Chris Mooney - The Missing

Standing back in the driveway, next to the boyfriend's car, she breathed away her frustration. The fading sunlight reflected a deep, dark red against the windows and puddles.

Okay, we know you pulled into the driveway and then entered the house, most likely using a key because there's no evidence to suggest you tampered with the locks. You shot the boyfriend and then grabbed Carol and struggled briefly inside the kitchen door. Even though it was late, raining hard and thundering, you couldn't risk dragging her kicking and screaming outside because it might wake someone up and call them to the window, so you knocked her unconscious before taking her out. You tossed Carol over your shoulder – it would be easier to move that way, and it would keep your hands free. Then you ran down the stairs to your van. You use a van because it can transport one or more bodies in privacy. You opened the back doors and put Carol inside, next to Jane Doe – only she wasn't there.

Darby imagined Carol's abductor running down the driveway, panicking, his head whipping around the sheets of driving rain as he searched for Jane Doe.

How far had he searched? And for how long? Did he drive around the streets looking for her? What made him decide to give up and go home?

Another thought hit her, causing Darby to reach for the notebook and pen tucked in her shirt pocket: What if he had stayed close by and saw Jane Doe being escorted out of the porch? What if he followed the ambulance? She made a note to tell Banville to increase security around Jane Doe.

Darby wondered about the intruder's reaction when he learned Jane Doe had only been a few feet away, hiding behind the garbage barrels underneath the porch.

Why was Jane Doe in the van?

Possible answer: He was planning on getting rid of her because she was sick.

But where was he going to dump the body?

No, he wouldn't dump the body. He'd bury it someplace where no one would find it. Was the plan to abduct Carol first and then bury Jane Doe somewhere in Belham?

Too risky. What if Carol woke up? If he had Carol, he'd want to bring her home.

Maybe he had changed his mind about burying Jane Doe and decided to abduct Carol instead.

Darby moved to the porch. The small white door was sealed with evidence tape. She pressed her forehead against the cool, damp wood.

I fooled him real good this time, Terry. I knew what he was going to do when he put me in the van, and I was ready.

A car door slammed. Darby turned and saw Dianne Cranmore marching up the driveway, a framed picture of her daughter clutched in one hand.

Dianne Cranmore was somewhere in her mid- to late thirties, with bleached hair and a round face heavy with makeup. She reminded Darby of the women she sometimes spotted in the nicer bars in Boston, women from Chelsea and Southie who fought hard to appear charming and sophisticated as they trolled for men who could transport them away from their crummy jobs and even crummier lives.

Carol's mother spotted the badge dangling around Darby's neck. 'You're with the crime lab,' she said.

'Yes.'

'May I talk to you for a moment?' The woman's eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying.

The patrolman Darby had talked to earlier was now standing in the driveway. 'Miss Cranmore, why don't we -'

'I'm staying right here,' Carol's mother said. 'I want to ask her some questions. I have a right to know what's going on – and don't you tell me again I don't. I'm getting goddamn sick and tired of the way you people keep pushing me around.'

'It's okay,' Darby told the patrolman. 'Why don't you give us a minute?'

The patrolman adjusted his cap and walked away.

'Thank you,' Carol's mother said. 'Now please tell me what's going on with my daughter's case.'

'We're conducting a thorough investigation.'

'Which is police talk for "I'm not telling you jack shit." My daughter is missing. My daughter. Doesn't that mean anything to you people?'

'Mrs Cranmore, we're doing everything we can to find -'

'Please, please, please don't start in with that again. That's all I've heard over the past twenty-four hours. Everyone's working real hard, everyone's chasing down leads – yes, I know all about it. I've answered all your questions, and now it's my turn. You can start by telling me about the woman you found under my porch.'

'I suggest you talk with Detective Banville -'

'What about when my daughter's dead? Will someone talk to me then?'

Dianne Cranmore's voice cracked. She clutched the picture of her daughter tightly against her chest.

'I understand how you're feeling,' Darby said.

'You have kids?'

'No.'

'Then how can you stand there and say that you can understand what I'm going through?'

'I guess you're right,' Darby said. 'I can't.'

'When you have kids of your own, the love you'll feel for them… It's more love than your heart can ever hold. Like it's going to burst inside your chest. That's what it feels like. It feels a thousand times worse when you're wondering if they're hurt and calling out for you to come help them. Only you don't know that. All you people, this is just a job for you. When you find her dead, you all get to go home. What do I get? Tell me, what do I get?'

Darby didn't know what to say, felt she should say something.

'I'm sorry.'

Carol's mother couldn't hear her. She had already turned and walked away.

Sheila's nurse, Tina, was busy putting together a tray of food when Darby stepped into her mother's kitchen.

'How is she doing?'

'She had a good day. A lot of her friends called to say they saw you on TV. I saw it, too. Going underneath the porch was very brave.'

Darby thought back to the day her mother delivered the news of the diagnosis, the way Sheila held her, arms steady and tough as steel, while Darby broke down.

The doctor had found the mole during a routine checkup. The Boston surgeon took out a good chunk of the skin cancer from her arm and many of her lymph nodes. He couldn't reach the melanoma that had already settled inside her lungs.

Sheila had refused chemotherapy because she knew it wouldn't help. Two experimental treatments had failed. Now it was just a matter of time.

Darby dropped her back-pack on the kitchen chair. Stacked near the back door were two cardboard boxes full of carefully folded clothes. She spotted a pink cashmere sweater. Darby had bought the sweater for her mother this past Christmas.

Darby pulled out the sweater and was pierced by a memory of her mother standing in front of Big Red's closet. It was a month after the funeral. Sheila, holding back tears, had touched one of his flannel shirts and then pulled her hand back as though something had bitten it.

'Your mother cleaned out some of her closets today,' the nurse said. 'She asked me to drop them off at St. Pius on my way home. For their fundraiser.'

Darby nodded. Packing up the clothes, she knew, was her mother's way of trying to help ease her through her grief.

'I'll drop them off,' Darby said.

'Are you sure? I don't mind.'

'I drive by St. Pius on my way to work.'

'Before you drop off the clothes, you may want to go through the pockets. I found this.' The nurse handed Darby a picture of a pale, freckle-faced woman with blond hair and striking blue eyes taken at what appeared to be a picnic.

Darby had no idea who the woman was. She put the picture on her mother's tray. 'Thanks, Tina.'

Sheila was sitting up in bed, reading the new John Connolly mystery. Darby was glad for the soft lighting from the two lamps. It made her mother's face look less gaunt, less sick. The rest of her was covered up by blankets.

Darby placed the tray across her mother's lap, careful of the IV drip for the morphine.