Angel Interrupted

by Chaz McGee

  “Oh, sure,” Martin said promptly. “His mom is a worrywart. My mom was like that. I couldn’t go five feet away without her calling me back. His mother is even worse. It makes it hard for him. He wants to run, he wants to join the other children, he wants to cut loose and be himself for a while.”

  Is Martin talking about himself or Tyler Matthews?

  “Is Tyler there now?” the therapist asked.

  “No,” Martin said. “Because of the weather, there aren’t a lot of kids here today. Just a small crowd that—” He stopped abruptly, and I could feel him hesitate as a flicker of fear licked upward. It was a physical fear.

  “What is it, Robert?” Miranda asked. “Tell me what you see.”

  “The man from Monday is back,” Martin whispered. “The man who was pretending to read the newspaper. He’s hiding behind the paper again. But I can see him all right. I can see his sandals and socks. I can feel him, too. I don’t like him.”

  I could feel Martin’s dislike. It flooded through him like water rising. It was dislike, suspicion, and a hefty dose of fear, too, as if somehow he, Martin, were in personal danger from the man.

  “What is the man doing?” Miranda asked sharply.

  “He’s sitting next to the old man who feeds the pigeons, but he hasn’t even bothered to say hello. You’re supposed to say hello when you sit next to old people on park benches. That’s why old people sit there. To talk to other people. He’s hiding behind his newspaper, watching the children again . . .” His breath began to come in heavy gusts. “He’s waiting for the right one. He’s—” Martin stopped abruptly. His mind went blank.

  “What is it?” Miranda asked.

  “I don’t want to go any further into his head,” Martin said.

  “You can tell what he’s thinking?” she asked, a note of worry creeping into her otherwise relentlessly calm voice. Something about Martin’s comment concerned her.

  “No, but I can feel what he’s thinking, and what he wants, and I don’t like it. I don’t want to go any closer.”

  “Okay,” Miranda agreed crisply. “Let’s take a look elsewhere. I want you to look up and tell me what you see. Look across the street.”

  “A really cute little cottage,” Martin said, relaxing a little. “It has a great garden. Maybe the owner could tell me what I need to do to keep my mother’s flowers alive. And the hedges are trimmed so neatly. I wish I lived there. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. It’s funny how I never noticed it before.”

  “Is anyone home?” Miranda asked, approaching the territory Maggie asked her to cover.

  Martin was silent and I could see the scene through his eyes: an empty cottage, an empty curb in front, a sense of abandonment about the place.

  “No,” Martin said firmly. “The lights are off and it’s quite shut up. I don’t think the owner is there very often. The cottage looks lonely.”

  “Okay. Let’s go back to the playground. Can you tell me anything else about the playground or the man on the bench?” Miranda said.

  “It’s going to rain. That means the man behind the newspaper will be leaving soon. The children will be safe for today. But I’m going to tell the colonel about him. I do not think that man can be trusted.” Something welled up in Martin. When he spoke again, he sounded much younger than he was. “I have a bad feeling about him. I think he’s a bad man. He likes hurting people.”

  “Are you tired?” Miranda said gently, understanding something about him that the rest of us did not. I tried to search his memories so I could understand, but I failed—the park was all he allowed me to share. “Do you need a rest?” Miranda asked.

  “No,” Martin said firmly, his voice growing in strength. “I want to go further. I’m ready to go through the next door.” As he spoke, I got that same odd sense of being in two places at one time: in the brightly lit interrogation room in front of witnesses, but also back in time, on a bench in a park with the wind picking up and the smell of rain even stronger in the air.

  “Okay,” Miranda agreed. “Shall we leave this room and continue on to the next door in the hallway, the one for this morning?”

  “Yes,” Martin said clearly, and I could feel the resolve building in him. He was determined to help.

  “Let’s go to just before you left work this morning,” Miranda suggested in her most soothing voice. “You are a grown man. You are a strong man. You have worked a full night and are just finishing up.”

  Martin nodded, agreeing with her. “I baked all night long because we got an order in from a new deli for whole wheat loaves and Mrs. Rotanni says if she can make some money selling my bread to other places, she’ll give me a nice raise.”

  “You must be feeling very proud of yourself,” Miranda suggested, as if she knew he would need extra strength for what he was about to go through.

  “Yes,” Martin said. “But I’m not feeling so good this morning. I need coffee before I go to the park. I want a grande latte with a shot of hazelnut syrup. It costs three times what it ought to, but I’m not feeling too good. I think a latte will help.”

  “You’re not feeling well?” the therapist asked, still concerned about something only she could pick up on.

  I felt something in Martin cringe as he confessed, “I asked that new waitress out last night, the pretty one with the long black hair, and she just laughed at me. I saw one of the cooks laughing at me, too, and the busboy. She could have just said, ‘No, thanks.’ She didn’t have to laugh in my face.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Miranda agreed gently. “Aren’t you glad it is a new day?”

  “Yes,” said Martin, talking to himself. “She’s a thief anyway. I saw her take money from the till when she thought no one was looking. I may even tell Mrs. Rotanni about it. If she does it again, I will.” He paused and Miranda began to lead him through the morning. I could feel his thoughts shift as she led him down the block to a new coffee chain store, where he bought a large latte and a chocolate chip scone. For a fleeting second, I could almost taste that scone, and it filled me with lost delight. He wolfed it down and then described taking his time walking to the park, enjoying the weather and the knowledge that, at long last, spring had arrived without equivocation. His routine was much like the other three days, until he got nearer to the park.

  “I better take down the license plate numbers again,” he muttered to himself. “I promised the colonel last night that I would. He is anxious to know if the brown-haired man is there again today. I can tell he is interested in what I think. He must really trust my judgment.” Martin sounded proud of himself, as if marveling that anyone would care about his opinion. “Damnit,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I should have thought ahead. I’ll have to balance my notebook with my latte or put it down on the sidewalk each time I write down a license plate number. I’m really tired. And I don’t see any new cars, these all look pretty familiar. I’ll write the numbers down later. I just want to rest for a while and soak up the sun and finish my latte first.” He leaned his head back as if he were sitting on the park bench and closed his eyes.

  “Where are you now?” Miranda asked, reminding him that others were listening. “Can you describe what you are seeing?”

  Martin smiled. “The playground is packed today. It’s such a nice day and every kid in town is here.” He laughed. “Some little kid not more than two years old just threw sand in the bully’s face and told him to go away. Way to go, little buddy!” He was silent for a moment. “Poor Tyler. His mother is always calling him. He wants to play with the little girl with red hair, but his mother won’t let him go in the sandbox. She says it’s too dirty.” Martin’s face was suddenly very sad. “She makes him different from the other boys. Doesn’t she know what that is going to do to him?”

  “Where is Tyler now?” Miranda asked sharply, trying to keep him from turning inward into his own memories.

  “He is waiting his turn at the monkey bars. He’s a cute little fellow, all elbows and knees, and his hair i
s brown and curly. I bet he hates his hair and thinks it looks like a girl’s, but I think he looks like an angel.”

  Suddenly he gasped, and I could feel the darkness spread in him. I could feel the tension in the room grow at the same time: his lawyer, Miranda, the people on the other side of the one-way glass—they all knew an important moment had come.

  “He’s back,” Martin whispered. “He’s back, and this time he’s tried to change the way he looks. That’s not good. That’s not good at all. Why would he need to do that?”

  “Change the way he looks how?” Miranda prompted.

  “He’s wearing a white windbreaker and black slacks and a different kind of hat pulled low over his face. It’s one of those English caps that are flat on top. He’s pretending to sleep, but I can tell he’s watching the children, like he’s counting them off. He’s . . .” Martin’s voice trailed off and I could feel the fear growing in him, filling him, the kind of panic that raises its head and then grows and grows. “He has something in his pocket. It sticks out a little. It’s a rag. Oh, no, it’s the tip of a rag and . . .” Martin paused, struggling to understand.

  “What is it?” Miranda said sharply. “Tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”

  “It’s a leash,” Martin said firmly. “He has a leash, but he doesn’t have a dog. He’s going to take someone. I know he is.” Martin’s voice rose and became more urgent. “I’ve got to tell someone before he does. I’ve got to let the police know.” He hesitated. “They won’t believe me. He hasn’t done anything. Who is going to believe me?” He paused again, thinking out loud. “Could the colonel do something? Maybe the police would listen to him. But he says we have to have proof first, that feeling as if something is bad isn’t enough. And what if I am wrong? What if it’s just some guy who has nowhere else to go? I have nowhere else to go, either. Someone could easily say the same thing about me.” He was talking faster now, trying to find his way to a solution. I could feel the panic in him give way as he stared at the man in his memory. I had a view of the stranger as well. And even though Martin did not say it, I noted that the man had a sharp chin and gangly arms and legs, ears that protruded and sunglasses that he once again slid down over his eyes to conceal his features. Between the sunglasses and the cap masking his face, it was difficult to tell his age. I tried to get a read on his thoughts, but it was hard leaving Martin’s presence. It was not the same as if I were experiencing the scene in real time. I could read a little off the man, maybe a little bit more than Martin, but not as much as I could have if I were really there.

  I picked up on enough to think that Martin was right. The man was hunting. He was scanning the crowd of children for prey. His fingers drummed nervously on the bench as he abruptly crossed one leg over the other, leaning forward to conceal his lap. His head moved slightly to the left and then to the right—he was following Tyler Matthews as the little boy swung across the monkey bars.

  Tyler’s mother called out to her son and the man slumped back, disappointed, as the boy ran across the grass toward his mother.

  “I wish my mother were still alive,” Martin said suddenly. “She would know what to do.” He sounded breathless, the panic returning. “I don’t know who will believe me, I just don’t . . .” He began to describe his neighbors in turn, searching for an ally. “Mr. Novak thinks I’m a bum; he’ll call the police on me. The Johnsons are never home. There’s that new lady, but she doesn’t know me from Adam, and she probably won’t even answer the door. Oh.” He stopped abruptly and sat upright. I felt relief flowing through him. “There is that nice lady who lives on the corner, the one with hydrangeas and the water garden. Mom always said she was very kind, very smart. She used to tell me to run to her when I was little if ever something bad happened and she wasn’t around. She said if anyone knew what to do, that lady would know. What was her name?” He frowned, not remembering, but I knew: her name was Noni Bates.

  “I’m going to go ask her what to do,” he decided, talking to himself. “I think her name is Mrs. Bates.”

  He led us through walking to Noni’s house. He described the scene in Noni’s garden and her kindness, how her voice calmed him and made him feel as if he was not imagining things. He talked of how he decided it would be better to enter the park from the back so she could observe the man without him knowing.

  “I take her the back way,” he told the therapist, Miranda. “Even though it is longer. She does not mind. She wants to get to know me. She is asking me questions. I like her. I think she will be my friend.”

  And yet I’d been right behind the two of them, convinced Martin was about to strangle her and leave her for dead. So much for my intuition.

  I concentrated on being one with Martin as he spoke, anxious to know if he had felt my presence on any level. As I merged more fully with him, I could feel the sun on my skin, smell the fragrance of flowers as we walked past. I could hear Noni’s gentle voice as she asked about his mother and Martin’s droning monotone as she let him prattle on about sauces and bread and basil-flavored ice cream. And then we were there, at the rear entrance to the park, just before the bushes where Noni had spotted the rabbits.

  And I saw it.

  A blue station wagon was parked exactly in the spot where my search earlier in the day had led me after I discovered the plastic dinosaur in the grass. I had followed Tyler Matthews’s essence to the space where the car was parked, only to find bare asphalt. But this was earlier, hours earlier, before the boy had been taken, and I could see quite clearly through Martin’s eyes that the abductor had driven a blue Toyota Matrix station wagon, license plate number RPK6992.

  I was back in business.

  I wanted to leave that very moment and find the car, but I was afraid to sever my connection with Martin abruptly. I had begun to wonder about my role in Martin’s ability to delve so deeply. How much did my being there have to do with the clarity of his memories? I forced myself to stay while Miranda led him through the rest of the morning, to the arrival of the police cars at the cottage across the street, to Calvano’s mistreatment of him and the shame he felt at being suspected, to his horror when he heard he had been right and a child had been taken.

  By the time he was done and Miranda had brought him back to the present, Martin was exhausted. But Calvano and Maggie now had a lot more to go on—and so did I. I had a car. Cars could be found.

  “You were very brave,” Miranda told Martin at the end of the session. “They may find the little boy because of you.”

  Martin swelled with pride and something shifted in him, as if, in undergoing the experience, he had become someone new.

  “Here.” Miranda slid her business card across the table toward him. “I want you to take my card. I’m a therapist, too, you know.” Her voice was kind. She was quite good at being kind. “If you ever want to talk, just about things, I want you to call me. Something like this can be traumatic. I have a sliding fee scale, so you’ll be able to afford it. Or maybe you’d like to go get a coffee one day? I’d love to talk with you again.”

  “Talk about things?” Martin asked. “What kind of things?”

  “Oh,” she said casually, “what you want out of life. How you feel about your life. We can maybe even talk about the past, if you want.”

  Their eyes met and something private passed between them.

  It was time for me to go.

  Chapter 15

  I knew whoever had taken the boy was still in town. The AMBER Alert had gone out within minutes, cameras had been activated at all intersections, they had traffic stops set up at the major exit points, and the face of Tyler Matthews was plastered on every website and television screen in town. The police didn’t have a vehicle description the way I did, but they knew to look for a four-year-old boy, and soon they’d have at least a halfassed description of the abductor out to the field, thanks to Robert Michael Martin.

  It would be tough for anyone to move around with the kid. And what the abductor wanted from h
im could be done anywhere that offered privacy. To me, that meant that it was likely that whoever had the boy was hiding right here in my town. I knew what car he drove, and I would find him.

  I left the station house just as the FBI agents arrived to take over the case: four men in suits. I passed them in the lobby and they felt like a single person, their individuality sublimated to such a degree that I could not differentiate the essence of each. What happened when their working days were done? Did they go back to being unique, or simply half exist? Still, the department needed them, and I was glad they were there.

  I had to be systematic about my search. Nearly one hundred thousand people live in my town, sprawled across a seven-square-mile area that ranges in density from packed housing projects to meandering subdivisions parceled out in multi-acre lots. It would take me days to search each street, alleyway, driveway, and garage, even moving as fast as I was able. And I could not afford to overlook a single home.

  I began by searching the neighborhoods to the west of headquarters, a grimy area where people lived paycheck to paycheck, if they were lucky enough to have one, and where both disappointment and resentment rained down on me from the apartment windows above. I had answered plenty of calls in this neighborhood when alive and had rousted more prostitutes than a cruise ship could hold. But I had never really looked at the women before, thinking them all the same. As I searched up and down the urban blocks, night fell and the women began to appear on the corners, and I saw beyond the heavy makeup and ridiculous outfits for the first time. I saw weary, frightened, and defeated human beings, marking time, waiting for it all to be over, looking for a way to forget they were here.

  I saw no sign of the blue station wagon, though, and felt no trace of the boy. I left the industrial lights behind and kept searching.

  I began to encounter neighborhoods like the one I’d once taken for granted, tidy and comforting in the gathering dusk. Lights winked on behind curtains, televisions blared, children shrieked with laughter as they chased each other across lawns and dreamed of the coming summer. Smells wafted through the air, tantalizing reminders of people gathering to break bread together. Children were being bathed and loved and read to; couples were falling into bed after lingering glances; the weary were putting their feet up and enjoying the silence. All of the rituals I had run from while alive now surrounded me, mocked me, reminding me of what I had given up.