Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

“What?” I said aloud.

“Yeah, what? What?” echoed Connie.

Erika held up her hand, palm out, signaling patience. I didn’t know about the others, but the suspense was killing me. There could have been a breakthrough in the search for Timmy, George Bush could have resigned his presidency, or maybe one of her girlfriends had just gotten engaged. It was impossible to tell.

“Okay,” Erika said, wrapping up the conversation at last. “I’ll be right over.”

With her thumb, Erika pressed down on the End button of her cell phone, a self-satisfied grin spreading across her face. She puffed air out through her mouth. “Sorry, girls, but I have to go.”

Emily leapt to her feet. “Is it Timmy?”

“No, sorry, Em. I would have told you if it were Timmy, you know that.”

“Then, what ?” I repeated.

Erika scanned the room until she located her handbag in the corner where she’d tossed it, shouldered the bag, tucked her cell phone into an outside pocket and headed for the kitchen door. “Well, ladies. Something I’ve been working on for quite some time is about to hit the fan big-time, but in a very good way.” She disappeared into the hallway.

We stood there like statues, our mouths slack, staring at the empty space where Erika’s back had just been. “Does that mean we’ve just got one less volunteer?” I asked of no one in particular.

Suddenly, Erika’s face reappeared around the door frame. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Hannah Ives.” Her teeth flashed white in the dim light. “Watch Cross Current tonight. NBC. Ten o’clock. You will not be sorry.”

In the bleak reality of day after endless day, at leastErika’s breezy announcement gave me something to look forward to. Cross Current had been a highly hyped addition to NBC’s fall lineup, successfully challenging CBS’s popular prime-time news program, 60 Minutes , in the television ratings wars. I couldn’t imagine what connection Erika Rose might have to the show, but it had to be something controversial. If Cross Current’s host, Mitch Harmon, ever showed up on your doorstep, it would be prudent to keep your mouth shut and duck out the back way, speed dialing your attorney as you went.

My sister Ruth had insisted on staying with me for the remainder of the day, lending both physical and moral support as we plastered public buildings and business establishments in Crofton with Timmy’s poster, with the full cooperation of the various merchants. With her help, we finished in time for me to hustle back to Annapolis to pick up Chloe and Jake from school.

That evening, because they taunted me with it, I knew that Connie and Dennis were sharing a hot King Ranch chicken casserole with Emily and Dante, one of a half-dozen casseroles now overflowing Emily’s freezer courtesy of the ladies of St. Catherine’s Episcopal Church. Meanwhile, at our house, Ruth helped me fix dinner, or at least what passed for dinner those days: pizza. I dumped the ingredients for pizza dough into the bread machine, punched a button and let it do its thing, while Ruth kept her mind off things by chopping up assorted toppings.

After dinner, Ruth supervised bathtime upstairs, then picked up reading where I’d left off in the first Harry Potter. We’d been reading Sorcerer’s Stone to the kids for what seemed like ages-Emily thought that Goblet of Fire was too violent. Downstairs, Paul helped clean up the kitchen, debriefing me on the press conference Ruth and I had missed that afternoon.

“I wish there were more to tell, Hannah, but at least there’s no really bad news. Ron Powers reported that the Anne Arundel County police were still reviewing the shopping center videotapes.” He handed me a dirty plate. “They’re pretty bad quality, apparently, having been erased and taped over many times. Then the FBI profiler from Quantico made a statement suggesting that Timmy’s kidnapper may have no intention of returning him to us.”

“Oh, no,” I moaned, feeling the pizza turn over in my stomach. “Poor Emily. That news must have really stung.”

Paul grunted and handed me another plate. “Very disturbing. According to the profiler, when the victim is an infant, and the infant is abducted by a nonfamily member from a hospital or other location, not from a home, the abductor’s motive often is to raise the child as her own. There have been cases of women who faked a pregnancy, then stole a child in an attempt to strengthen a crumbling relationship with a significant other. And other women who have miscarried, then snatched a baby to fill the void of darkness and despair brought on by the death of that child.”

I retrieved the box of dishwasher soap from under the sink, poured some into the soap cup, twiddled with the dials, and slammed the door shut over the dirty dishes. “Damn! If that’s the case, how will we ever find him? Or her.” I’d been imagining the kidnapper as a man for so long that switching to the image of a woman was a major paradigm shift.

“Agent Crisp told the reporters that the FBI is checking hospital records,” Paul continued. “They’re trying to identify women who have lost children recently. At the press conference, Crisp urged the public to report anyone who has turned up unexpectedly with a baby, particularly if they haven’t appeared to have been pregnant.”

I grabbed a broom and started attacking the bits of cheese and vegetable scattered over the tiles. “It seems like such a long shot.”

Paul smiled grimly. “I agree. But the other bit of news is more positive. According to Dante, Phyllis Strother is starting a reward fund for Timmy’s safe return, and has contributed ten thousand dollars to kick it off.”

I dumped the contents of the dustpan into the trash can. “Paul, that’s wonderful! I take back every snide remark I ever made about the woman.”

“The bad news is that the cops are dead set against it, the FBI included. Ron Powers in particular is concerned that offering a reward will result in a flood of false leads that will take valuable time away from the search for Timmy.”

I began to work on the area nearest the stove. “But, Paul, only one tip needs to pan out! Just one! If a reward helps motivate somebody to turn in the kidnapper, then I’m all for cleaning out our savings account to do it.”

“I agree, and that’s what I told Agent Crisp, especially since Emily and Dante are so keen on doing it.” Paul gently removed the broom from my hands. “Sit down, Hannah. You’re sweeping the pattern clean off the linoleum.”

“We don’t have linoleum.”

“Well, sit down, anyway. Have some wine. Chill.”

I plopped down in a chair, folded my hands primly on the table in front of me, and asked, “How does putting together a reward work, exactly? We can’t set a table up in front of the Safeway and solicit donations, can we?”

“We’ve asked Jim Cheevers to help us sort that out. We need to make sure the terms of the reward are clear, otherwise we could get sued. It’s happened. Jim recommends setting up a separate bank account for the donations, which somebody outside the family will control, of course.”

“Do you think Hutch will be willing to do that? Ruth mentioned that he’d asked if there was anything he could do to help.”

“Did someone mention my fiancé?” Ruth asked, wandering into the kitchen and waggling her magnificent 1890s-style engagement ring in my direction for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

Without asking, Paul refilled Ruth’s wineglass and handed it to her. “We were wondering if Hutch might be interested in managing the reward fund for Timmy.”

“I’ll ask, but I’m sure he’ll say yes. Should I call him now?”