Carol O’Connell - Find Me

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A runaway camper and sometimes a fool for love, April Waylon knelt on the old road beside her disabled car. She stared at the flat tire with the quiet understanding that she was going to die tonight. The lights of the interstate highway could be seen from here, but no one there would ever hear her scream.

Yet she felt no panic. April was beyond that now.

Though there were no headlights to be seen on old Route 66, not for miles in either direction, she had company tonight. Depression had come back to her like a faithful black dog. It was huge and overwhelming all her fear as it crouched beside her. April’s e yes welled up with tears. A little girl was waiting for her somewhere on this road; she would wait forever.

A car was coming.

April turned to look down the road toward the sound of that distant motor. Twin beams of light were rushing toward her, slowing-crawling. There was time to realize that her lost child was not miles away but only minutes, and a ten-year odyssey was nearly done. She bowed her head and said a sorry prayer.

And she waited.

What had been done to her baby would be done to her, and this would suffice for answers to every question save one-why?

A car door slammed. Footsteps on the road came closer. He stood beside her now, and she looked down to see his shoes-so close.

Any moment.

“Lady, I hope you’ve got a spare tire,” said the detective from New York City.

Riker pulled into the gas station, leading another errant parent from the caravan. After they had pulled up to the pumps, he reminded the man, “Don’t leave yourcar unattended. If you need to use therestroom, ask Charles Butler to watch it for you. Nobody gets near that car but you. Got that?”

The detective was about to slip his credit card into the gas-pump slot when his friend beat him to it. “Hey, Quick Draw,” said Riker, “how’s it going with the babysitting detail?”

“A very well-behaved group.”

“Good. Unless the moles missed a few license plates, I’ve got all but one of them.”

“While you were gone, I had a chat with April Waylon.” Charles nodded toward the woman dressed in red. “She’s been telling me about her adventures with Mallory-and a LoJack tracker.” He waited a moment, perhaps thinking that Riker might want to fill him in on that little side story-but no, the detective was not so inclined. And Charles continued. “Apart from that, Mrs. Waylon’s story is rather similar to what happened to Mr. Linden. The battery was stolen from her cell phone. Oh, and she had a flat tire that night, too. The problem was a-”

“A busted air valve? Jesus. So she survives that, and here she is-going out on her own again. What’s it gonna take to scare that woman?” Riker checked his watch. “I got one more town to check. It’s gonna be late when we catch up to the caravan.” And now he looked up to see April Waylon flagrantly disregarding his order to never leave a vehicle unattended. After pulling a poster from the dashboard of the red sedan, she walked away, leaving the car door hanging open while she taped a picture of her daughter to the gas station window.

Riker sighed. “Why don’t I just shoot her? Less work.”

Charles was also watching April Waylon. “She’s been wearing red for ten years-ever since her daughter disappeared.” He handed Riker a much-needed cup of coffee, and the two men leaned back against the Mercedes.

“Everything in her wardrobe is red,” said Charles. “It saves her from making decisions in the morning. She used to find that very difficult. That’s common among people in profound depression. But lately, April has structure in her days-important work to do. And she doesn’t t hink she’ll find her daughter on an interstate highway.”

“Okay, I get the point. I’ll talk to the feds.” Riker crumpled his empty paper cup in one fist. “I’ve still one missing parent.” He slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove off into the night, leaving his witless little flock to go out in search of the lamb that was lost.

The caravan city had taken shape under Oklahoma skies, and the hour was late.

Agent Christine Nahlman watched the man and his wolf walking across the prairie well beyond the campsite. In terms earlier laid down by Detective Riker, this parent, who called himself Jill’s D ad, was allotted only fifteen minutes to exercise the animal, and his time was nearly up.

He had offered to camp by himself down the road, perhaps recogniz- ing his status as a pariah here-though not on account of the wolf. Other parents shied away from him because he carried no pictures of his lost child, and because his eyes had gone dead-and his hopes-all gone.

The agent looked at her watch. His time was up. She waved her flashlight to call him back into the fold.

Most of the campfires were burning low, and some had been extinguished in favor of acetylene heaters inside the tents. The smell of coffee hung in the air. The breeze carried it everywhere. Dr. Magritte was passing out paper cups, holding court with those who had not yet retired. He seemed to give these people comfort, but Agent Nahlman had no faith in his ability to keep them in line.

She watched the man and his wolf approaching the camp. One hand was on her gun; the other held a cell phone, though she was hardly listening to Dale Berman’s assessment of the day’s d amage-the missing parent that Riker had failed to find. He gave her no credit for the backup plan that had snagged four other strays.

“This wouldn’t have happened,” he said, “if you’d checked all those people into the hotel.”

“And if I’d put them up in the hotel, a lot more of them would’ve bolted, and they’d be scattered all over Route 66.” Her cell phone went dead. Sometimes she forgot that self-defense was against the rules. Later he would call her back. Dale Berman was predictable that way. He would pretend that they had never had this conversation-that she had not all but called him a screwup, and he would forgive her for the mistakes she had never made.

When the wolf had been safely locked up in the cab of the pickup truck, Agent Allen joined his partner, saying, “Why not call Animal Control? They’ll just take the wolf away.”

“This is Riker’s idea, and we owe him. So you’re on wolf watch tomorrow morning.”

He was unenthused.

And now, because every day was a school day for Barry Allen, she added, “Never miss an opportunity to do a favor for a cop. It makes them feel stupid when they butt heads with you.”

Nahlman sent her partner off to get some sleep while she took the first shift of guard duty with one of the moles. She spent the time checking license plates against the list made at the last stop. The caravan had not shrunken by five runaways-it had grown. But only the parents from the last campsite had the map for this place. She suspected that Dr. Magritte could clear up this little mystery, and she waited until he was done with the small band of parents around his campfire.

Twenty minutes later, when she approached the old man, he was quick to look up at her, his face full of fear. He must believe that she was bringing him bad news about the runaway parent code-named by Riker as Lost Lamb.

The FBI agent only wished that all of these people could be scared so easily. “Sir, your caravan is growing by the hour.”

“It’s all right. I know who the new people are.”

“You led them here, didn’t you-by phone?”

“Well, yes.” Dr. Magritte seemed relieved now, assured that she only wanted to lecture him and that no more of his people had died. “You see, not everyone could make the meeting in Chicago. Some of the parents are coming in from neighboring states as we-”