had happened and opting out from living. Now she sits on a couch with Doug, steeling herself to hear the worst. Emma’s dead, so whatever happened, it’s in the past.

  “She had …” Williams pauses. “There is evidence of sexual activity.”

  Glenna moans.

  Williams looks pained. “But not necessarily forced entry,” he says quickly.

  She looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “There had been penetration,” he stammers. He dreads what he has to say next. “The coroner’s conclusion is that the sexual activity … may have been consensual.”

  Glenna goes ballistic. “Are you insane?” she cries. “She was fourteen years old! She was kidnapped from her bedroom! She’s only been having her period a year, for Christsakes! Let me see that.” She tries to grab the autopsy report from his hand.

  Doug restrains her. “Glenna, don’t.” He looks at Williams. “Is this true?” he asks incredulously.

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Oh, man
!” Doug pushes the heels of his hands up against the tops of his eye sockets. “This is going to turn the search for her killer in a whole other direction, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Williams answers truthfully.

  “Doesn’t this indicate that whoever took her might have known her?”

  “It might. It’s certainly a possibility we have to consider.”

  “Oh, man, this is …” Doug doesn’t know what to say to this excruciating piece of information.

  “She was sexually active.” Glenna’s dull voice pulls him around. “Those rubbers up in the gazebo. Someone was using them on her. With her,” she amends.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think her having been active has anything to do with the other,” Williams says.

  “You just said …” Doug says.

  “That it might influence the investigation? That whoever took her might have known her? It’s theoretically possible, but my cop’s gut instinct tells me it isn’t. I think this was either an act done by a sexual deviate, or a kidnapping for money that went wrong.”

  Doug has been pacing the floor. “Who’s going to know about this?”

  “That’s up to the district attorney. He can seal the report and keep it confidential. If he thinks that’s in the public interest,” he adds pointedly.

  Ray Logan is the D.A. Doug knows him well—the station endorsed Ray in the special election that was called after the popular incumbent, Luke Garrison, abruptly announced he was resigning, walked out of his office, and disappeared off the face of the earth. Ray owes Doug.

  “Anything else?” he asks Williams. “What about leaks from the coroner’s office? Or yours.”

  “I’m the only one in my department who’s seen this,” Williams says stiffly. “And the coroner’s office is pretty good about keeping their mouths shut.”

  “Good,” Doug says. “Because sullying her memory won’t serve any useful purpose. Someone out there kidnapped her and killed her. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”