Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“Still nothing, sir,” the agent assigned to the linetold him.

“May I speak with my wife, or her mother?”

“I’m sorry, sir. They’re still sleeping. The doctorsays the sedative should wear off by mid-morning.”

Reed said nothing.

“Mr. Reed, we fully understand your concerns and wewill get you the instant we have something at this end.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“But sir, please check with us as often as you wish.”

“I will.”

Reed did not keep his vigil alone. Molly Wilson wasamong the newsroom staffers who waited with him, comforting him, assuring himZach would be found safe with the other children, although she dozed off a fewtimes. She was sleeping with her head on her folded arms on the desk next toReed, when Myron Benson appeared, briefcase in one hand, jacket draped over hisarm.

“Tom” — he nearly looked him in the eye — “I knowyou won’t believe this coming from me, but I apologize and hope with all myheart it works out well for you.”

Reed suspected Tellwood had put him up to this, butsaid nothing.

“I never liked you, Tom. I knew you resented me forlacking talent and I resented you for having an abundance of it. I was wrong.Anyway, you have more important things to deal with here. Good luck.”

Benson extended his hand. Reed contemplated it for amoment before deciding to accept it.

“What did the old man have to say to you, Myron?”

“He fired me.”

Reed was speechless.

Benson managed a weak smile before leaving.

An hour after sunrise, Reed was at the Hall ofJustice, fear twisting his stomach.

Was Zach dead?

He never made another call.

The task force had nothing, nothing at all at HalfMoon Bay. The Coast Guard had nothing at the islands, nothing in the water. Noboat, no trailer on the coast, no van. Nothing!

Reed was alone at an empty desk in Room 400, the SFPDHomicide Detail, watching Sydowski, Rust, Turgeon, Ditmire, and the othersstudying material on Keller. Rust and Bob Hill, the FBI’s profiler fromQuantico, were poring over Keller’s psychiatric records, preparing for theeight A.M. news conference at the hall. Reed had not slept and, betweenadrenaline rushes, was nearly drunk with exhaustion. Sitting there as theringing phones and voices faded, something triggered his memory, and thefragrance of baby powder, the feel of terry cloth, and the tenderness of Zach’sskin when he was six months old washed over him. Reed was holding him, watchinghim as he sucked down a warm bottle of milk, gazing upon him during thecommercial breaks of Monday Night Football with the sound off, knowinghe possessed one of the earth’s treasures.

And there was Zach, a lamb tied to the stake, staringat Reed now from the morning newspapers scattered around the Homicide room.Zach’s picture, Keller’s, those of Danny Becker, Gabrielle Nunn, and himself,all tormenting him with the truth.

Zach was gone. Gone.

And the headline haunting him.

THIRD CHILD ABDUCTED IS SON OF REPORTER

WHO INVESTIGATED KIDNAPPER

“Dammit! These press calls are supposed to be screened!”Ditmire hung up angrily. “That was the fourth fucking TV network asking if theycan land their helicopter on the roof!”

Overnight the task force tip line lit up with calls asthe story grew. Word leaked from the White House that the President and FirstLady were following it. The national press were hitting it hard. So were thetabloid TV shows. More news outlets in London, Paris, Stockholm, Sydney, Tokyo,and Toronto were flying in reporters. Network breakfast shows insisted on aninterview with Reed and Ann, promising exposure. Reed held off.

“Look outside,” Turgeon said. A dozen news trucks werelined up along Bryant, deploying satellite dishes.

“This is nuts.” Ditmire shook his head.

“The attention could help us, Lonnie,” Rust said.

Sydowski finished a call to Ann’s mother’s house inBerkeley and somberly went to Reed.

“Ann’s awake now, Tom. I just spoke with her.”

“How is she?”

“Holding up.” Sydowski’s gold crowns glinted as he puthis hand on Reed’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but she did not want to talk to you.”

Reed understood.

“Tom, she insisted on being here for the newsconference. We’ve got people driving her across the Bay.”

Reed nodded. He was starting to get the shakes fromtoo much caffeine, no food, no sleep. He craved the taste, the sensation ofJack Daniel’s on his tongue, rolling down his throat, warming him.

“If either of you get second thoughts about making apublic appeal, just say the word.”

“No, no. We have to do it. We have to.”

Sydowski ran his gaze over him, thinking. “We got acouple of rooms around here with sofas. Want to grab some rest? You’ve gotnearly two hours until the press conference.”

No. Reed could not be alone with his fear. Was Zachdead? He forced his thoughts away from children’s corpses, caskets, andcemeteries. He could not be alone, he told Sydowski.

“Okay, well I’ve got an electric razor, cologne, andstuff if you want to spruce up a bit.”

“Thank you, but I’d just like to wait here for Ann.”

“Sure, Tom.” He stood to leave.

“Walt?” Reed’s eyes were brimming. “Is my son dead?”

Sydowski looked at him for a long, hard moment,searching for the right words, deciding on the truth. “We just don’t know, Tom.You must prepare for the worst, but never give up hope.”

“But today’s the anniversary of the drownings. And yousaid if Keller’s going to do anything, he’ll do it today.”

“Yes and we are doing everything we can, we’re chasingdown every lead. You’ve got to hang on.”

“What does your gut tell you, huh? He’s beaten youguys three times now.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“He’s either very lucky, very smart, or both.”

“In Danny’s Becker’s case, he left us with nothing. InGabrielle Nunn’s case, we got his blood, got him on a piece of video, then afingerprint and a name. In Zach’s case we have more video and, thanks to you,his motive.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“We’re gaining on him.”

Ninety minutes later, a female FBI agent arrived atthe Homicide Detail with Ann Reed, who was dressed in a white blouse, a darkblazer, and slacks. No makeup. Reddened eyes, taut jaw, betrayed a heart thathad stopped beating. When Reed moved to embrace her, she was unresponsive. Thedoctor had given her two Valium before she left Berkeley. She looked as thoughshe was going to a funeral.

No one moved until Rust said, “Let’s get going.” Heand Sydowski escorted Reed, while the others took Ann to the elevator, all ofthem riding together to the press conference. In the elevator car, Annapologized for being late.

“Not a problem,” Rust said respectfully.

“I was trying to decide what to wear.”

No one spoke as the elevator hummed.

“What do I wear to plead for my son’s life?”

It seemed to take forever to arrive in the basementwhere the Hall of Justice cafeteria had again been transformed into apressroom. Some two hundred newspeople were waiting there.

Reed and Ann were isolated, each alone with theirpain. He was at the bottom of a well, blurry faces peering into it. Microphonesand camera lights made the packed room hot, but he was shivering, his stomachseething. Copies of The San Francisco Star were everywhere. Facesstaring at him. Reed was the man who allowed his son to be kidnapped, andpushed an innocent man to suicide. Reed was on trial.

The FBI agent in charge of the San Francisco office,flanked by San Francisco’s police chief, stood before a half-podium placed on acafeteria table. He led off with a summary of the abductions, promising to takequestions after Zach’s parents spoke. He turned to the Reeds. Ann went first,her voice no more than a murmur.