Linwood Barclay - Fear The Worst

“Mr. Blake? Detective Jennings here.” She sounded nasal.

“Hi, thanks, listen, I have a lead on Sydney.”

“Really,” she said, with less enthusiasm than I might have expected. “She’s been in contact with you?”

“No.”

“What’s this lead?”

“A woman who works at a drop-in for teenage runaways read about Syd on the Net. She got in touch. She’s seen Syd. I’ve already booked a flight out at two tomorrow.”

“Mr. Blake, I’m not sure that’s wise.”

In the background, I could hear a kid shouting, “Mom! I’m ready!”

“It’s all I’ve got right now. I can’t sit around here in Milford.”

“The thing is, it could be someone trying to scam you.”

“She didn’t ask for anything,” I said. “She said it wouldn’t be Christian.”

Kip Jennings made a snorting noise. “This woman may not be asking now, not yet. But once you’ve flown all the way out there-Cassie! I’m on the phone! I’ll be up in a minute!” A sigh. “Once you get out there, that’s when she’ll suddenly come up with a reason why you need to pay her. Or she’ll be asking about a reward. You’ll think, you’ve come so far, you’ll give her whatever she wants. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

“I don’t think it’s like that. It doesn’t feel like that.” I didn’t want to believe this was a shakedown. “A few hours ago, when we went up to see my daughter’s car, I started thinking, maybe things aren’t looking so good. Syd’s car abandoned… the blood. But this, this is good news. This is solid.”

“How?” Jennings said. “You’ve got the word of a woman you don’t know who… How did she even connect up with you?”

“She checks websites about missing kids, sees if they match up with any of the kids in her shelter.”

“It sounds fishy,” Jennings said.

I refused to let her defeat me. “What would you do,” I asked, “if it were Cassie?”

A long pause at the other end of the line. “Mr. Blake, did you call just to tell me you’re heading out there, or is there something specific you want me to do?”

“Call the Seattle police. Have them put out an APB or whatever it is on her.”

“I’ll call them, but I have to be honest. A runaway teen isn’t going to be a high priority for them. I’ll tell them about finding the car, that this may be more than a simple runaway, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up that they’re going to jump all over this.”

“That blood,” I said. “That was on Syd’s car. Did you find out whose it is?”

“That’ll take a while, Mr. Blake. Maybe, by the time you get back from Seattle, we’ll know something. And if your daughter ends up coming home with you, maybe it won’t matter.”

I WENT DOWN TO THE KITCHEN, cleaned a container’s worth of chow mein off the floor. The boxes Kate hadn’t dumped contained some breaded shrimps, beef with broccoli, and some plain rice.

I ate it cold.

Then I went back upstairs and packed a small over-the-shoulder case. Something I could carry straight onto the plane. I didn’t want to be waiting around for checked luggage.

I had a little room left over in my bag, so I went into Syd’s room and looked at the stuffed animals she had on display in various places. In her chair, on her bookshelves, tucked in around her pillows. Tiny dogs and bunnies. A small, once-furry moose given to Syd, when she was two, by my late mother. It had endured so many years of snuggling it was nearly threadbare. Some things little girls never outgrow, even when they’re leaving the house in fishnets with studs in their nose, purple streaks in their hair.

Her stuffed friends weren’t arranged this way the day she disappeared. She’d gone to work leaving her bed unmade. The animals had been tossed all over the place. But when a week had gone by, I made the bed and put the animals in position to welcome Sydney home.

They were probably as tired of waiting as I was.

I thought one of them should accompany me to Seattle.

I picked the moose. His name, according to the tag, was Milt. He wouldn’t have been my first choice. His puffy antlers made him more difficult to pack. But I knew he was Syd’s favorite.

I got under the covers, expecting not to sleep. But I guess the tension I’d been living with for the last few weeks had ebbed slightly with Yolanda’s news.

I just hoped her husband would sort out sending the picture in the morning, as promised.

I WAS UP BEFORE SIX, checked the computer before doing anything else. No news. I showered and shaved, went back to check the computer again.

Still nothing. Then I remembered it was only a little after three in the morning in Seattle.

That didn’t stop me from checking every five minutes.

Shortly after nine, there was mail.

A short note from Yolanda: “Hope this is her. Let me know.” There was a picture attached.

I was afraid to open it. Up to now, I had convinced myself that the girl she’d seen was Sydney. It had to be Sydney. I had my ticket, my bags were packed. I was going to Seattle to bring back my girl.

But what if the picture turned out not to be her? What if this clearly was some other girl?

The time had come to find out one way or another. I double-clicked on the attachment snapshot and it opened up before my eyes.

I let out a whoop I was sure everyone on the street must have heard even with the windows closed.

It was my girl.

It was Syd.

NOT THAT THE PICTURE WAS PERFECT. It was no more than a fleeting shot of Syd. The background was nothing more than a beige wall and a small glass door, maybe two feet square, with the words FIRE EXTINGUISHER stenciled on it in red, the first “I” nearly worn off. The letters are more in focus than Syd, who is moving through the frame, right to left, just about to move out of the picture. She’s in profile, leaning forward into her stride, her head tilted down so her blonde hair is hanging forward. There’s not much of her face to see but the tip of her nose, and I’d know that nose anywhere.

But it wasn’t just Syd’s nose that convinced me it was her. It was the light, summery scarf she’d wrapped fashionably about her neck. Coral in color, crinkly in texture, thin and wispy, with a fringe at the end. Her mother had bought it for her a few months ago on a shopping excursion into Manhattan.

I had a reputation in my house as someone who wouldn’t notice if his wife or daughter walked into the room in a neon wedding gown. Different eye shadows and nail colors eluded me. But I remembered the first time I saw Sydney wearing that scarf, the smart way she’d tied it, the blazing coral contrasting with her blonde hair.

When Syd got in the car one recent morning wearing it, I’d said, “That’s sharp.”

And Syd had replied, “Whoa. Get your cataracts fixed?”

The scarf, matched with the hair, the tilt of the girl’s head, the nose, left no doubt in my mind.

I double-checked that I had everything I needed for my trip. Before grabbing my bag and heading out the door, I emailed Yolanda a brief message: “It’s her. I’ll be in Seattle this evening. See you then. Thanks so much.”

There was one stop to make along the way. I wheeled into Riverside Honda just after ten. There were sales staff on the floor, but that early in the morning, unless it was a Saturday, was not a busy time. I saw Andy Hertz was at his desk, but instead of popping by mine, I went straight to Laura Cantrell’s office. I rapped not so lightly on the open door.

“Hey,” I said.

She looked up from some sales report she was reading, removed the glasses she wore for that kind of detail work, and set them on her desk. “Tim,” she said.