Mariah Stewart - Cry Mercy

“For as long as I can remember. My granddad was a farmer but his big love was classic cars, collecting them, restoring them. I used to spend my summers with him and my grandmother. We'd do farm work from six in the morning till around three or four in the afternoon, then we'd head to the garage and work on his latest project till dinner. We'd stop and eat, then head back to the garage again.”

“I'll bet you wrote some interesting ‘how I spent my summer vacation’ papers when school rolled around.”

“Hey, I was the envy of every guy in my class. The other kids would talk about two weeks at the beach, or a week in the mountains, but I'd had the entire summer to play mechanic with some very cool automobiles.” He glanced at her again and added, “Best years of my life.”

“Are they still farming? Your grandparents?”

“They both died years ago. They left the farm to Wendy and the cars to me. When Wendy died, the farm passed to Belinda.”

“Did she live there when she wasn't in school?”

“No. She stayed at my place in Khoury's Ford when she was on break. The farm's too far off the beaten track for a kid. You know, nothing to do, no one to see. There's another farm nearby, and the couple who own it keep an eye on the place for us. In return, we let them plant the fields.”

“What do they plant?”

“Mostly corn. Some years soybeans, some years potatoes, but mostly it's always been a corn farm. There's a small orchard there, a pond. It's a great place.”

“Any chance Belinda's been hiding there all this time?”

“None. For one thing, the neighbors would have seen her, they'd have let me know. For another, she didn't really like to be there by herself. She said the place was creepy and haunted.”

He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“Here's the map I printed off the Internet.” He handed her the paper. “See if you can figure out where we get off the highway.”

She unfolded the paper and skimmed the directions. “It's the next exit. You'll go left at the stop sign and then straight for another 3.3 miles.”

“Thanks. Would you mind navigating from here? I seem to remember there are a few more turns between the interstate and the clinic, but I'm not sure of the names of the roads.”

“Sure. According to this, you're good for another few miles before we get to the exit.”

“You know, if you hadn't asked about Belinda's stuff from school, I don't know how long it would have been before it occurred to me to look in those boxes.”

“Well, I'm sure that sooner or later…”

“Later might have been too much later.”

“Was there anything else in the boxes that gave you a clue to what Belinda might have been thinking back then?”

“There was a lot of stuff there. Honestly, I don't know if I'd recognize a clue unless it was pretty obvious. Like the phone bill. Other than that, all I can tell you after going through those boxes is that that girl had a hell of a lot of clothes.” He ran long fingers through his hair and she watched them glide, front to back. “I don't know how nineteen-year-old girls think. I don't know what's meaningful to them, or what she might have had in her possession that might have led me to something else.” He paused and turned to her. “Am I making any sense?”

“You're not sure if any of her belongings have any relevance to her disappearance or to the investigation.”

“Yeah. That's what I mean.”

“Would you mind if I took a look through the boxes?”

“Not at all. You just say when.”

“Oh, our exit's coming up on the right.”

He made the turn. “Left at the stop sign?”

She nodded. “Then straight for 3.3 miles, at which time you will”-she referred to the directions-“make a right onto Howard Road. The clinic will be on the right, about five miles down the road.”

They drove in silence for a mile or so. Emme watched Nick fidget, first tapping his fingers on the side of the steering wheel, then on the shift.

“Are you concerned about what we might learn at the clinic?” she asked.

“I'm more concerned that they won't tell us anything. If she was treated there or… whatever it is they actually do there, they're not going to tell us without a release signed by Belinda, right? There's a law about confidentiality, isn't there?”

“There is.”

“That's what bothers me. What if the key to the whole thing is here, and we can't get to it?”

“Well, if I was still a cop, and I believed there was information in the records that could help find a missing person, I'd ask a judge for a subpoena. But in this case…” That's exactly what she'd do. If she was still a cop. “Oh, there's Howard Road.”

He made the turn.

“Mallory Russo at the foundation has a friend who's a detective. Maybe we could get him to help us.” There were jurisdictional issues and issues of probable cause, but there was no reason to go into all that now. “Let's take it one step at a time.”

She watched the scenery change from hilly farmland to strip malls. “Did you make an appointment with anyone?”

He shook his head. “I didn't bother to leave a number, so I didn't get a call back. I figured we'd play it by ear when we got here.”

Moments later, the clinic-unmistakable with its monster-sized sign-came into view. Nick parked in the nearly-empty lot and turned off the engine. They got out of the car and followed the walk to the front of the building.

“There you go.” Nick touched her elbow and pointed to the sign just inside the door. “Heaven's Gate Fertility Clinic. Dorothea G. Drake, PhD., Executive Director.”

He held the door for her. “That's who we ask to see.”

“And if she isn't here? Or she's booked up?”

He gestured in the direction of the parking lot. “There were four cars out there besides mine. I'm thinking she's free. Think positively.”

The receptionist sat at a half-round desk twenty feet back from the front door. At the sound of Nick's voice, she looked up and looked them both over.

“Good morning. Mr. and Mrs. Fields? You're early.” The woman smiled brightly.

“Ah, no. We're here to see Dr. Drake.” Nick began.

The receptionist looked at the appointment book that lay open on her desk and frowned.

“You are?…”

“Nicolas Perone and Emme Caldwell.”

“You don't seem to have an appointment.” She made a point of turning to the next page, ostensibly to check the next day's listings.

“No, we don't.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“It's personal.”

“Mr. Perone, everything that happens here is personal.”

“Tell her it's extremely important that we speak with her today about my niece, Belinda Hudson,” Nick told her.

“I'll see if she has time to see you. In the meantime, if you wouldn't mind waiting.” She gestured in the direction of a sofa and some chairs on the opposite side of the room.

The receptionist waited until Nick and Emme had taken seats before disappearing through a doorway behind her desk. Nick sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees, and stared at the floor. Emme sat in a club chair opposite him, her bag on the floor next to her feet. She picked up a copy of a travel magazine that sat on the dark wood coffee table and flipped through it absently before tossing it back. It landed atop another publication and she reached for the second magazine.

Emme scanned the cover, which had a picture of a sort of crazy quilt comprised of photographs of children. Donor Siblings Reach Out to Connect was written across the sea of faces. Curious, she paged through the magazine searching for the lead article, but was interrupted when the receptionist opened the door and called to them.