Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

Across the table, I saw Dante flinch.

“The fan forces air out through the air flow system,” Helm continued, “leaving a faint trail of scent, even when the car windows are closed.”

I turned to the dog, who sat modestly next to her handler. “So, Yoda, what’s it like having such an incredible sense of smell?”

“It’s like this,” Barbara Helm explained. “When you or I walk in the front door, we take a whiff and can tell that spaghetti sauce is cooking.” She jerked her head toward her dog. “Whereas Yoda here, she smells that same sauce, and knows how much salt’s in it, how much pepper, whether it’s fresh or canned tomatoes, how much oregano, how much basil, how much garlic, and whether you’re using a Calphalon or copper-bottom pan.”

Supernose stared at us balefully, a string of drool hanging from her lip.

Helm picked up the leash. “So, Yoda, do you wanna work?”

Yoda still looked like she was having an Alka-Seltzer moment, but her tail thumped against the carpet and she threw back her head and answered, Rooooooooo !

“C’mon, slobber snout.”

Straining at her harness, Yoda dragged Officer Helm out the conference room door. We followed at a discreet distance.

“Yoda’s a working dog, not a pet,” Agent Crisp cautioned. “Please do not interact with her in any way.”

At the door to Puddle Ducks, Agent Crisp removed the crime scene tape and unlocked the door. She passed a Ziploc bag to Yoda’s handler. We stood in the hallway and watched as Officer Helm accompanied the dog into the room, removed Lamby from the plastic bag and thrust the toy under Yoda’s nose. Behind me, Emily began to whimper.

The dog dug her nose into Lamby, taking a good sniff.

“Search!”

Yoda’s nose shot to the ground. She circled the playpen in an ever widening circle, then made a beeline for the patio doors. With Helm holding onto the leash for dear life, Yoda flew through the French doors and out to the patio. She was working fast, sniffing her way over the flagstones, along the path through the garden, across the lawn, moving in the general direction of the parking lot.

A half-dozen yards into the parking lot, Yoda seemed to lose the trail.

“Oh, no,” I moaned.

Barbara Helm slowed down to let Yoda work it out, moving her in a wider and wider circle, repeatedly casting the dog off to let her find the scent. Suddenly, Yoda hit it and was on the trail again, straining on the leash, her nose scouring the ground, trotting down the driveway that led to Kimmel Lane.

Although an officer had been sent on ahead to keep the reporters out of the way, at sight of the dog they must have surged forward because I heard Helm yell, “Get those people the hell out of there!” Yoda and her handler charged through the gates, turned the corner and out of sight, followed slowly by the K-9 van.

“What if the kidnapper was on foot, and took Timmy into the woods?” Paul asked Agent Crisp.

“It’s even easier to track in the woods,” Crisp replied. “And they’ve got their radios.”

Radios. Of course they had radios.

Agents Crisp and Brown excused themselves, leaving us sitting in chairs on the porch, the same chairs where just forty-eight hours earlier we’d been chatting and yucking it up, drinking iced tea.

Nobody spoke, sitting quietly, nursing their own thoughts.

As sensitive as her nose was, I was thinking, it would be something of a miracle if Yoda could follow Timmy’s trail along the miles and miles of road the kidnapper might have used while making his getaway. It was not outside the realm of possibility, though. I knew that from a program I’d seen on television, on the crime channel, maybe, or it could have been Animal Planet . Trails had been laid in a park, then a fishing contest was held. Over a thousand people attended the event, walking over the trails, driving their cars over them. Some trails were laid over water, and in some cases it had rained. And yet, even after all that, the dogs were able to track and find their targets. And they say animals are dumb.

“Scientists think the drool helps reconstitute the microscopic particles that drop off the victims,” Connie commented.

So, she had been thinking about bloodhounds, too. Or else she was a witch, reading my mind.

“Fingers crossed,” said Paul.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.

Suddenly, Paul stood up. The K-9 van was on its way back up the drive.

I sprang to my feet. “It’s too soon, Paul. They’re coming back too soon.”

“We don’t know that.”

“No, Hannah’s right,” said Connie. “They’re coming back way too soon.”

Paul looked handsome pacing in front of the cameras, positively presidential. Wearing a navy blue windbreaker, open-necked shirt, and pressed denims, he appeared more put-together than any of the other members of my family clustered behind that bank of microphones, but it was entirely accidental, I knew, as he’d grabbed the first thing that came to hand in the closet that morning, not giving a moment’s thought to how he should dress for a television appearance.

It was 1:55 P.M. The press continued to gather at the end of the driveway in rowdy, fidgety packs. Standing on the sidelines between Connie and Dennis, I watched Paul turn his back on the crowd and speak quietly to Emily.

Dante was otherwise occupied, conversing in hushed tones with Jim Cheevers, our attorney, who had dispensed with his usual trademark tie-tropical fish and Disney characters were among his current favorites-for one in a somber maroon and gray stripe. Recently, Jim had taken over the handling of our legal affairs from our old friend Murray Simon. Murray had been summoned to Washington to head up a presidential task force on Hurricane Katrina relief. Judging from the number of times we’d heard from him since last fall, Murray might as well have been abducted by aliens. One evening I ran into Murray’s wife at the symphony. She’d reported a Murray sighting at Christmas, but other than that, claimed not to have seen him in ages.

From my vantage point at the edge of the driveway, with the branches of a forsythia bush periodically stabbing me in the back, I saw Dante’s hands flutter.

Cheevers nodded.

Dante raised a finger.

Cheevers shrugged.

For all I knew, they might have been discussing the plays of Monday night’s baseball game.

Without warning, an icy hand reached out and seized my heart, squeezing it so hard I could barely breathe. What we need is a publicity stunt . My son-in-law’s exact words, spoken only a few short days before.

Sweet Jesus. Was the success of Paradiso so important to him that he’d engineer the kidnapping of his own child? It was unthinkable! And yet…

“Dennis?” I hissed.

“Shhhh,” my brother-in-law hissed back, inclining his head toward mine. “I think they’re going to begin.”

They’d evidently been waiting for a signal from Agent Amanda Crisp, who emerged from the house and took her place to the left, just behind Emily. Next to Agent Crisp stood Officer Ron Powers. Earlier, Powers had asked if I wanted to be on camera, but I’d politely declined. I had no desire to appear on television-I looked like something the cat dragged in, for one thing-but there was a more practical consideration. If the press conference ran long, I’d need the flexibility to duck out unobtrusively and pick up the children.

That might be easier said than done. Cedar Lane, a quiet street not far from the entrance to Hillsmere Shores, was now parked wall-to-wall with cars, SUVs, and trucks. The overflow spilled onto Hickory and Pine. I was congratulating myself for taking the precaution of parking out on Edgemere Drive where I wouldn’t get hemmed in, when a hush stole over the crowd.