David Wiltse - The Edge of Sleep

Becker was out of sight beyond the angle of the garage for a moment, and when he came into view again he was smiling. Karen loved his smile. He was normally of sober mien so that when he smiled it offered such a happy contrast. If he had been a man who practiced charm, it would be a formidable weapon, Karen thought, for it made him look boyishly winning, shedding years and revealing a sweet and mischievous side to him.

“A pleasant surprise,” Becker said.

Karen resisted her own impulse to smile.

“I couldn’t raise you on your phone,” she said. “I was passing here, so I thought I’d try my luck in getting you at home… And I got lucky.”

“if you consider me good fortune.”

“Your local Chief of Police apparently does. We had a little chat.”

“Tee likes to chat.”

“I noticed. He seems to think rather highly of you.”

“We’ve been friends since high school.”

“I got the impression he was trying to fix us up.”

“Did you tell him we’d already been fixed up?”

“I didn’t think that was for me to say,” Karen said. “He’s your friend; I don’t know how much you want him to know.”

“With Tee, it’s probably better for him to know than to let his imagination go to work. I’m surprised he didn’t try to pick you up himself.”

“He does that, does he? He’s a married man.”

“It’s not that he does it. He just can’t seem to stop thinking about it.”

“Men,” she said.

“You’re right. I can’t argue.”

“No wonder women are losing patience.”

“I don’t know why you’ve put up with us this long.”

“It’s a tribute to our good nature.” Karen tilted her head slightly, hoping to firm her jawline. “But enough is enough.” Becker sat on the railing and grinned at her. The directness of his attention summoned her back to the business that had brought her here.

“Another boy is missing.” she said.

“A snatch?”

“We don’t know yet, it’s too early. We have the state and local police in New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts reporting any disappearances that fit our profile immediately. It’s a nine-year-old boy. Physically he matches the others; he was last seen at a mall…” Karen shrugged. “Maybe he’ll show up by the time we get there. Maybe he fell asleep in the movies…”

“Maybe. Where was it?”

“Bickford.”

“That’s about an hour from here.”

“If we go in my car, we’ll be able to talk. But I’ll have to leave no later than five-thirty, so if you think you’ll want to stay longer, maybe we’d better take both cars.”

“Why do you have to go?” he asked.

“I have to be home by seven. That’s when the babysitter leaves.”

Becker blinked.

“I have a child, remember?”

“You do this every day?”

“Do what? Go home? Take care of my son? Act like a parent? Yes, I do it every day. That is what mothers do, isn’t it? Or did I get that part wrong?”

“Sounding a little defensive there, Karen.”

“Why do you people always act surprised when you hear that I’m a mother? I do mother things. I love my son. I make myself available for him.”

“ ‘You people’?”

“I’m acting like a mother. If we could get more men to act like fathers, the world wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in.”

“Why do I feel I have to justify myself?” Becker asked. “I don’t have any children.”

“Then I can’t expect you to understand,” she said. Karen was furious with herself. She had vowed to keep the meeting professional.

“Understand what?”

Karen started abruptly for her car.

“Your car or mine,” she said. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you so sure I’m coming at all?” Becker asked, staying on the porch.

She turned to him angrily.

“I don’t have time for you to be coy,” she said. “Of course you’re coming.”

Becker hesitated.

“Oh, Christ, don’t make me woo you,” she said. “We’ve already done that number. Let’s get on with business.”

She got into her car and buckled up, not looking at him anymore.

Becker thought about telling her to go stuff herself. He thought about it all the way to the car.

They were already on the Merritt Parkway and heading east before he asked, “What made you so sure I was coming?”

“Because the trail is still warm and you know you have a better chance of people remembering something now than you will a day from now. You’re smart enough to know that.”

He looked at her curiously. She was concentrating on her driving, pushing the car to eighty miles per hour, flashing her headlights in annoyance at anyone who slowed her down. Presumably she was saving her siren until she hit ninety. Her jaw was clenched and thrust forward defiantly. Becker realized she was angry as hell about something and he just happened to be available.

It wasn’t until they swept north on Route 8 that she seemed to relax. Traffic had cleared and she sped along in the left lane basically without interference.

“What made you so sure of me?” Becker asked again.

This time she turned from the road long enough to glance at him. The tension eased from her face and was replaced by sympathy.

“I knew you’d have to study the photographs.” she said. Her eyes went back to the highway. “You told me something about your childhood once. John. Do you remember?”

“No.”

She sniffed. “Men don’t. They never remember anything.”

“Women do,” he added.

“Yes, we do. We labor under the delusion that the things you tell us are true.”

“I never lied to you,” he said.

“No.”

After a pause he added, “And I do remember,” although he was not certain that he did.

He briefed her on what he had learned-and not learned-during his visit to the Stamford mall. She spoke into her tape recorder as she drove, taking notes on what he said. When he was finished she telephoned her office in New York and gave orders in a crisp, clipped tone.

“Fax me the results to…” She turned to Becker. “What’s your fax number?”

“I don’t have a fax,” he said.

Karen sighed. “I’ll have the Bureau get you one. It’s time to enter the decade, John.” Into the phone she said, “Malva, fax the results to my house. I want it waiting for me by the time I get home

… Yes, seven o’clock, of course.” She hung up and eased into the right lane as she saw the exit for Bickford approaching.

She was aware that Becker was studying her openly. “What?”

“I’m remembering you ten years ago when you were still in Fingerprinting and looking desperately for a way to get out of there. Now you’re in charge of how many people?”

“And I was nicer then, right? Sweeter, softer, more feminine? Something like that?”

“Younger.”

“Oh, you smooth-talking son of a bitch. How did you know that was exactly what I wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t mean you looked old,” Becker said defensively. “I meant you seem very much in control.”

“Do you ever say anything tactful to anyone?”

“Not if I’m interested in them.”

Karen had started to say something, but stopped abruptly. She glanced at him, trying to read his meaning in his face, but he seemed to be studying the traffic with great curiosity.

“I didn’t mean to be so short with you,” she said. It was not what she wanted to say, but it seemed safer. She knew him well enough to know that she should never ask Becker a question unless she was prepared to deal with the truth.

“I am a bit defensive about some things,” she continued. “You have no idea how hard it is, being a mother as well as an agent.”