Brian Freeman: The Burying Place

'So you want to tell me what's going on, Jonny?' she asked.

'With what?'

'With you.'

Stride kept his eyes on the road, but his hands tightened on the wheel. 'Nothing.'

'Nothing? You're not sleeping, we're not having sex, and you're constantly on edge.'

'I'm impatient,' Stride said. 'I'm going stir-crazy doing nothing. This case is exactly what I need.'

'Is that all it is?'

'That's all,' he insisted. 'I'm fine.'

Stride wasn't fooling her, but she let it go. He regretted his stubborn denials, because that wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her about the panic attacks. He wanted to admit that he was scared of feeling dead, without any ambition or desire. But he hid behind the lie that nothing was wrong.

Ahead of them, Denise turned her Jeep left off the highway and crossed the bridge on Sugar Lake Road. Stride followed. Almost immediately, they found themselves away from the developed land. They drove for another mile and then turned left again on to County Road 76, which tracked the northeastern border of Pokegama Lake. Stride passed dirt roads carved into the forest which led to expensive homes bordering the water. It was a desolate area.

'This isn't good,' he said. 'It would be easy for someone to come and go here without being seen.'

They turned left on Chisholm Trail and headed toward the lake. The road stretched for half a mile and curved sharply in front of a sprawling white fence. Through a gap in the fence, he saw a circular driveway where five police vehicles were parked with their light bars flashing. Cones of white light waved like lasers as uniformed men hunted in the woods and grass.

'Oh, son of a bitch,' he muttered.

He parked, and they joined Denise Sheridan at the entrance to the driveway. Stride jerked a thumb at the cops on the property.

'What the hell are these guys doing?' Stride barked. 'You've got them trampling the crime scene.'

Denise folded her arms over her chest in annoyance. 'We're trying to find a missing baby. Look, Stride, the BCA techs will be here in the morning, but I made the call to run my people around the grounds now. It's a long shot to think that someone dumped her in the woods, but I'm not about to miss that chance, OK? The county attorney may have my ass when we try to prosecute whoever did this, but right now, I'm more concerned with anything that might help us find Callie.'

Serena interjected. 'Have you interviewed the neighbors along the road?'

'We woke them all up, and we're working our way up and down the lake. So far, nobody saw any vehicles here after ten o'clock or spotted any boats on the water. It was a perfect night to make a snatch and not be seen. Assuming that's what happened.'

'What does that mean?' Stride asked.

'Nothing. This is your show now, not mine. Just tell me where my guys can help.'

'We need to set up a command center over at your office,' Stride told her. 'We'll need to coordinate media queries, answer the tip line, feed leads for follow-up, coordinate with the FBI, NCMEC, the Wetterling Foundation, etc. This is going to take a lot of manpower.'

'I can get people from the neighboring counties. We'll get plenty of support.'

Stride studied the nearby homes, which were ablaze with light. 'You realize this is going to be a media circus, right?'

'Hey, I was here when the damn ruby slippers got stolen from the Judy Garland Museum,' Denise said. 'That was a circus.'

'We need to talk to Marcus Glenn,' Serena added.

'Fine. Talk to him.'

'You should be there too.'

'No way,' Denise snapped. 'He won't want me there, and I don't want to be there. We can talk after you're done.'

'You don't like Marcus, do you?' Serena asked.

Denise shrugged. 'He's my brother-in-law. What does that tell you?'

Marcus Glenn was a surgeon and, in Stride's mind, that said it all.

He wasn't yet forty years old, which meant he had the arrogance of his own accomplishments but hadn't aged enough to confront his imperfections. He wore a frown of impatience and irritation as he paced the sunroom of his estate. He was extremely tall, and his long legs were lean and muscled. He had jet-black hair, cut extremely short, and thick eyebrows. His face was angular, hard-edged and taut, without the sag of a double chin. He wore a burgundy golf shirt with a logo from the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, pleated gray slacks, and black dress shoes. He had large hands, in which he gracefully moved two cat's eye marbles above and below his knuckles like a magician. Behind him, a glass wall of windows framed him against the black night and the back lawn that led to the lake.

'Dr Glenn,' Stride said, extending his hand. 'My name is Jonathan Stride. This is Serena Dial.'

Glenn declined to shake hands and instead slid his hands and the two marbles into the pockets of his slacks. 'Yes, I know who you are. Denise called me. I'm sure you're both qualified and capable, but I have to tell you I would be more comfortable if this investigation were being led by the FBI.'

'I understand how you feel,' Stride replied. 'Obviously, we'll be coordinating our efforts with the resources of federal law enforcement wherever it can help us.'

Glenn cut him off. 'Yes, yes, coordination, consultation, I'm sure you all send wonderful memos to each other. I'm talking about expertise. My patients don't come to me because I'm capable. They come to me because I'm the best. I want the best.''

'I know exactly what you're saying, Dr Glenn,' Stride told him. 'The truth is that we're the best people to handle this situation, not the federal authorities. You want investigators who know the terrain and have relationships throughout the state law enforcement community. The FBI would have to fly in special agents who are unfamiliar with the area, the people, the police, the media, the nonprofit resources, everything we need to find Callie and bring her home safely. These first few hours are very important. We're here, we're good, and we want to help.'

Glenn rubbed the toe of his dress shoe on one of the marble tiles on the sunroom floor. 'Yes, all right. I apologize for my attitude, detectives. I do appreciate your help. It's been a long night.'

'Of course,' Stride said.

He and Serena took seats next to each other on a leather sofa on the wall facing the house. Glenn sat and crossed his legs in an armchair by the windows. He drummed his fingers on his knee.

Serena picked up a framed photograph from an end table beside the sofa. The picture showed an attractive woman in her early thirties, with flowing blonde hair and an athletic build. Her blue eyes stared beyond the camera, caught in a reflective moment. When Stride studied her features, he could see a resemblance to Denise Sheridan, but God had played favorites between the sisters. Denise had a face you could look at and then put out of your mind. Her younger sister was memorably gorgeous.

'Is this your wife?' Serena asked.

Glenn nodded absently. 'Yes, that's Valerie.'

'She's beautiful.'

'Thank you,' he replied.

Stride thought that was what you said if someone complimented your choice of wine, or your choice of decor. He looked around at the sunroom and realized that Glenn collected beautiful things. Eastern European crystal. French wines. Brandenburg photographs. A trophy wife. Those were the perks of his profession.

'Where is your wife?' Serena asked. 'Does she know that Callie has disappeared?'

'Yes, of course, I called her immediately. She was staying overnight in the Cities because of the fog, but I'm having a driver bring her home. She'll be here shortly.'

'I'd like to clarify some personal information, Dr Glenn,' Stride said.

'Such as?'

'Can you tell us about your job?'

'I'm an orthopedic surgeon specializing in knee repair and replacement,' Glenn replied. 'I do surgeries three days a week at St Mary's in Duluth. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Naturally I'm cancelling today's appointments.'