They Disappeared

by Rick Mofina

  Jeff searched his heart for the answer.

  “Who’s this?” Cordelli turned the monitor.

  The image nearly winded Jeff. He didn’t know it was there—a beautiful shot of Sarah cradling Lee Ann, who was smiling up at her. Sarah smiled down at the angel in her arms. She’d obviously saved it on his phone.

  “You said you have one child? Who’s this, Jeff?”

  Cordelli’s eyes were like black ball bearings, shining hard.

  “Our daughter.” Jeff cleared his throat. “She died about a year and a half ago. SIDS.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Juanita said tenderly as Jeff’s attention flicked to the snapshot of Juanita and the girl with the butterfly.

  “My condolences,” Cordelli said. “But how would you characterize your marriage since then, up to the point these pictures were taken here, this morning? Would you say there was stress in your family this morning before Sarah and Cole disappeared?”

  Jeff swallowed hard.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you arguing?”

  “Yes.”

  Cordelli shot a glance to Ortiz: bingo.

  “What were you arguing about?” Cordelli asked.

  Jeff stared at the image with restrained anger and said slowly, “I need you to help me.”

  “We are helping you,” Cordelli said. “But we need the truth, all of it. What were you arguing about before Sarah left with Cole?”

  “We’d been having a hard time since we lost our daughter. Cole has always dreamed of seeing New York City, so we came here to give him the trip and to talk about our future.”

  “Were you going to stay together, or separate?”

  Surprised at the accuracy of the question Jeff said nothing.

  “Losing a child can lead to divorce—it happens,” Cordelli said.

  “It’s what we were talking about this morning,” Jeff said.

  “So it would be fair to say your marriage was strained up to the point they disappeared?”

  “I told them to stay right where they were while I bought new batteries for the camera.”

  “Jeff, is it conceivable that Sarah was a little ticked at how your conversations were going and needed some time alone?”

  He stared at Cordelli, knowing how it looked to him, but knowing the truth, still feeling Sarah’s arm around his waist, holding him tight.

  “No.”

  “I need you to be honest with us, Jeff. Would Sarah have any reason to harm Cole?”

  “God, no! I’m telling you, no. I told you at the start, she’s a loving mother, a schoolteacher, a good person. She’s incapable of doing any of the things you’re suggesting.”

  Cordelli shot a glance to Ortiz, leaving matters open but signaling an end to the interview.

  “Okay, Jeff,” she said. “Be assured, we’re on this, leave everything with us. Meanwhile, we suggest you go back to your hotel, in case Sarah returns. We’ll stay in touch with you and we’ll ask you to call us, should anything change.”

  “If Sarah shows up,” Cordelli said, “please return to the station house with her and Cole so we can sign off.”

  Cordelli started repositioning file folders on his desk.

  Clearing his desk.

  That was all that Cordelli was interested in, Jeff thought later when he’d returned to the street and started looking for a cab.

  Jeff would call the hotel and their room to check on Sarah.

  But he had no intention of returning and doing nothing.

  CHAPTER 8

  New York City

  Time hammered against Jeff.

  As his cab cut through the midtown traffic he watched the muted backseat TV monitor—reports on Broadway, the Mets, a triple murder in Brooklyn and more on the UN meeting in the Lower East Side.

  Amid the horns, sirens, the chaos, he tried to think.

  He called the hotel room, then the desk for messages—nothing.

  His hope sinking, he turned to the city, the sidewalks, scanning the crowds, studying faces until details melted away. He understood the skepticism of the NYPD, knew how things looked to them.

  Bad.

  Because they were bad.

  They’d said they were investigating but Cordelli and Ortiz likely thought Sarah took Cole for a few hours of shopping because she was pissed off. The detectives probably didn’t put much currency in the witness, a street guy, and were reluctant to give it much effort. Deep down Jeff believed they had doubts about his report. He didn’t trust them to make it a priority.

  As his taxi rolled through the city, his misgivings resonated with his memories of himself at fifteen. His parents were killed when their tour bus crashed in the Canadian Rockies and he went to live with his grandfather near Billings.

  In the months after the estate was settled, Jeff was given his father’s Ford pickup truck. Traces of his cologne were still in the truck; the steering wheel was worn from where his big hands usually held it. Jeff cherished the pickup because it was his connection to his mom and dad.

  Jeff got his learner’s license, and when he drove the truck with his grandfather, it felt like his parents were in the cab with them. Jeff treasured the Ford, washing it and changing the oil himself. With that truck he learned how to fix things, to become self-reliant, to endure the deaths of his parents.

  Then one day the truck was stolen from his grandfather’s driveway.

  Jeff was devastated. They’d reported the theft to police, who’d promised to “leave no stone unturned” in recovering it. But days, then weeks, passed with no news. Jeff convinced his grandfather to let him search for it by driving him to truck stops, auto shops, bars and diners in nearly every town in Yellowstone County.

  Weeks passed. Then, as if guided by fate, they’d spotted a Ford pickup at a mall near Ballantine where they’d stopped to shop for shirts. It was Jeff’s. It had a different plate and was all primed like it was going to be painted but it had the same tiny spiderweb fracture in the rear cab window and the chip in the left rear bumper.

  After police and the court returned the truck, Jeff’s grandfather told him something he’d never forgotten.

  “The truck could never be as important to anyone as it is to you, Jeff. There are certain things in this world that you just have to take care of yourself, or they’ll never be done right. If you don’t trust your gut in these matters, you’ll have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life.”

  A horn blast yanked Jeff back to Manhattan’s traffic and a decision.

  So what am I going to do here, now?

  He had no choice. He would search for his family on his own.

  Where do I start?

  He’d go back to the spot where it happened and start looking there.

  He tried calling Sarah again and again. It rang to her message. Nothing. It had been about two hours since he’d last seen Sarah and Cole.

  Where the hell are you?

  Jeff stared at his phone, then, on impulse, he called the number for Hans Beck and got a recorded message saying the number was no longer in service. That’s strange, Jeff thought, unsure what to make of it.

  After the cab dropped him off, Jeff allowed himself a moment to entertain the belief that Sarah and Cole had returned. That they’d have some wild explanation and they’d all laugh it off. How sweet the relief would be. He’d admit to her that he’d been a fool, that he was wrong for wanting to separate—no, confused, stupid and so sorry.

  He’d tell her that he wanted to keep their family together.

  Hold them and never let them go.

  But his hope was overtaken by reality as he came to the spot. There was no sign of Sarah or Cole. Freddie, the wheelchair panhandler, was gone. Jeff got out his camera, cued the photo of Sarah and Co
le and returned to the ponytailed man selling souvenirs at the pushcart where Sarah and Cole had been. Again, Jeff begged for his help, showing him the photos.

  The vendor shook his head, his face a mask of indifference behind his dark glasses.

  “They were right here,” Jeff said.

  “I told you, pal. I don’t remember them.”

  Deflated, Jeff lowered his camera to grapple with a million thoughts, horrible imaginings of what the phantom abductors could be doing to his family at this very moment. Slowly he turned in a full circle in the heart of Manhattan, one of the busiest cities in the world.

  He forced himself to remain calm, to think.

  Retrace your steps. Re-create the scene.

  His attention came to the store where he’d bought the batteries, where it all started: Metro Manhattan Gifts and Things.

  He entered.

  Not as busy as before. A few browsers checking out the knickknacks; otherwise, a lull. Even the music was subdued. He recognized the same girl at the counter.

  A good sign.

  She had her nose in her cell phone, thumbs flying.

  He needed her. Don’t interrupt her. Not yet.

  He assessed the store again, locking in on the security camera mounted on the wall above the counter. It was angled to the door, front window and the street.

  Did it capture Sarah and Cole?

  He had to see the camera’s perspective.

  “Can I help you?”

  The clerk had finished with her phone. Her bejeweled nostril sparkled as she smiled—nice bright teeth, sincere. He sensed a good heart.

  “I was here a while ago buying batteries.”

  “I remember you.”

  “You do?”

  “Your shirt, says Montana. I’ve visited Glacier National Park. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Small world,” he said. “Look, I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Depends on what you need.”

  “My wife and son, we got separated out front, and I was thinking that maybe your security camera—” he nodded to it “—maybe it recorded them.”

  She turned to it and back to him without speaking.

  “I just need to see if it records the spot on the street where they were.”

  “Why don’t you just look for them?”

  “I did and a man who was near them told me they may have been abducted or robbed.”

  “What? That’s a crazy scary.”

  “I’m worried. I need to see where they went or what happened. Can I just have a look at your camera’s monitor, see it if picked up anything?”

  “I don’t really want to get involved.”

  “No, nothing like that. Just let me check it out, it won’t take long. No one has to know and I’ll pay you fifty dollars just to see. Just to have a look. If it doesn’t get the angle, then that’s it. If it does, I’ll give you more money to rewind it back?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Excuse me,” a woman said.

  A middle-aged man and woman approached with T-shirts, key rings, postcards. Jeff stepped aside as the girl rang them up.

  “Can you tell us how to get to Central Park from here?” the woman asked.

  “Go right out front and catch a bus on Eighth Avenue,” the girl said. “Or you can walk north on Eighth, but it’s about sixteen blocks.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once Jeff and the girl were alone again, he pressed his case. He showed her his digital camera and the photos of Sarah and Cole. The girl blinked at them—a typical American family vacationing in New York.

  “We were right out front a couple of hours ago,” he said. “I just need to see what happened. I need your help.”

  “I think you should just go to the police.”

  “I did. I just returned from talking to detectives at the precinct.”

  “There you go.”

  “They said they’re looking, but I’m looking, too. Please, put yourself in my shoes. Wouldn’t you do everything you could?”

  Considering his point and his plight, she glanced around, caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Jeff pulled out two twenties and a ten. She glanced at the cash.

  “Just a quick look.” He gave her his wallet, his phone, everything. “You hold this. I’m just trying to find my wife and son.”

  Searching his eyes she saw the emotion and desperation broiling behind them, his plea eroding her resistance.

  “Please,” he said.

  After another glance around she put Jeff’s items under the counter. Then she went to a wire mesh door that separated the counter from the rest of the store. She unlocked it and ushered him inside to the counter and the monitor on a lower shelf. The monitor screen was sectioned into quarters, four small clear color screens.

  “It changes all the time,” she said.

  Jeff passed the fifty dollars to the girl and lowered himself. On one of the screens he saw a miniature, partial view of the ponytailed vendor and the street—it was very limited but it was something.

  “I need to enlarge this one.” Jeff tapped the top right quarter. “I need to rewind this one to the time I came in.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s locked so thieves can’t take it. See?”

  She tapped a steel mesh case around the control console.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mandy.”

  “Mandy, I’ll pay you more. Is there anyone in the store with the key who can access the controls and can operate this? I need to see what happened to my wife and son. Then I’m gone.”

  Mandy took stock. The store was quiet. She looked to the rear.

  “Chad has the key. He’s in the back.”

  “Can you get him? Please, I just need to rewind it and see what happened.”

  Mandy pulled out her cell phone and sent a text message.

  “Excuse me?” An old man rapped his knuckles on the counter and Mandy rang in his two sodas, two chocolate bars and two bags of chips, then came back to Jeff.

  “Sit here and wait.” Mandy pushed an overturned plastic milk crate toward him so he could sit behind the counter unseen. A few minutes later a lanky man in his early twenties appeared at the wire mesh door. He was not the same young man Jeff had seen on the ladder a few hours earlier when he’d entered the store for batteries.

  “What do you want, Mandy?” Then, seeing Jeff by the monitor, he said, “What the—? Who’s he? What’re you doing?”

  She went to Chad, opened the door and updated him in a hushed tone loud enough for Jeff to hear. Chad’s neck was tattooed with flames. He was harder than Mandy. Listening to her, his eyes narrowed as he gave Jeff an icy appraisal.

  “Two cops were here,” Chad said, “asking to see our surveillance footage. They didn’t tell me why.”

  “When?” Mandy asked. “I didn’t see them.”

  “It was twenty minutes ago when you and I were out on our break. Kyle told me when we got back.”

  “Did they find anything in the footage?” Jeff asked.

  “They never saw it because Kyle doesn’t have the key. I have the key. The cops told Kyle they’d be back later. Guess they’re asking around at other places. It’s probably got something to do with your situation.”

  “Will you help me?” Jeff asked.

  “Maybe. You gave Mandy fifty bucks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want two hundred and all you get is a look. No copies.”

  “Deal.”

  “First, let me copy your driver’s license, to cover my ass.”

  Jeff retrieved his wallet from the counter. Chad placed Jeff’s Montana license on the small photocopier, then Jeff pulled out the cash, nearly all he had left. Chad shove
d it in his pocket, then unlocked the console.

  “What time do you need?”

  Jeff consulted his receipt for the time and Chad expertly rewound the footage. Tiny people moved backward in fast motion. Then he enlarged the images and let the recording play at normal speed. A time and date stamp ran across the bottom.

  The footage offered a clear color overhead view of the counter, the front area of the store, the door and suspect height marker. It also captured the front window, and the area above all the items on display. It only showed a limited view of the street.

  People bustled by in both directions on the sidewalk, bordered by street vendors and vehicle traffic—but beyond the sidewalk the view of the vendors and the road was restricted. Jeff eyed every movement of every stranger when—bam!

  “That’s them!”

  His pulse raced. There was Sarah taking Cole’s picture, then Cole taking one of him with Sarah.

  “Slow it down.”

  Jeff stopped breathing.

  He concentrated on Sarah—feeling her slip her arm around him. Now the tourist was taking the shot of the three of them. The image tore at Jeff. The tourist looks at the camera. Dead batteries. Jeff has the camera and leaves for the store. He stops to talk to Freddie with the beat-up wheelchair. Jeff gives him money.

  Behind them Sarah and Cole browse at the vendor’s souvenir cart. They move closer to the road. Bit by bit they are exiting the frame.

  “Can you slow it down some more?”

  The footage slowed to near frame-by-frame speed.

  Now, Sarah and Cole are almost out of the picture. All Jeff can make out are their feet, up to their knees, and the lower portions of cars passing by.

  One stops near Sarah and Cole with such suddenness.

  It just appears.

  Doors open, other legs emerge from it, shoes, black shoes, or boots. Military style? Three sets? They move fast, positioning next to Sarah and Cole. Right beside them. Too close. A moment passes, then they all move to the vehicle two steps away.

  Doors open.

  Sarah and Cole vanish.

  Doors close.

  The white vehicle pulls from the curb, the rear right quarter, rear bumper, plate flash. Then someone’s head, a passerby, blocks the view; the plate is obscured. The vehicle disappears.