by S. J. Harper
I shudder.
It’s a truly frightening prospect. If that’s the case, we could be in for a long haul.
And more victims.
Zack turns off the road and into a parking space along a block of quaint, brick-faced shops. I follow him out of the SUV and into an eatery. The sign out front says Cannon. It’s only eleven thirty so we have our choice of booths lining the sides of the small restaurant.
Zack chooses the one farthest from the long, scarred wooden bar already bustling with patrons. A smiling, busty waitress hands us menus and in that distinctive Southern way, tells us, “Just wave a hand, handsome, when you’re ready to order. I’m Gwen.”
That, of course, was directed at Zack. He doesn’t seem to notice the obvious flirtation, or maybe he’s just pretending he didn’t notice for my benefit.
“I bet you get that a lot, huh handsome?”
Zack eyes are on his menu. “Didn’t figure you for the jealous type.”
“Jealous?”
He doesn’t bother to look up. “I understand. It’s probably difficult having to watch me share a moment with Gwen when what you really want it to have me all to yourself. I wouldn’t mind dividing my time. Just say the word. There’s plenty to go around.”
I let a beat pass. Then another.
His eyes lift to meet mine.
I drop the menu on the table and lean forward. “I should warn you,” I tell him, my gaze steady, the tone of my voice low and laced with something just this side of wicked. “If I were to ever say the word, there would be no dividing of your time. You’d have neither the energy nor the inclination.”
A slow smile forms. “Are we flirting?”
“I don’t flirt.”
“’Cause that felt a lot like flirting.”
I roll my eyes and slide out of the booth. “I need to find the ladies room. You can order for me,” I tell Zack.
“Do you know what you want?”
“Whatever, just no grits,” I reply.
That gets a raised eyebrow. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Probably. But I think I can stand it.” I manage to take a couple steps before turning back. “Oh, and unsweetened tea, please.”
“What a Yankee,” he says under his breath before raising a hand.
“For the lady, honey glazed salmon with a side salad and fries.” I hear him say as I walk away. Leaving Zack and Gwen at the table, I head for the back of the bistro and the sign that says restrooms.
When I return to the table a few minutes later, Gwen’s there again.
The waitress raises both eyebrows. “The unsweetened tea’s for the lady, I’ll bet.”
“Yep.” Zack exchanges a glance with her that speaks of Yankee ignorance to long-suffering Southern sensibilities. “She’s from California.”
“Ah, that explains it,” she says setting a second glass down in front of Zack. “Your food will be up in a few minutes.”
Zack scoops us his napkin and smoothes it onto his lap. “I couldn’t help but notice you were very quiet on the ride over.”
I take a pull on my tea. “I can’t seem to get a grip on this case.” I lower my voice, “It scares me to think we might have only a day or two to find Coop before this kidnapper decides he likes killing more than he likes whatever it is he’s doing with these kids.”
Zack leans back in his chair. “Well, we’ll eat and drive over to the Borosons’. It’s a long shot that they’ll remember anything new, but we need to try. After that, we’ll re-interview the women at the day care center where Andy disappeared. We’re treading water here, for sure. I’m open if you have a better idea—?”
I shake my head. “Wish I did. Nothing’s come in on either of the tip lines?”
Zake pulls his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “No messages or missed calls. I’ll reach out to Taft just in case.”
I watch as he connects the call, speaks for a few minutes, listens for a few minutes, and disconnects. “Nothing?”
“Nada. No ransom calls. The Andersons are doing an interview with Live5News at three this afternoon. Brett’s station is pulling out all the stops.”
“Sounds like Beverly got her exclusive. What are the chances we could talk them out of it?” I ask him.
“Less then a snowball’s in hell. Taft and Biller already tried. They did promise not to mention anything specific about the investigation.”
Before he can say more, the waitress is back with two plates balanced on one arm, two identical pitchers clutched in the opposite hand. She places the pitchers on the edge of the table, sets our food in front of us, then proceeds to fill our glasses. How she can tell which tea is sweet and which is unsweetened, I don’t have a clue. But a cautious sip tells me she got it right.
Zack ordered what appears to be a pulled pork sandwich with baked mac and cheese and cheddar grits. As soon as the plate is set in front of him, he starts right in on his sandwich.
“Good?”
“Terrific,” he says, before enthusiastically sampling the mac and cheese.
I take another swallow of tea, eyeing him over the rim of the glass. Zack looks like a man who works out religiously. His biceps bulge under his shirt as he picks the sandwich back up. ’Course the werewolf genes might be a factor. I’ve yet to meet a fat werewolf.
Zack catches me staring. “What?”
“I envy your metabolism. Apple turnovers, pecan rolls, cheese grits.”
“They really are fabulous,” he says, holding out a forkful of the grits in my direction.
I hold up my hand. “No thanks.”
I flake off a bit of salmon. It’s light and the honey glaze melts in my mouth.
He waves the cheesy concoction in front of me. “Come on, you know you want a bite. They’re awfully goooood…” He drags out the word like a kid.
Well, why not? I take his hand in mine, open my mouth, and guide the fork in. Zack’s skin is warm. The texture of the grits velvety smooth, the flavor rich with an unexpected kick.
“Those are amazing,” I admit.
“It’s the Tabasco.” Zack grins and takes a bite himself. “You know, we might make a proper Southerner out of you yet.”
I pick up a French fry and chomp down on it. “I don’t think so.”
He studies me for a moment. “I wonder…”
“What?”
“Is it the Southerner part you find objectionable, or the proper part?”
The hint of flirtation is back in his voice. I’m tempted to play along. The past couple days have been filled with too much darkness. The truth is, it feels good to pretend we’re normal people, that this is a normal lunch. To put aside business, if only for an hour.
But we can’t. The stakes are too high.
Zack senses my shift in mood. “How about we take it from the top? Go over everything we know one more time?”
I nod. We need to solve this case.
And then, I need to get back to San Diego.
CHAPTER 5
The Boroson home is about one fourth the size of the Nicolsons’. It’s a white clapboard bungalow with a porch just big enough to hold two rocking chairs and a planter of plastic yellow daisies. The front lawn has been neglected, the grass brown and ragged from lack of water. There are no trees on the lot, and hardly any along the street leading to the house. The houses are so close together, I imagine Mrs. Boroson could talk with her neighbor through any facing window. I’m guessing there aren’t many secrets on this block.
I see a curtain move in the house to the right. Our arrival has been noticed.
Mr. Boroson answers our knock. “You’re the FBI agents?”
Zack and I nod and show our badges.
He moves back and motions us inside. We follow him through a short hallway and into a parlor to the right. The room is meticulously clean—polished wooden floors gleaming, two well-worn but comfortable looking sofas arranged around an oak coffee table. Over the fireplace, a photograph of Andy and his parents—taken for
a Christmas card, I’ll bet. And in the corner, a box of toys.
My gaze rests on the toy box a fraction of a second too long. Mrs. Boroson has just joined us and she notices.
“Those are Andy’s,” she says. “I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of them yet.”
A pleasant-looking twenty something with sad eyes and blonde hair drawn back at the nape of her neck, she’s dressed in pressed jeans and a white long-sleeved blouse. Tiny gold studs and a plain wedding band complete the simple ensemble. In other circumstances, I would call her pretty, but grief and despair have stripped away her vitality and, I suspect, her hope.
Mrs. Boroson claims one of the sofas, her husband takes his place beside her and motions to the other. “Please, have a seat.”
Mr. Boronson is dressed in a blue jumpsuit and sturdy work boots. I recall reading in one of the reports that he works at the Charleston International Airport as a baggage handler. Boroson reaches for his wife’s hand, and then leans toward us. His gaze is direct, his eyes shadowed by sadness. He’s handsome with the same sandy blond hair as his son. I can’t help but think Andy would have grown into an attractive man.
“Thank you for taking time to meet with us,” Zack says.
Mr. Boroson waves him off. “Do you have any news?”
“I wish we did,” I reply. “You’ve heard that another little boy has gone missing?”
They nod in unison.
“I know I shouldn’t be following the story. I’m not sleeping again. But I haven’t been able to help myself. It’s the same person, isn’t it?” asks Mrs. Boroson.
“We suspect so, yes.”
“We’re going back over the details of Andy’s disappearance,” Zack says. “In hopes something new will come to light. Agent Monroe and I would like you to go over the report with us. Would you mind doing that?”
“Not at all.” The light in Andy’s mother’s eyes shines a bit more brightly. “Anything to help you catch this monster. Right, honey?”
Mr. Boroson gives her a half-shrug before looking away. Reluctance emanates from his slumped shoulders. I can hardly blame him. We’re about to pull a Band-Aid off a fresh scab.
Zack takes his silence as acquiescence and continues.
“We know he was taken from the day care center, and we’re going there next. We want to review that morning and the days leading up to it with you.”
He pauses and checks his notes, giving the Borosons time to compose themselves. Then he dives in, “Both of you drove together that morning to day care to drop Andy off.”
He pauses, looks up.
“That’s right,” says Mr. Boroson.
“After that, you took your wife to her job in town before heading for the airport,” Zack adds. “We want you to think back. Do either of you remember anything strange that happened that morning or in the days leading up to it? Perhaps someone in the neighborhood that didn’t belong here. Maybe a workman or a delivery man. A strange car.”
“I wish there was, but no.” The answer from Mr. Boroson comes too quickly.
I jump in, keeping my tone sympathetic. “I know you’ve been asked this before and that the answer was no. I realize we’re asking you to access memories that will undoubtedly be painful. But what we need is for you to really think back. Don’t just repeat the answer you think is right. We need you to go back to that day, to the days prior. Was there anything out of place? Maybe someone in the neighborhood or hanging around the day care center who didn’t belong. Did anything at all seem out of the ordinary?”
I can see how intensely the Borosons want to give us something. I can also see the hopelessness when they realize they can’t.
Mrs. Boroson has tears in her eyes when she finally speaks. “I’ve gone over that day a thousand times. We both have.” She turns and looks briefly at her husband, offering him a weary half-smile before continuing. “But it was a day like any other day. I went in with Andy, gave him a hug—” Her breath hitches. “Told him I loved him and left him with Laura, his preschool teacher. He ran off to be with his friends, not even glancing back at me. He loved school.” There’s a long pause. We wait while she struggles to reign in her emotions. “He was such a happy little boy. That’s how we want to remember him.”
She’s looking up at the portrait over the fireplace. Zack’s eyes meet mine and he inclines his head slightly. It appears there isn’t much more to learn from her. I turn to Mr. Bososon. “Anything you can add?” I ask softly.
“No.” He draws in a breath. “Just find the bastard before he kills the Anderson boy.”
I rise. “Thank you for your time. We can show ourselves out.”
Zack and I head for the front door. I glance back once, knowing the image of these two grieving parents, like so many others, like the face of Demeter when she realized Persephone was gone, will be forever emblazoned on my brain.
Andy Boroson’s day care center is located in a residential area about five miles from the Boroson home. It’s a small house painted a cheerful yellow with fancifully cut white gingerbread trim around the entrance. The property is bounded by a five-foot whitewashed picket fence in front and by a privacy fence of six feet along the sides and back.
All this we can see upon approaching the Bee Happy Child Care and Preschool. Along with the name, the sign proclaims: Licensed Teachers and Certified Day Care Providers. There’s a telephone number and the name of the school’s director: Meredith Lawrence. A graphic of a smiling bumblebee graces the upper left corner.
We enter a small reception area just through the front door and as soon as Zack and I do, a woman greets us. We flash our credentials, state our business. The room has a clear view of the front door and behind it, an open window frames the play area out back. At this moment, the yard is teeming with children, laughing, carefree, and full of life. My heart warms as I watch them enthusiastically swarm over a jungle gym adorned with more attachments than I’ve ever seen on a piece of playground equipment.
I find myself smiling. When the woman—who introduces herself as Meredith Lawrence—notices, she smiles, too. But the lightness of our moods quickly dissipates. We all know why we’re here.
Her expression morphs into a weary frown. “This is the way our children are supposed to spend their day,” she says, motioning Zack and I to sit. “What happened with Andy Boroson is beyond horrible.”
“It doesn’t seem to have affected your enrollment,” I say. “It looks like you have a full house.”
Ms. Lawrence nods. “We were lucky. We did have a few parents pull their children, but Bee Happy has a reputation for quality day care and we were able to fill the spots from a waiting list. Thankfully, everyone assumes that what happened was an isolated, tragic event.”
Zack has been watching the activity outside, too. “And yet, I see a man standing near the fence. Security?”
She follows his gaze. “Yes. What’s the old saying? ‘Hope for the best but prepare for the worst?’ We aren’t taking any chances. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that we’d have to employ full-time security. Or install cameras. I suppose it’s a sad reflection on today’s world.” She turns from the window to face us. “I saw on the news that another boy has gone missing. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
“We’d like to interview the day care workers who were on duty when Andy disappeared. Would that be possible?” I ask.
“Of course.” Ms. Lawrence gestures to a closed door to the right with her name on it. “You can use my office. I’ll call them in and take their place on the playground. That way you can have some privacy.”
Zack thanks her and we watch as she crosses the yard to call to the two young preschool teachers who were the last to see Andy Boroson alive.
“Should we interview them separately or together?” I ask Zack as we wait for the girls to join us.
“The police interviewed them separately the day Andy disappeared,” he answers. “Let’s see if their accounts differ now that they’ve had time to think about
it.”
Laura Smith and Natalie Schofield greet us in the office with somber expressions. Obviously, Ms. Lawrence told them why we were here. Both girls are dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and T-shirts. Each wears an apron over their clothes with the smiling bumblebee logo from the sign embroidered on the front. Laura, who looks to be the older of the two, mid-twenties to Natalie’s late teens, speaks first.
“We still miss Andy,” she says. “His friends do, too. Most are too young to understand and keep asking when he’ll be back. It breaks our hearts.”
I nod. “We appreciate your taking the time to see us. Agent Armstrong and I were not on Andy’s case, but we are working the most recent abduction. We think they may be connected. We’d appreciate hearing whatever you can tell us about the day Andy went missing. The smallest detail might just end up being the key to finding the Anderson boy.”
Laura fiddles with the strings to her apron. “I’m not sure where to start.”
Zack leans toward the girls, making eye contact first with Laura, then Natalie. “For instance, what was happening on the playground that day?”
This time it’s Natalie who speaks first. She’s blue-eyed and waif-thin with long blonde curls—a stark contract to Laura’s full-figure, short dark hair and brown eyes.
“Laura and I were on playground duty—like today.” Natalie closes her eyes for a moment, as if accessing the memory of that day “Andy was playing with his friends in the sand box. It’s over by the fence—there—”
She motions at the window, and Zack and I look. The sandbox is about two feet away from the fence line. It’s an enclosed rectangle about six feet by twelve, rimmed in smooth wood. There are five children playing in it, scooping white sand into plastic buckets and gleefully dumping it out again.
I return my gaze to Natalie. “What happened next?”
“One of the children fell off the swings.” She sighs. “Sabrina is one of our more dramatic kids. She started screaming at the top of her lungs. Laura and I both rushed over to see if she was really hurt. There was a little blood. She’d skinned her knees, but she refused to get up. I carried her kicking and screaming to the nurse’s office inside.”
