The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  “But Aunt Candy said her cousin told her the story and that she knew the family.”

  One-upping a younger sister was even better than singing an obnoxious song. Michael stopped singing and said, “She probably doesn’t even have a cousin Jean.”

  “Your aunt Candy is a storyteller,” said Eleanor. “Sometimes that gives her what’s called literary license.”

  “Jason was seven, like me.”

  “Jason was goofy, like you,” said Michael.

  “That’s enough, Michael,” said Duncan.

  Eleanor turned to her husband. “I really didn’t think that was an appropriate story, did you?”

  Duncan shrugged. “It seemed okay to me.”

  “There were a lot of young, impressionable ears there.”

  “Well, like everyone was saying, some of the best kids’ stories aren’t all fun and games.”

  “Would you miss me as much as Jason’s parents missed him?” asked Stella.

  “See?” Eleanor said to Duncan before turning to their daughter. “We would miss you more than anything in the world.”

  “I wouldn’t miss you,” said Michael.

  “Michael,” warned his father.

  “We really should have a fire safety plan for our house,” said Eleanor, “complete with drills.”

  “I should probably get some extinguishers,” said Duncan.

  “Did Jason go to heaven?” asked Stella.

  “Jason’s not real,” said Michael.

  “Aunt Candy said it was a true story.”

  “In that case, my story was true, too,” said Michael. He reached over and tapped Stella’s head. “Tag, you’re it.”

  Stella hit him in return.

  In the same tone and at the same time, both adults said, “Keep your hands to yourselves.”

  Eleanor stared down each child, making sure they obeyed.

  “Mom?” asked Stella. “Do you think Jason’s happy now?”

  Eleanor smiled at her daughter. It wouldn’t surprise her if Stella ended up being a doctor or a vet. She always wanted to tend to the hurt or needy. If Stella had her way, they would have adopted every dog or cat in San Diego County looking for a home.

  “Honey, I don’t think Jason really exists. He’s like Winnie the Pooh or Mr. Toad.”

  “Or Casper,” Stella offered.

  “That’s right.”

  “Because Casper’s a ghost.”

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” Michael said.

  Stella wasn’t about to concede. “Then what about Jason?”

  The Pierces’ Del Mar home was a little more than a mile from the beach. They never would have been able to afford the property if Duncan’s parents hadn’t previously owned it. There was nothing fancy about it save for its proximity to the Pacific. Still, it was a comfortable home in an upscale neighborhood.

  “Take off your shoes,” Eleanor told her children. “And brush off your arms and legs. This time let’s try not to bring the entire beach into the house.”

  Under her watchful eyes, both children did as she asked. “Okay, now go brush your teeth. I’m sure they’re full of chocolate and marshmallows.”

  “I had seven s’mores,” said Michael. “Flame on!”

  “It’s too late for a shower,” Eleanor said. “But tomorrow morning I want each of you to take one.”

  While Duncan unpacked the car, Eleanor put the children to bed. Michael didn’t let her fuss with him too much, reluctantly presenting a cheek for her to kiss. He was getting to an age where he liked to think he was grown up. But Stella enjoyed letting Eleanor sit on the bed and brush her hair. When she finished, she leaned down and kissed Stella’s forehead.

  “Do you want me to close your curtains?” she asked.

  Stella shook her head. She liked to fall asleep looking out her window at the night sky. When she started singing one of her favorite rhymes, Eleanor joined in.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

  How I wonder what you are!

  Up above the world so high,

  Like a diamond in the sky.”

  One verse wasn’t enough for Stella. The last lines of the poem seemed to be her favorite, even though Eleanor thought the words were a bit strange. Still, she sang with her daughter:

  “As your bright and tiny spark,

  Lights the traveler in the dark,

  Though I know not what you are,

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

  Duncan entered the room just in time to join them in singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Then he leaned over and kissed his daughter.

  “Daddy!” said Stella. “Are you going to read to me?”

  Reading a story was the nightly treat for both of them, but that was not about to sway Eleanor, who was already shaking her head.

  “Not tonight,” she said. “It’s too late.”

  “Just a few pages,” said Stella.

  “Your mom’s right,” said Duncan. “Tomorrow night I’ll read twice as long. If I remember correctly, Harriet and Sport were in the middle of their spying.”

  Stella smiled, and her father kissed her on the forehead. “See you later, Alligator,” he said.

  “In a while, Crocodile.”

  Her parents closed the door as they left. Even though it was late, Stella didn’t feel sleepy. She listened to the murmur of their voices outside the door.

  The stars were bright. They looked so close she almost felt like reaching out to them. She saw something else in the night sky, too. It was lit up, but it didn’t look exactly like a star. Stella climbed out of bed to take a closer look.

  Michael surreptitiously slipped in one earbud, then pressed that ear to the pillow. The week before, his mother had caught him listening to music late and had threatened to confiscate his phone. From under the covers he thumbed through his playlist, and then settled on a Coldplay song.

  This time, Michael thought, he wasn’t going to make the mistake of alerting his mother through his singing. Still, he couldn’t help humming along to “Hymn for the Weekend.”

  “Hey,” Duncan said, reaching across their bed and placing his arm around Eleanor’s waist.

  “As I tell my schoolchildren, hay is for horses.”

  “Hey, Valentine.”

  She felt the heat of his unsaid communication, and drew close to him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At a quarter after six, Eleanor yelled for the kids to get up and washed. A few minutes later she heard the shower running.

  She went downstairs, made the children’s lunches, and put out cereal and toast. Michael was the first one downstairs. Usually he was the last.

  “Where’s your sister?” she asked.

  Between mouthfuls of toast, he said, “Don’t know.”

  Eleanor yelled, “Hurry up, Stella.”

  There was no response.

  “Stella?”

  She’s probably in the bathroom, thought Eleanor, but she went up the stairs to see for herself. She had a long-term subbing job, but luckily the elementary school was close to home. Still, she needed to be on her way, and this time her voice meant business: “Stella?”

  No answer again.

  The shower wasn’t running. Could she still be sleeping? Eleanor opened the door to her room. Stella wasn’t in bed.

  The room was still. Eleanor tried to ignore the sensation that came over her. Stella’s bed didn’t even look slept in. The covers weren’t tossed all around, as they usually were.

  She shouted toward the room next door: “Duncan? Is Stella with you?”

  From their room Eleanor heard him call, “No.”

  Maybe she was out walking the dog. Sometimes when Stella was the first up, she did that. Eleanor hurried down the stairs and saw Copper sleeping on the sofa, where he knew he shouldn’t be. Eleanor didn’t even pause to discipline him.

  “Stella!”

  This time she couldn’t keep the alarm out of her voice. Michael stopped eating; his cereal spoon was su
spended in air.

  “Michael, help me find your sister. Check the garage, and if she’s not there, go outside and look around for her.”

  Both of them started calling. Their cries brought a half-shaved Duncan down the stairs. Their eyes met, and he could see how scared Eleanor looked.

  Duncan said, “She’s probably walking the dog.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Copper is in the family room.”

  “Did you check the backyard?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You do the once-over upstairs, and I’ll look out back.”

  She ran upstairs again and checked everywhere. Duncan was waiting for her downstairs. Both shook their heads.

  “It’s possible,” said Eleanor, “that she got up early this morning and went over to Patty’s or Jessica’s.”

  Both girls lived on their block. Stella had never done such a thing before, but parenting brought daily surprises.

  The front door opened, and Eleanor drew in a quick breath of hope, but Michael entered without his sister. “I didn’t see her,” he said.

  “You call Patty and Jessica,” Duncan said to Eleanor. “I’ll drive over to the park and check the playground.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Michael.

  For a moment Eleanor considered asking him to look on one of the side streets, but she reconsidered. “Stay close to me.”

  She grabbed her cell phone and made calls. Neither of Stella’s friends nor their parents had seen her. It took all of Eleanor’s restraint not to panic. Her throat felt as if a noose had been tightened around it.

  “Did you see Stella this morning, Michael?” she asked. Her voice was high pitched; it didn’t even sound like her.

  “No.”

  “Let’s go to the neighbors’,” she said. “You know how Stella likes to visit with people on the block.”

  They knocked on Meg Downing’s door first. Eleanor rapped hard. “Come on, come on,” she said.

  But Mrs. Downing was in her late seventies, and not about to be rushed. She was a widow, and cautious, pushing back the curtains to see who was standing there.

  “It’s Eleanor Pierce, Meg. Is Stella with you?”

  The door opened. Mrs. Downing was holding her robe to her throat. “Stella? Why, no.”

  “Have you seen her this morning?”

  “No . . .”

  Mrs. Downing didn’t get the chance to say anything else. Eleanor grabbed Michael’s hand and hurried off without so much as an apology for intruding.

  They went to the Howells’, their neighbors on the other side. Stella was a social girl, always greeting everyone she saw. Duncan had dubbed her “the town crier.” Someone might have invited her in for cocoa.

  But the Howells hadn’t seen Stella. And neither had the Wongs, the Baumgartners, the Crandalls, or the Harts. With each failure, Eleanor grew more panicked. She ran from door to door, screaming out Stella’s name. People came out of their houses to see what the commotion was about.

  A familiar car pulled up to the curb, but Eleanor saw that her husband was alone.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “No one’s seen her. No one.”

  “I’ll call the police,” Duncan said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When he saw the name on his phone’s screen, Detective Orson Cheever’s stomach started doing flip-flops. Homicide Team IV was third up in the rotation. Lieutenant Martin Ramirez’s early-morning phone call could mean only one thing.

  “We got a critical missing on a little girl,” said Ramirez.

  “Critical missing” was cop talk for a situation requiring immediate attention. Cheever hated the missing-kid calls more than anything. He dressed while Ramirez talked. Other cops would have grabbed a notepad, but not Cheever. On the force his memory was legendary. If his recall wasn’t eidetic, it was close to it.

  Using his shoulder to prop the phone next to his ear, Cheever put on khaki slacks, an oxford shirt, and a blue blazer. It was likely he’d be wearing the same clothes for the next twenty-four hours or more.

  Ramirez and Cheever had been part of the same police-academy class more than twenty years before. As Ramirez had advanced through the ranks, Cheever had been content to remain a detective working homicide, refusing all promotions. That hadn’t stopped Ramirez from appointing Cheever and Homicide Team IV as the department’s RAMP (Retrieval of Abducted and Missing Persons) team. In his day Ramirez had been a pretty good cop, but he’d never been even half as good as Cheever. No one was.

  The more Ramirez talked, the less Cheever liked the sound of the case. Seven-year-old Stella Pierce had gone missing sometime during the night. Cheever thought of his daughter, Diane. She had been a few months shy of six when she’d died of leukemia. Missing or hurting little kids got to him like nothing else.

  “I already called the Falcon,” said Ramirez. The “Falcon” was Sergeant Dean Falconi, who headed up Homicide Team IV. “He put out the call to the rest of the team. I told him I’d be conferring with you.”

  The Falcon would be the public face of the investigation, handling the logistics and managing his investigators. Cheever would be the lead detective.

  “I’ll call you when I know more,” said Cheever.

  Judging from the flashing MISSING CHILD signage Cheever saw as he drove south on Interstate 5, the early-warning system was already operational, with the public being asked to stay on the lookout for Stella Pierce. An alarm had been sent to Cheever’s cell phone, as well as about half a million others, offering up a description of the little girl. There was also a media blitz under way, with messages going out over the airwaves. The hope was that in the face of such a concerted public onslaught, the kidnapper would release the child unharmed. The Amber Alert meant that the Tijuana border crossing into Mexico had been notified, as well as the Border Patrol checkpoints along Interstates 5 and 8.

  The morning commute was stop-and-go, but Cheever still managed to drive from Leucadia to Del Mar in less than fifteen minutes. As he neared the Pierce home, he became aware of a helicopter flying overhead. If the kid didn’t turn up soon, the Falcon would put everything in the sky he could.

  The street where the Pierces lived was already closed to traffic. The San Diego Police Department was in the process of setting up checkpoints in the surrounding blocks. No one was going to get in or out of the area without being questioned.

  A familiar face flagged Cheever down, and he lowered his window to talk to Cory Lincoln, the youngest detective on Homicide Team IV. Everyone on the team called Lincoln “the Kid.”

  “The Falcon has me covering this corner until a uniform relieves me,” he said. “That’ll teach me to be first to the scene.”

  “Mother Maria and the Walrus aren’t here yet?”

  “Mother Maria” was the nickname for Jacoba Diaz; “the Walrus” was Will Hayes. They were the other two members of the team.

  The Kid shook his head.

  “As soon as you’re relieved, I want you to go door-to-door and start conducting searches of every home on the street. You’ll need to look at every space; and that means car trunks, abandoned chests, ditches, gardening sheds, crawl spaces, and refrigerators. Check all swimming pools as well.”

  “I looked at a map of the area,” said the Kid. “There are a lot of canyons around here. Who’s working those?”

  “The neighborhood abuts the Torrey Pines Reserve Extension. I’ll be calling the park rangers and asking for their help searching through the reserve.”

  “They’re going to be stretched thin,” he said.

  “I’ve got the marines coming,” said Cheever.

  The Kid wasn’t sure if Cheever was kidding or not. As it turned out, he wasn’t. Not even an hour later, a platoon of marines, trained in search and rescue, arrived from Camp Pendleton in Oceanside and joined the search.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They used the Falcon’s Yukon as the command post. Inside the vehicle, away from prying ears, Cheever conferred with his sergeant. Falco
ni sat in the driver’s seat. He was a big man and filled much of the cabin’s space.

  The search warrant had just come through—a precautionary move in case a family member was involved in the child’s disappearance.

  “Prior to our getting the warrant,” said Falconi, “the family asked me to search the house. I did a quick run-through, but didn’t see anything.”

  “Where are the parents now?” asked Cheever.

  “I asked them to stay next door while their house was being processed. I figured you’d rather talk to them there than at the station.”

  The two men worked out the early logistics of the investigation, deciding who from the team would be case agent, who would have charge over the neighborhood search, and who would do record checking. There was a series of protocols to be followed, and the two cops made sure all their bases were covered. If the child wasn’t found in the next two hours, an additional series of protocols would demand their attention.

  The windows of the Yukon were fogged up by the time the men finished talking. As Cheever moved to leave the car, the Falcon said, “It wasn’t the parents.”

  Cheever turned his head and looked at Falconi. “No?”

  “You’ll see,” said the sergeant. “This is the kind of family Norman Rockwell would have painted. They’re throwback. They could have stepped out of one of those black-and-white sitcoms from the fifties.”

  “Then this is a rude wake-up call from the twenty-first century.”

  Cheever conducted a thorough, but speedy, search of the Pierce house. Judging by the family pictures on display, the Falcon’s Rockwell remark seemed spot-on. The Pierces were a handsome nuclear family, with two parents and two kids and an obligatory dog. The towheaded daughter—the missing Stella—had a big smile for a little girl. Once upon a time Cheever had had pictures of Diane similarly displayed.

  When he finished with the house, forensics began processing the scene. As he made his way next door, he wiped his hands on his pants and took a few deep breaths. The Pierce family would be crazy with worry. Until they found out what happened to their daughter, he would be their support system and their point man.