Carol O’Connell - Find Me

Supplies were disgorged from one of the mobile homes, but these were automotive: cans of oil, transmission fluid, plugs and points and patch kits for threadbare tires. One of the parents, a mechanic, traveled from one old clunker to another like a doctor making hospital rounds. He listened to odd pings and grinds and other engine noises that only he could decode. On the Internet, he was known as Lostmyalice, but the other parents called him Miracle Man.

Come twilight, Riker and Charles accepted the hospitality of Dr. Magritte, who prepared rib eye steaks from the freezer of a larder on wheels that doled out similar fare to other campers. And now they learned that three of the mobile homes were leased by the doctor and driven by parents who had no vehicles of their own. The old man was a good cook. He favored a grill set over an open fire, and he had actually paid good money for it.

“But the best grills,” in the detective’s opinion, “are those little fold-out pieces you steal from shopping carts.”

Throughout this tasty meal, Riker was working, albeit casually. He chewed his meat and sipped his coffee while noting every new face-there were many-and watching for signs of trouble. He found them. “Doc, your people are scared. Check out the weapons.” With one moving finger, he pointed out pup tents and lean-tos where deer rifles and a few shotguns had been propped up in plain view. “I always knew about the guns, but yesterday they were kept out of sight. Tonight they’re on display.”

“It makes them feel more secure,” said Dr. Magritte. “And the FBI agents haven’t objected.”

“And you know why,” said Riker. “Except for Nahlman, all the agents here are kids. You noticed that, right?”

Paul Magritte opened a cooler to win back Riker’s goodwill with a cold bottle of beer. The old man smiled. The detective did not. But he took the beer.

“And then there’s the problem of the handguns,” said Riker.

This startled Magritte, and he looked around him, squinting to see the distant campfires.

“You’ll never see them,” said Riker, “but they’re here, tucked away in tents and bedrolls-like bombs waiting to go off.” The detective stood up to take his leave of Charles and the doctor. He thanked the man for his dinner and said, in parting, “Don’t go walking after dark. This is a very scary place.”

The detective glanced at his watch. It was time to walk the wolf.

George Hastings, alias Jill’s D ad, led the animal on a chain, and Riker followed them outside the circle of vehicles. None of the camp dogs barked when the wolf was out and about, for every mutt loved its own life; they quieted down and cowered on their bellies, hoping death would walk past them tonight. Man and beast walked a straight line into the dark landscape, and Riker sat down on the ground with his flashlight, a gun and a six-pack of beer. Stone sober he was not a great shot, but, if he had to kill a charging animal, a little alcohol might steady his hand, and four or five spent bullets should hit some vital organ. He had trained Jill’s D ad not to stray beyond the flashlight beam. Riker only took his eyes off the wolf one time to look up at a sky unspoiled by the lights of the caravan city. The evening stars were popping out, one by one, when he heard the first helicopter.

It was about time. He had wondered when the media planned to show up.

Nahlman came to keep him company on wolf watch. She held a clipboard with a list of vehicle registrations as she sat down beside him. “So far I’ve only found one fake name.” The agent highlighted a page with her penlight as one finger traced the lines, then stopped. “This one, Darwinia Solho.” She looked up from her list and caught him in the act of being unsurprised. “You knew.”

“Yeah, it always had the sound of a made-up name.” He placed a bottle of beer in her free hand. “But we’re not hunting for a woman. No offense, Nahlman. Personally, I think women are better at murder.” His eyes were on the sky, reading the call letters of a major television network on the bottom of the helicopter. “Hey, prime-time news.”

“Damn reporters,” said Nahlman. “Our people have the rest of the media bottled up down the road.”

Oh, Christ.

“You have to let ’em through,” said Riker. “Reporters are only manageable when you’re throwing them bones. If you make them dig-and I mean really earn their money-then you lose control.”

“It’s not my decision.”

“It could be,” he said, planting a hint at disaffection from the ranks. “Let’s say we give them easy rules. No parent leaves the circle without an escort, and only the parents get back inside. You see how simple this can be when Dale’s not running the show? And now I need you to call down the road and get those reporters turned loose.”

“I haven’t got the-”

“Do you see Dale Berman anywhere? No, he’s holed up in a motel while you and your partner sleep on the dirt. You’ll never find him when you need him. That makes you the senior agent in command. So just tell the kids down the road to let those reporters come through the lines-or mama will spank.”

Oh, big mistake.

Obviously, the NYPD’s diversity training had been utterly wasted on him. He watched her mouth dip on one side just before she turned her face away from him. Riker looked down at his empty bottle, but he could not put the blame there. That was the problem of being a hard-core alcoholic: He could down so many drinks while talking and walking a sober line.

Riker tried again, one hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sorry, but I need this favor.” He pointed into the heart of the campsite. “It’s for them. It’s so hard for these parents to get five seconds on some backwater news show. This is their only shot at national coverage. And tomorrow, you know they’ll all stay with the caravan. No more dead strays-if we let the reporters join the parade.”

The FBI agent was relenting; he could see it in the slump of her shoulders.

“Dale might go along with it,” she said, “if you were the one who asked him. I think he respects you. God knows why. And I know you’ve got his cell-phone number.”

“Not me. I haven’t had that much beer.” Riker pulled another bottle from his six-pack. “I figure a pretty woman has a better shot.”

Whoa!

Nahlman stood up way too fast, and now her hands were riding on her hips. Showdown! What’s a boy to do? He was too drunk to win a fair fight with a woman, but not drunk enough to stomach one more conversation with Dale Berman.

“I’ll drink faster,” said Riker.

Agent Christine Nahlman made the decision to bypass her boss, and it was not the second bottle of Riker’s beer that had won her over. She wanted no more dead parents on her watch.

The floodgates down the road were opened, the reporters turned loose, and now the circus had come to town. The news crews arrived at the outskirts of the caravan circle, carrying pole lights and cameras, juggling microphones and makeup kits. The parents were overjoyed, holding up their posters and lining up for interviews, but not Jill’s D ad, though his wolf was safely locked up for the night. Another oddly camera-shy parent was Darwinia Sohlo, or whatever her real name was. Joe Finn was not in line, either, but that was no surprise to Nahlman.

While waiting a turn at the reporters, Mrs. Hardy and two other parents could be heard comparing notes on how many seconds their tragedies had received on the local news back home, how many lines of type in their town papers and how many flyers they had tacked up to telephone poles in an average month.

Searching for lost children was very hard work.

Finally, it was Mrs. Hardy’s c hance to face the camera and tell America, “My Melissa plays piano.” She held up the photograph of a six-year-old child. “This little girl,” she would have them know, “has the brightest blue eyes, the sunniest smile. And she plays the piano. Oh, I’m sorry. Did I already tell you that? I’m such a fool.”