by Polly Iyer
“We do. Employees too,” Beecher said.
Lucier ruffled Diana’s mass of curly black hair and added an affectionate smile. “Maybe Halloran noticed something on the tapes.”
* * * * *
“Anything?” Lucier asked when Halloran entered his office.
“I captured some stills of people at the birthing center that week,” Halloran said. “Most worked there. One of our guys is there now with the photos to see who hasn’t shown up for work.”
Lucier ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Hope we get lucky.”
* * * * *
Diana remembered the first time she walked into the French Quarter police station. Instead of the disdain she’d experienced that first night, today the cops seemed glad to see her. After chatting with a few of them she took the visitor’s chair in Lucier’s office. The framed degrees and citations still hung on the wall, and the photos of his family sat in the same place on the bookcase, as they should. Only now, her picture faced in his direction on his desk, leaving no doubt they were in a personal relationship.
Beecher entered the office, tucking in his unruly shirt. When they first met, Beecher had called Diana a phony and a charlatan. The epithets weren’t new. She’d heard them all before when she gave up helping the police at age fourteen to enter the entertainment world. She usually ignored the comments, but Beecher’s attitude had bugged the hell out of her. Her on-target psychic readings had changed his opinion, and their relationship settled into one of mutual respect. In fact, they actually liked one another, but both kept up the adversarial repartee to keep things interesting.
“No one remembers seeing anyone at the hospital who shouldn’t have been there,” Beecher said. “But the pictures might jog someone’s memory.”
“What about the Seavers’ neighbors?”
“The people on one side weren’t home, and the woman on the side of the nursery didn’t notice anything. Her young son has a desk by the window, but the boy’s autistic. Wouldn’t even look at me.”
“I saw that window,” Diana said. “Was he at home during the time the baby was taken?”
“The mother said yes, but like I said, he’s autistic. She said he talks some.”
“Hmm, I wonder if she’d let me try to talk to him.” Diana said, unable to keep the lilt of hope from her voice. “Sometimes autistics notice things others don’t. I know this because I did a reading once for a woman in Boston with an autistic child. She’d read a story about a young man who’d come out of his mental prison and wanted to know if I saw it happening to her son.”
“Did you?” Lucier asked.
“No. Not that it couldn’t, but I didn’t see it. It’s very rare. The interesting thing about my client’s son was that he could tell the day of any date, either past or future. I asked him what day February 7, 2021, would be, and he told me without hesitation. He was always right.”
“That’s freaky,” Beecher said. “Gives me the willies.”
“What makes you think the boy will talk to you?” Lucier asked.
A smile curled her lips. “Maybe he won’t talk, but he might speak to me. With or without words.”
Chapter Four
Clarity in All the Confusion
Liz Shore, the mother of the autistic boy, agreed to Diana’s visit. The Shores’ brick ranch boasted a neat lawn, two-car garage, and a generous backyard. Mrs. Shore greeted Diana and Lucier and led them into a large family room. A young boy about eight worked feverishly by the window at a table covered with white drawing paper and an array of crayons neatly organized in color range. Half a dozen vibrant sketches were tacked to a corkboard. An exhibit of his current work, Diana assumed.
Jamie Shore looked like most boys his age, except for the obvious indifference toward his visitors. Sandy-colored hair framed an almost angelic face, and the one time he lifted his head, bright blue eyes showed through a canopy of thick lashes.
“Does Jamie have any special gifts? Anything we can focus on that might help us?” Diana asked Mrs. Shore.
The woman cast an appreciative glance at her son and nodded. From the pride in her expression, she was one of those mothers who devoted time cultivating whatever special talents Jamie possessed.
“He insists everything be neat and organized, and he remembers details. Things you and I wouldn’t even notice, Jamie absorbs everything like a sponge.”
“Do you think he paid any attention to the house next door?”
“It’s possible, Ms. Racine. When he’s not drawing, he watches out the window. Like I told the detective who came over here after the kidnapping, I was busy in the kitchen making dinner. My husband was watching a ballgame. If Jamie had seen something next door, he’ll remember everything he saw. He specializes in minutia.”
“What will happen if I take his hand?”
“He might pitch a fit, might not. He doesn’t like being touched by strangers unless he wants them to or unless he wants to touch them. One never knows what his reaction will be.”
“Does he have any special toys? A prized blanket? Something that makes him comfortable.”
She offered a weak smile. “He doesn’t play with toys, just the crayons.”
The strain in Mrs. Shore’s voice prompted Diana to reach over and give her a reassuring squeeze. “Will you allow me to touch him?”
“If you think it might help.”
Mrs. Shore and Lucier took a seat on the sofa nearby while Diana, armed with the stack of photos Halloran lifted off the hospital tapes, pulled a chair from the other side of Jamie’s table to sit by him and meet him at eye level. He continued to draw as if she weren’t there. She sat with her eyes closed, sending what she hoped would be positive vibes. She spoke calmly in a soft, steady voice, unlike the exuberance she displayed at her visits to the hospitals’ children’s wards.
“Hi, Jamie, my name is Diana. Do you mind if I sit here for a minute?” He didn’t react to the sound of her voice, but a slight hesitation in his drawing told her he acknowledged her presence.
“Those are beautiful drawings.” She reached out for a finished one on the table. “May I have this one?”
He kept coloring as if he didn’t hear her, but then he pushed the drawing toward her.
Diana’s heart leapt. She glanced at Mrs. Shore, who returned a smile with a hand clasped across her chest. Headway, Diana thought. She talked to him some more about his drawing before she said, “May I touch your hand?” Again, he didn’t respond. Slowly, she reached for the hand closest to her.
At first touch, he recoiled, dropped his crayon, and pushed the air in her direction without touching or looking directly at her. His gaze circled the room―up at the ceiling, out the window, and down on the floor, then at his hands, wringing them, concentrating as if they harbored a secret only he knew.
When he quieted, she asked again if she could touch him. He didn’t answer. She rested her hand on his forearm. He waved at her again, but she didn’t move away nor did he push her away. Other than trying to glean something from his touch, it was important to connect with Jamie physically, to create a bond.
After some minutes without a negative response, Diana placed the dozen black and white photos in Jamie Shore’s line of sight. “Jamie, do you remember seeing any of these people at the house next door the other day?”
Jamie’s head rotated from side to side as she flipped through the photos slowly. After one pass-through, she started over. This time he slammed his hand on a photo of a man, although his face was mostly hidden by the hood of a sweat jacket. Diana glanced at his mother and patiently waited. Then Jamie spoke in a panicked voice.
“Man, man, man. Man, man, man. Brown coat, brown, brown. Man, man, window. Man, man, brown, brown.”
Diana nodded at Lucier sitting quietly with Jamie’s mother, both rigid in their seats.
“Bag, bag, bag, bag, Bongo, Bongo, bag, bag, Bongo, man, man, brown, brown, bear, beard, beard, man, man.
“The man had a beard?” Di
ana said, glancing at Lucier and nodding. “He must have been a very old man with a white beard. Very old, Jamie.”
“Red, red, red man, red man, beard, bear, bag, bag, Bongo bag.” Jamie stopped, as if a faucet had been turned off. He cast his gaze around the room at everything and at nothing, still wringing his hands, and finally settled his focus outside.
Liz Shore stood up, a clue that the meeting was over. “I think that’s enough.”
Elated to have culled such important information, Diana removed her hand from Jamie’s forearm. She felt sure she could glean more from the boy, but his mother knew best when to stop. “Thank you, Jamie. Thank you very much. You will help us find the baby.” But Jamie had gone somewhere Diana couldn’t reach, even with a touch. He returned his focus to the papers on his desk, picked up a crayon, and continued his drawing.
The adults moved into the entry hall. “He knew the man carried a baby in the bag,” Lucier said. “How?”
Liz nodded. “Hard to tell. He picks up on things others would never see, almost as if he has extrasensory vision, and he remembers everything. Once it’s in that complicated brain of his, it’s there forever. A year from now, he’ll mention the man with the brown coat and the Bongo bag.”
“Who’s Bongo?” Diana asked.
“Bongo Bear is a TV cartoon show that’s been on for years.” Mrs. Shore shook her head. “His world is in another place, and he sees more of what we see and much we don’t see at all.”
“So there are bags with Bongo Bear’s image on them?”
“Bongo’s a marketing bonanza. Everything you can think of has Bongo’s image on it.”
“Where have I been?” Diana said, although she knew. Her life had been restaurants, hotels and theaters, with only newspapers, TV, and magazines to keep her abreast of what was going on in the world.
After a few words of thanks, Diana and Lucier left the Shore house and stepped into the bright sunlight.
“Good job, Diana. He told you what he saw by correcting you. Excellent interrogation tactic. Something to remember.”
Diana didn’t say anything.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t imagine being locked up inside myself like that, not relating to another human being, not even my mother.” She choked back the sadness but couldn’t stop the tears filling her eyes. “How hard that must be for Mrs. Shore, wanting to hold him, to share affection, to relate like parents do. Kind of like Rainman, huh?”
Lucier put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him. “Yeah, I guess so. He possessed a gift too, didn’t he?”
“Yes, breaking the bank in Vegas.” The thought made her smile and pulled her out of her melancholy. “Now that’s a skill.”
“Okay, so what do we know? From the picture Jamie targeted, our kidnapper is a short man compared to the others in the background, five-six maybe, with a red beard, probably reddish-brown hair. Age, undetermined.”
“Somewhere between seventeen and forty-five, since Jamie didn’t mention any white in his beard. It’d be something he’d notice.”
“Good point. Seventeen to forty-five. Not necessarily from New Orleans. That narrows it down considerably.” He snorted.
* * * * *
Diana joined Lucier’s team in his office, still melancholy over the thought of Jamie’s unreachable world.
“Halloran’s at the hospital now, showing the picture,” Beecher said. “The guy’s in too many shots. He has to work there.”
“Let’s hope. What about the hoodie?” Lucier asked.
“Brown’s not a big color for hoodies,” Beecher said. “And the padded Bongo Bear bag? There are thousands of those in existence, millions maybe. We’ll run a check, but I wouldn’t put any hopes on coming up with a hit. Our best bet’s the photo.”
Lucier looked at the picture. “I agree. Spread it around.”
Willy Cash stuck his head in Lucier’s office, carrying a rolled-up newspaper. “Big news, Boss. I came up with a similar abduction in Mobile about six months ago. A baby girl taken the same way. The feds hit a dead end with that one. I contacted Stallings. The case is still open. He ran a search for similar baby kidnappings, and found ours is the fourth baby snatch in the last three years. I ordered tapes from the Mobile hospital.”
“Good work, Willy,” Lucier said. “I remember the one in Mobile. Father was a big wig in some biotech company. The feds thought it was an inside job for ransom. But no one ever called. I’ll contact Stallings and get the particulars of the other kidnappings, then call each one to see if anyone’s come up with a lead.” Lucier poked at his computer. “I hope this isn’t what it looks like.”
Diana watched him, digging her nails into the palm of her hand. “You’re thinking a baby kidnapping ring, aren’t you?”
“Has all the earmarks. I’m sure Stallings will agree. If it is, those babies are long gone.” He sat on the corner of the desk. “Tell me about the evil you felt, Diana.”
“How can anyone explain the unexplainable? Something in the vision of that room creeped me out, something perverse.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but have you seen the morning papers?” Cash threw the Times Picayune on the desk.
Diana’s picture centered the front page.
Psychic Brought in to Track Kidnapped Baby
By Jake Griffin
Diana’s abduction the previous month made headlines all over the world, and Griffin chronicled the story. His account was picked up by every paper in the country and put him on the short list for a Pulitzer.
Oh, yes, Diana thought, Jake Griffin would be all over another story about her, and he wouldn’t hesitate to expose the romantic relationship between her and Lucier. Especially since she publicly notified the world that she’d given up show business to settle down and live life out of the spotlight. The two of them made great copy―the cop and the psychic―but as much as she hated the notoriety, she hated it more for Lucier.
“How the hell did he get this story?” Diana asked.
“Shit leaks,” Beecher said. “Everyone knows you gave him the story after your ordeal. Hell, he milked it for all it was worth. They probably figured he’d pay for information about anything you’re involved in.”
“I’m going to put a hex on that little twerp,” Diana said.
“Can you do that?” Cash asked with wide-eyed innocence.
Diana chuckled. “No, but I wish I could.”
“Well, the story’s out in the open now,” Beecher said. “Maybe it will ring some bells about other baby abductions.”
“I’m sorry, Diana,” Lucier said. “I know you didn’t want to get involved in this kind of thing anymore. I should have kept you out of it.”
“Too late now. Besides, getting involved was my idea. You couldn’t have stopped me if you wanted to.” She got up and paced the room. “You want to know what will happen after that article hits the street? I’ll tell you. Every kook with a baby story will be calling in. Babies who died at birth talking to their mothers from beyond, babies kidnapped by cults and aliens, fathers disappearing with newborns. You’ll see. I’ve been through it all before.”
* * * * *
By next day, calls from Maine to California, Florida to Washington State, jammed the switchboards just as Diana predicted. Stories that no police department in the world would take seriously, except those where one or the other parent abducted their children in custody cases.
Brady, the desk sergeant on duty, knocked on the doorjamb. “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but I found this on my desk. Don’t know how it got there. I asked, but no one saw anything.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Let’s have a look.”
Beecher leaned over the envelope. “Oh-oh, I don’t like the look of this.”
“Me either,” Lucier said. He pulled a pair of gloves from his desk drawer and slit the envelope with a letter opener. He slid a single sheet of paper from the envelope and read what was on it. “Shit. Dust this for prints.” He picked up
the phone and called Diana at the house she rented near his. “You need to get over here right away. I’m sending Cash to get you.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“An envelope just arrived in the mail. It has your name on it. And I don’t like what’s written inside.”
Chapter Five
The Star and the Crescent Moon
WE AWAIT YOU, DIANA
Lucier examined the note.
“What does it mean?” Beecher asked.
“I’m not sure what the crescent moon and star symbolize,” Lucier said, “but ‘We await you, Diana,’ is clear enough, don’t you think?”
Diana lifted her gaze from the paper. “Ernie, remember a few weeks ago I told you that Diana was the Goddess of the Hunt, and you said she was also the Goddess of the Moon?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“The crescent moon is a symbol of Diana, but it’s something else too―a symbol of witchcraft.”
Lucier fixed his gaze on Diana, unable to hide a frown. He turned to Cash, the unit’s closest answer to a computer geek. “Google Diana, Goddess of the Moon and Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. See what comes up.”
Cash settled at Lucier’s laptop. Pages of sites filled the monitor. This article says the city of Byzantium was dedicated to Diana. That’s Constantinople, right?”
“If I remember my history,” Lucier said.
“They called her Diana, Goddess of the Hunt,” Cash continued. “Then it says the crescent moon was a symbol of her, so she was called Diana, Goddess of the Moon too. It also says she was a fertility goddess and a…a virgin.” Cash’s face flushed. He kept his eyes on the monitor. “People everywhere practiced witchcraft, sorcery, and magic in her name.”
Diana tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “This just keeps getting better.”
Cash pointed to the computer screen. “Lots of stuff about God and Satan. And Jesus. Wait, get this―” he turned to Diana and Lucier―“seems there’s a link between Diana and Lucifer himself.”
