by Rene Denfeld
Dedication
For Ariel
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Rene Denfeld
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
The home was a small yellow cottage on an empty street. There was something dispirited about it, but Naomi was used to that. The young mother who answered the door was petite and looked much older than her age. Her face seemed strained and tired.
“The child finder,” she said.
They sat on a couch in an empty living room. Naomi noticed a stack of children’s books on the table next to a rocking chair. She could guarantee the child’s room would be exactly as before.
“I’m sorry we didn’t hear of you sooner,” the father said, rubbing his hands together from his position in an armchair near the window. “We’ve tried everything. All this time—”
“Even a psychic,” the young mother added, with a pained smile.
“They say you are the best at finding missing children,” the man added. “I didn’t even know there were investigators who did that.”
“Call me Naomi,” she said.
The parents took her in: sturdy build, tanned hands that looked like they knew work, long brown hair, a disarming smile. She was younger than they had expected—not out of her late twenties.
“How do you know how to find them?” the mother asked.
She gave that luminous smile. “Because I know freedom.”
The father blinked. He had read of her history.
“I’d like to see her room,” Naomi said after a bit, putting her coffee down.
The mother led her through the house while the father stayed in the living room. The kitchen looked sterile. An old-fashioned cookie jar sat collecting dust on its rim: the fat belly said, grandma’s cookies. Naomi wondered the last time the grandma had visited.
“My husband thinks I should go back to work,” the mother said.
“Work is good,” Naomi said gently.
“I can’t,” the mother said, and Naomi understood. You can’t leave your house if at any moment your child might come home.
The door opened to a room of perfect sadness. There was a twin bed, covered with a Disney quilt. A series of pictures on the wall: ducks flying. madison’s room, read the appliqué letters above the bed. There was a small bookshelf and a larger desk covered with a mess of pens and markers.
Above the desk was a reading chart from her kindergarten teacher. super reader, it said. There was a gold star for every book Madison had read that fall before she went missing.
The smell was of dust and staleness—the smell of a room that had not been occupied for years.
Naomi stepped next to the desk. Madison had been drawing. Naomi could imagine her getting up from the drawing, bolting out to the car while her dad called impatiently.
It was a picture of a Christmas tree covered with heavy red globes. A group stood next to it: a mom and a dad with a little girl and a dog. my family, the caption announced. It was the typical little-kid drawing, with large heads and stick figures. Naomi had seen dozens of these in similar bedrooms. Each time it felt like a stab wound to her heart.
She picked a wide-ruled writing journal off the desk, thumbing through the clumsy but exuberant entries decorated with crayon illustrations.
“She was a good writer for her age,” Naomi remarked. Most five-year-olds could barely scribble.
“She’s bright,” the mother responded.
Naomi went to the open closet. Inside was an array of colorful sweaters and well-washed cotton dresses. Madison liked bright colors, she could see. Naomi fingered the cuff of one of the sweaters, and then another. She frowned.
“These are all frayed,” she noted.
“She would pick at them—all of them. Unravel the threads,” the mom said. “I was always trying to get her to stop.”
“Why?”
The mother stopped.
“I don’t know anymore. I would do anything—”
“You know she is most likely dead,” Naomi said, softly. She had found it was better just to say it. Especially when so much time had passed.
The mom froze.
“I don’t believe she is.”
The two women faced each other. They were close to the same age, but Naomi had the bloom of health on her cheeks, while the mom looked drawn with fear.
“Someone took her,” the mother said, firmly.
“If they did take her and we find her, she won’t come back the same. You have to know that now,” Naomi said.
The woman’s lips trembled. “How will she come back?”
Naomi stepped forward. She came close enough that they almost touched. There was something magnificent in her gaze.
“She will come back needing you.”
At first Naomi didn’t think she would find it, even though she had the directions and coordinates given to her by the parents. The black road was wet with plowing, the sides pulpy with snow. On either side of her car rolled an endless vista: mountains of dark green firs capped with snow, black crags, and white frosted summits. She had been driving for hours, high into the Skookum National Forest, far away from the town. The terrain was tough, brutal. It was a wild land, full of crevasses and glacier faces.
There was a flash of yellow: tattered remains of yellow tape dangling from a tree.
Why did they stop here? It was nowhere.
Naomi stepped carefully out of her car. The air was bright and cold. She took a deep, comforting breath. She stepped inside the trees and was plunged into darkness. Her boots crunched on the snow.
She imagined the family deciding to spend an entire day driving to cut down their Christmas tree. They would stop for fresh doughnuts in the hamlet of Stubbed Toe Creek. Make their way up one of the many old roads winding the snowy mountains. Find their very own special Douglas fir.
Snow and ice would have been everywhere. She could picture the mom warming her hands on the car heater, the little girl in the backseat bundled in a pink parka. The father deciding—perhaps tired of trying to decide—this was the place. Pulling over. Opening the trunk to get the handsaw, his back turned, his wife diffidently picking her way into the woods, their daughter dashing quickly ahead—
It had happened in moments, they had told her. One minute Madison Culver was there, the next she was gone. They had followed her tracks as best they could, but it had begun to snow—hard—and even as they clung to each other in terror, the tracks vanished.
By the time the search parties were called, the snow had turned into a blizzard that closed the roads. The search resumed when the roads were cleared a few weeks later. None of the locals had heard or seen anything. The next spring a cadaver dog was sent in, but came back with nothing. Madison Culver had disappeared, her body presumed buried in the snow or scavenged by animals. No one could survive for long in the woods. Especially not a five-year-old girl dressed in a pink parka.
Hope was a beautiful thing, Naomi thought, looking up through the silent trees, the clean, cold air filling her lungs. It was the most beautiful part of her work when it was rewarded with life. The worst when it brought only sorrow.
Back at her car, she pulled out some new snowshoes and her pack. She was already dressed in a warm parka, hat, and thick boots. The trunk of her car was
filled with clothes and gear for searching every possible terrain, from the desert to the mountains to the cities. She kept everything she needed right there at the ready.
In town she had a room in a house owned by a dear friend. It was there she kept her files, her records, more clothes, and keepsakes. But for Naomi real life was on the road working her cases. Especially, she had found, in places like this. She had taken classes on wilderness survival, as well as search and rescue, but it was intuition that informed her. The most dangerous wilderness felt safer to Naomi than a room with a door that locked from the inside.
She started in the exact place where Madison was lost, absorbing the area. She didn’t start a formal search. Instead she treated the area like an animal she was getting to know: feeling its body, understanding its form. This was a cold animal, an unpredictable animal, with jutting, mysterious, dangerous parts.
Just a few feet into the trees the road disappeared behind her, and if not for the compass in her pocket and the tracks behind her, Naomi might have lost all sense of direction. The tall firs wove a canopy above her, almost obliterating the sky. Here and there the sun slanted through the trees, sending shafts of light to the ground. She could see how easily it would be to get turned around, lost. She had read of people dying in this wilderness less than half a mile from a trail.
These were old-growth trees, and the snow-covered ground was surprisingly bare of brush. The snow was sculpted into patterns against the reddish tree trunks. The ground rose and fell around her—the child could have gone in practically endless directions, her form certain to disappear in mere moments.
Naomi always began by learning to love the world where the child went missing. It was like carefully unraveling a twisted ball of yarn. A bus stop that led to a driver that led to a basement room, carefully carpeted in soundproofing. A ditch in full flood that led to a river, where sadness awaited on the shore. Or, her most famous case, a boy gone missing eight years before, found in the school cafeteria where he had disappeared—only twenty feet below, where his captor, a night watchman, had built a secret basement lair in a supply room behind a defunct old boiler. It wasn’t until Naomi had pulled the original blueprints for the school that anyone knew the room existed.
Each missing place was a portal.
Deep into the forest the trees abruptly cleared, and Naomi was standing at the edge of a steep white ravine. At the bottom snow stared blankly back up at her. The land beyond rose into dizzying mountains. Far across the way a frozen waterfall resembled a charging lion. The trees were shrouded in white, a vision of the heavens.
It was March, she thought: still frozen up here.
Naomi imagined a five-year-old girl, lost and shivering, wandering in what must have seemed like an endless forest.
Madison Culver had been missing for three years. She would be eight years old by now—if she has survived.
On her way back down the mountain was a solitary store, so camouflaged with snow and moss she almost drove right past. It was built like a log cabin, with a ramshackle porch. strikes store, announced the faded hand-painted sign above the door.
The empty dirt parking lot was dusted with fresh snow. Naomi pulled in. She thought the store might be abandoned. But no, it was just unkempt. The door jangled behind her.
The windows were so dirty, it was perpetual dusk inside.
The old man behind the counter had a face covered in broken blue veins. His filthy cap looked glued to his sparse gray hair.
Naomi noted the dusty taxidermy heads behind him, the shells under the smeary glass counter. The aisles were set wide to accommodate snowshoes. Car parts were piled in corners; the metal shelves were packed with everything from cheap toys to dried macaroni to the manacled hands of animal traps.
It was the macaroni that caught her eye. Naomi was enough a student of life to recognize a subsistence store over a tourist stop on the road. She picked up a bag of stale nuts and a soda.
“Do people still live up here?” she asked, curiously.
The old man frowned suspiciously. It occurred to her it was a forest reserve. Possibly there were restrictions.
“Ay-um,” he said, sourly.
“How do they survive?”
He looked at her like she was an idiot. “Huntin’, trappin’.”
“That’s got to be cold work up here,” she said.
“Everything is cold work up here.”
He watched her leave, the door closing behind her.
She set up base in a small motel at the bottom of the forest range, the dead last place one could stay without pitching a tent—or digging an ice cave.
The motel had a seedy look about it. She was used to that. The lobby was crowded with frayed furniture. A group of ruddy-faced mountain climbers filled the small room, all gear and the smell of sweat.
Naomi was constantly amazed at all the little worlds that exist outside our own. Each case seemed to take her into a new land, with different cultures, heritages, and people. She had eaten fry bread on Indian reservations, spent weeks on an old slave plantation in the South, been lulled by New Orleans. But her favorite state was right here, home in prickly Oregon, where every turn of the road seemed to bring her to an entirely different vista.
On the counter was a plastic holder full of maps. She picked one up, paid for it as she checked in. In over eight years of investigations she had lost track of the number of hotel rooms.
She had started the work when she was twenty—unusually early, she knew, for an investigator. But, as she sometimes commented ruefully, she was called to it. In the beginning, working hand to mouth, Naomi had slept on the couches of the families that hired her, many of whom were too poor to pay a hotel bill. She learned eventually to charge by the case, and encouraged families to crowd-fund her efforts if needed. That way she made enough to at least afford a room.
It wasn’t the sleep she needed—she could sleep anywhere, even curled up in her car. It was the solitude. It was the chance to think.
There were over a thousand missing children reported each year in the States—a thousand ways to go missing. Many were parental kidnappings. Others were terrible accidents. Children died in abandoned freezers where they had gone to hide. They drowned in rock quarries, and got lost in the woods, just like Madison. Many were never found. About a hundred cases each year were known stranger abductions, though Naomi believed the real numbers were much higher. The abductions were her most publicized cases, but she took any missing child.
Naomi unfolded the map on the bed—and unfolded, and unfolded.
She located the spot Madison went missing and drew a tiny circle there—a circle in a sea of endless green. Her fingers traced the nearby roads, like spiders, found the distances between them too large to contemplate.
Where are you, Madison Culver? Flying with the angels, a silver speck on a wing? Are you dreaming, buried under the snow? Or is it possible, after three years missing, you are still alive?
That night she had supper in the diner adjacent to the motel, her eyes soaking up the locals: beefy men in lumber shirts, women made up with rainbow-sparkled eyes, a group of ornery-looking hunters. The waitress poured another cup of coffee, called her hon.
Naomi checked her cell phone. Now that she was back in Oregon she should stop by her room at her friend Diane’s house. And more importantly she should call Jerome, find time to visit him and Mrs. Cottle—the only family she could remember. It had been too long.
With the same mixture of fear and longing she always had, she thought of Jerome standing outside the farmhouse. Their last conversation had danced awfully close to something she was not prepared to confront. She put her cell phone away. She would call later.
Instead she scraped her plate—chicken-fried steak, corn, potatoes—and graciously accepted the offer of pie from the waitress.
In her dreams that night the children she had found lined up, filling an army. Just as she woke up she heard herself whispering, “Take over the world.”
2
The snow girl could remember the day she was born.
In brilliant snow she had been created—two tired arms out, like an angel—and her creator was there. His face was a halo of light.
He had lifted her, easily, over his shoulder. He had an intense, warm, comforting smell, like the inside of the earth. She could see her hands, curiously blue at the tips, as immobile as stone. Her hair swung around her face, the ends tipped with ice.
From the man’s belt slapped long fur creatures. She watched their tiny claws clutch at the empty air above the swinging white snow.
Her eyes closed as she drifted back to sleep.
When she woke it was dark, like the inside of a cave. Snow was falling outside. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. It’s funny how you can hear something as soft as falling snow.
The man was sitting in front of her. It took a moment for her feverish eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was a lamp, after all, but something was wrong with her eyes that made them see everything in a reddish blur.
She was lying in a small bed—a shelf, really, mantled with furs and blankets. The walls around her were made of mud. Branches poked out of them. The man was sitting on a wood chair woven of branches, like the kind you see in books. Like the ones a kindly grandfather might sit in, or Father Time.
She was aware that she was very sick. Her body was alive with pain, and she could feel her cheeks, hot and slippery. Spasms of fever shook her. Her toes hurt. Her fingers hurt. Her cheeks hurt. Her nose hurt.
The man piled furs on her, looking fretful and worried. He made her drink cold water. He checked her fingers. They looked all wrong, as if they had grown fat skins. He put them into his mouth to warm them.
She wanted to throw up, but even the cavern of her belly felt as cold as ice. She faded in and out, in and out.
When she awoke again the man was making her drink more water. The water tasted icy. She fell back asleep.
There was someone she needed, and in her fever she cried for her, over and over again, but the words that came from her mouth didn’t seem to excite the man. He watched her lips and got angry. He clapped his hand over her mouth. She bit him in terror. He pulled back the hand and smacked her, hard, sending her reeling. Then he left.
