Blue Heaven

by C. J. Box

  The phone rang in her hand, startling her like it did every time. As she raised it to her mouth, the receiver chirped and the phone went dead. She had forgotten to charge it.

  She slammed the telephone into the charging cradle, trying to will it to ring again. It didn’t.

  For the first time she could remember, her life was absolutely focused: She needed her children back.

  SHE WAS at her kitchen table, staring again at the digital time display on the microwave, when Sheriff Ed Carey rapped on the screen door of the mudroom.

  “May I come in, Miz Taylor?”

  She looked up at him and nodded, not having the energy to speak.

  As he entered, she searched his face for some kind of indication of why he was there. She swore that if he wouldn’t meet her eyes, if the news he brought was bad news, she would die right there, on the spot. But Carey’s face was blank, and maybe a little facetious, as if he were playacting at being concerned but wasn’t very good at it.

  Sheriff Carey was tall and wore his uniform well, but there wasn’t much he could do to disguise the potbelly that stuck straight out from his trunk and strained the buttons on his short-sleeved khaki shirt. When he was inside, he removed his straw cowboy hat and adjusted his belt up, which slipped back down under his gut with his first step.

  “I tried to call you earlier,” he said, nodding at the phone, the question why she didn’t answer hanging in the air.

  “The phone was dead,” she said, her voice a croak, as if she was using it for the first time. “So that was you.”

  He nodded and gestured toward a chair.

  “Do you have anything to tell me?”

  He sat down and looked around for a place that was not dirtied with soot to put his hat down. Finally, he perched it on his knee.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” Carey said, and this time he let his eyes slip away from hers.

  “Oh, no …”

  “No, it’s not that,” he said quickly, realizing what she had leaped to.

  “You haven’t found them?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I had better news, but I don’t. What I can tell you is that one of my deputies found some things up by Sand Creek. A fly rod and a shoe stuck in the mud. I was hoping you could identify them.”

  Her mind raced. Of course she could identify a shoe if it was Annie’s or William’s. But what was the brand of the fly rod Tom said was missing?

  “I could do that,” she said. “But I might have to call someone to identify the rod.”

  “That would be Tom Boyd, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  Carey nodded, and reached for his breast pocket. “You don’t mind if I take a few notes, do you?”

  “No, why should I?”

  Carey shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was the new sheriff, barely elected just a few months ago in a close contest. His background was in real estate. She wondered how much he really knew about his job. Forty-nine percent of the county wondered the same thing.

  “My deputies think this may be more than, you know, the kids getting lost.”

  Monica felt as if something were rising in her from a reserve she didn’t know she had. She wished the Valium would wear off so she could concentrate better.

  “What are you saying to me?”

  “Well, Miz Taylor, we’ve decided to treat this matter as a criminal investigation, not a missing persons case. The rod was found hung up in some brush a hundred yards from the river. The shoe was found in a mudhole farther up the path, and it was easy to see and find. That leads my deputies to believe that whoever lost the shoe—and we think it might have been Annie—could have easily turned around and pulled it out. But she didn’t. That indicates that she might have been in a hurry. You know, like she was running from something or somebody.”

  Monica felt her eyes widen. Her breath came in short bursts.

  Carey produced a quart-sized Ziploc bag and held it up to the light. Inside was a muddy shoe. The sight of it seared Monica, welded her to her chair.

  “It’s Annie’s” she said, scarcely raising her voice. “Who were they running from?”

  Carey put the shoe on the table and turned his hands, palms up. “That, we don’t know. My men have found some prints in the mud up there, but they’re bad ones. The rain last night fouled up anything definitive. We’re still looking, and my guys are combing the area on a grid, inch by inch.”

  The world had suddenly made a hard turn and darkened. Throughout the sleepless night, she had envisioned her children lost somewhere in the forest, huddled together in the rain. She had hoped they’d found shelter of some kind and were smart enough to stay put. She had even thought of the creek, thought of them falling into it and being swept away. It was awful, that thought. But she hadn’t considered what the sheriff was now telling her. That her children were prey to someone.

  “Oh, no …”

  She stared at the shoe, the smears of mud on the inside of the plastic, the laces broken. As if violence had been packaged in a neat container.

  Carey narrowed his eyes and looked at her, studying her. “Miz Taylor, are you going to be okay?”

  She shook her head slightly. “No, I’m not. You’re telling me that someone was after my children.”

  “We don’t know that yet,” he said. “It’s speculation based on very little evidence. But we can’t rule it out, and we need to cover everything. It could be they’ll turn up any minute. Maybe they stayed at a friend’s, who knows?”

  She continued to shake her head. Her throat constricted. It was difficult to get air. She had given a deputy the names and numbers of all of Annie’s and William’s friends, and had called their parents herself. None of them had seen her children.

  “Miz Taylor, I need to ask you if you know of anyone who may have something against you, or your kids.”

  “What?”

  “Has anyone threatened you? Stalked you? Do you know if your children had any trouble with anyone who might try to scare them or hurt them? They each have a different father, right?”

  “Right,” she said, wincing at how it sounded. “But neither is around, as you know.”

  William’s father, Billy, had been killed in a prison riot at the Idaho State Correctional Institution in Boise. She had divorced him three years before, while he was on trial for owning and operating four methamphetamine labs, which apparently generated a lot more income for Billy than his struggling construction business. The marriage had been dead by eighteen months after the ceremony but went on for two more years. Billy had been proud of the fact that he fathered a son, but didn’t particularly like William and, like Tom, called him a mama’s boy. William barely knew or remembered his father, but sometimes talked about him as a mythical being, a stoic and legendary Western outlaw. Monica didn’t encourage William’s projections but didn’t disparage Billy in front of her son because she didn’t think it would serve any good purpose. Annie knew Billy for what he was, and rolled her eyes when her brother talked about his father the outlaw. But Billy’d never threatened his son, or Monica, because by the end he simply didn’t care about either of them.

  Up until a year ago, Annie had assumed Billy was her father, too. Then she did the math. That had been a bad day for Monica, when Annie asked. When she did, Monica simply said, “He’s watching over you.” Annie didn’t really accept the answer. It was obvious it didn’t satisfy her. Monica knew there would be more questions as time went by, and she had dreaded them. Now, Monica hoped Annie would be back so she could answer them.

  “Is he dead?” the sheriff asked.

  “Something like that. He’s incarcerated as well.”

  The sheriff eyed her closely, withholding judgment. Yes, Monica thought, I’m used to those looks, I know …

  “We need to explore every possibility so we can rule things out,” Carey said, interrupting Monica’s thoughts. “First, and pardon me for being rude, but I assume that your family is fairly low-income. Correct?”
<
br />   She nodded. It was obvious.

  “Anyone you can think of at your place of work? Disgruntled employees?”

  “No. Nothing unusual.”

  He glanced at his notes. “You’re the manager of women’s casual apparel at the outlet store, correct?”

  She nodded. “It provides a steady income and decent health benefits for the kids. It’s a meaningless job.”

  “Any problem with the neighbors?”

  She shook her head. She kept her distance from her neighbors except for inevitable pleasantries about the weather or school-related topics. The only thing she could think of was when a single retired bachelor down the block complained about William and Annie cutting across his yard as they walked to school, and she told the sheriff about it. The sheriff made a note.

  “What about your extended family? Is there money there? Would a kidnapper have a reason to hold your children for ransom?”

  “My mother cleans houses and tends bar in Spokane,” Monica said evenly. “My father has been gone for years. We have nothing.”

  “Any others?”

  She thought of her cousin Sandy in Coeur d’Alene, the only cousin she knew. Sandy was married to a city councilman and had four bright kids. She’d invited Monica to picnics and family functions for a while, and used to call to invite her to church. Sandy had even said maybe she could help Monica “meet a nice man.” Sandy knew about what happened to Billy, as everyone did. They were decent gestures from a decent woman, but Monica couldn’t bring herself to accept. She didn’t want to be Sandy’s project, or the object of her effort at good works. Monica had been too stubbornly proud to accept help. Sandy rarely called anymore.

  So many people—Sandy, the banker Jim Hearne, her neighbor down the street who was always inviting her to church and bingo night—had tried to help her since the divorce, but she never saw it as help at the time. Hearne especially had watched out for her, and had always been there to help in his quiet way. She often saw the attempts as interference, or as pity. That had been a mistake, Monica realized now. Maybe if she’d opened up more, there would have been someone to take William fishing.

  The sheriff raised his hand. “Like I said, I need to rule out every possibility. This is bound to be uncomfortable for you.”

  She nodded again. “Not as uncomfortable as having my children missing.”

  The sheriff smiled sympathetically, then his eyes hardened. “This Tom Boyd. A neighbor reported that she saw him leaving your house last night. She said he was visibly angry, and she heard him yell and slam your door shut. She said she heard you yelling, too. Was there some kind of disagreement?”

  No, she thought. The sheriff can’t be going in this direction. “We had an argument.”

  “What about?”

  She swallowed. “Tom found out his fishing rod and vest were missing. He thought Annie had taken them. He didn’t get along with Annie very well, and I told him to leave.”

  She knew how that sounded. So: “But I’m sure Tom had nothing to do with it. The kids were gone for a long time already when it happened.”

  The sheriff asked her for the time of the argument.

  “It was around six,” she said. “I waited two more hours before I called you.”

  She could see Carey calculating it in his head. Tom would have had enough time, and enough light, to track down Annie and William.

  “Tom called me last night,” Monica said. “It was after ten. Maybe ten-thirty. He asked whether my kids had come home.”

  “How did he sound?”

  Monica swallowed. “He was drunk. He was at some bar.”

  Carey nodded, as if she’d confirmed something. “He was seen last night at the Sand Creek Bar. The bartender said he was inebriated. Still in his uniform, very distraught and upset. They refused to give him more drinks, and he got angry and left around eleven.”

  Monica seized on the words inebriated and distraught.

  “Someone who knows Tom Boyd says he can have a violent temper,” the sheriff said. “He’s a bodybuilder, right? Maybe some steroid use? Would you say he has a violent temper, Miz Taylor?”

  SHERIFF CAREY asked questions for another half hour. She answered them honestly, and could see how the sheriff was building a case against Tom. No, she didn’t know he’d been arrested twice for assault. No, she didn’t know Tom’s ex-wife had accused him of beating one of his children. How could she not know that, she asked herself. She felt stupid, duped. Again.

  “I don’t think it was Tom,” she said, finally, after the sheriff stood up and slipped his notebook in his pocket. “If it was him, wouldn’t he have taken his fly rod back? Isn’t that the reason you’ve come up with why he would even try to find my children?”

  “I thought of that, too,” Carey said, clamping on his hat. “But it could be your kids lost it before he got there. Or he just couldn’t find it in the dark. We’ll have to ask him about that,” he said ominously.

  “I just can’t believe it,” she said.

  Carey stood there, silent, as if he had more to say before he left. She looked up.

  “Tom didn’t show up for work this morning,” Carey said. “His supervisor said he didn’t call in, either. Tom’s not at his house, and no one saw him come home last night. His truck is still missing. He was supposed to turn it in last night, but he didn’t.”

  “His UPS truck?” she said incredulously.

  For the first time, the sheriff almost smiled. “You’d think we’d find a vehicle that distinctive easy enough, wouldn’t you?”

  “I just can’t …” She didn’t finish, knowing she had said it before.

  “I think we’ll get this thing wrapped up pretty quickly,” the sheriff said. “I hope and pray it will be for the best, but we just don’t know. We hope like hell we can find him and bring your kids back, unharmed.”

  She watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I wish I had more men to work this, Miz Taylor. I’ve only got four deputies for the whole county. Three of ’em are up there on Sand Creek right now, searching it with a state crime-scene team that arrived this morning. I’m starting to get calls from all over. Newspaper reporters, even some producer from Fox News in Spokane. Missing kids are big news, you know. If we can tie Tom Boyd to your kids, we can issue an Amber Alert, but it doesn’t meet that standard yet. I looked it up. The first criterion is that law enforcement must confirm that an abduction has taken place. We don’t know it to be true. We can’t just go panicking everyone this early.”

  “This early?” she said, astonished.

  “Miz Taylor, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. We don’t even consider a person missing until then. Not that the newspeople care. I’m stalling them for now, but they’re keeping me busy. Luckily, though, I have an ace in the hole.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Now, he grinned outright. “Four experienced, seasoned investigators have volunteered to help us. They showed up this morning and asked what they could do. After I talked with ’em, I gave them the authority to run with it, and already things are happening. We’re lucky as hell.”

  She was confused. “Who are they?”

  “LAPD’s finest,” he said. “Retired cops who’ve worked dozens of situations like this. They told me they want to serve their new community and keep it safe. Within a couple of hours they helped me establish a command center, and they’re the ones who figured out Tom Boyd. We’re damned glad to have them here, Miz Taylor.”

  She nodded. For the first time, she felt a lift of encouragement.

  “I know you want to stay by the phone,” he said, looking around the kitchen. “I think you should, too. But you need some help around here. Some support. Is there anyone we can call to stay with you?”

  She had no relatives nearby, and few friends. Sandy was on a cruise with her husband and family. She thought of Jim Hearne, the banker who had always been kind to her, but knew how improper that would seem.

  “That
woman, Fiona Pritzle, keeps offering to come stay with me,” Monica said. “But I don’t think I want her help.”

  Carey agreed. “I’ll ask one of the volunteer investigators to come over, if you don’t mind. We want to cover all the bases. If someone contacts you with a report on your kids, we want to know right away. We want to screen the call. And, if someone has your kids …”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “His name is Swann. Ex-Sergeant Swann.”

  “I know him,” Monica said dully.

  “Yes, he told me that. He wanted me to ask you if you minded if it was he.”

  She thought of Swann’s kind face and manner, his sonorous voice. He had been obscure, though, and so set in his ways. She felt he was always watching her as a cop watched a subject, not the way a man watched a woman.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “He’s a clean freak. Very organized. He’ll probably help me out with all of this.”

  The sheriff snorted and reached out his hand.

  “We’ll do our best to find your kids, Miz Taylor. I’ll ask Mr. Swann to bring you something to eat. I’ll call the doctor to come by again as well.”

  Saturday, 10:14 A.M.

  SORRY TO KEEP you waiting,” Jim Hearne said to Eduardo Villatoro as he slipped back behind his desk. “That was a local rancher. A friend of mine. A good man.”

  Villatoro settled into the chair the rancher had just used, his briefcase on his knees. He watched as Hearne gathered up a thick file with the name RAWLINS on the tab and put it on the credenza behind him. Digging in his breast pocket for a card, he leaned forward and handed it to Hearne.

  Hearne read it, a glimpse of recognition in his clear blue eyes. “Detective Villatoro of the Arcadia, California, Police Department, now I remember. You called and asked for a meeting a few weeks ago. All the way from Southern California.”

  “Thank you for meeting with me. I’ve retired from the department since then.”