Carol O’Connell - Find Me

After dinner, Peter Finn watched his father work the poles, the canvas and the ropes. Practice should have made this job easier, but it just got harder and harder all the time. Almost done, the big man used the back end of a hatchet to drive the stakes into the ground, each one the mooring for a tent line.

A year ago, this man had been the monster in the dark, a creature who came late at night to sit beside young Peter’s bed. Some nights, his father’s face had been beaten into unrecognizable shapes. Blood had seeped through the bandages applied at ringside by the cut man, another monster in the boy’s c ast of characters from the boxing world.

When Ariel was taken from them, the boxing days were ended, and this man had inexplicably become the Tooth Fairy who paid out coins for baby teeth, the cook and housemaid and packer of school lunches. The boxer was not much good at all these jobs that Ariel had done so effortlessly and fine. Over time, as Peter had watched his father struggle with each small improvement in folding laundry, the boy had cried with overwhelming sorrow and love.

Joe Finn drove the last stake into the ground. All the ropes were taut, and the poles were straight. Oh, but now the big man discovered that he had laid the tent floor on a bed of rock. After pulling up every stake- silently with no complaint-collapsing the canvas and bringing down the poles, the boxer began again.

Young Peter bowed his head. The tears flowed freely.

Riker was alone on nightwatch, unless one counted unseasoned FBI agents. He did not.

Interviews had ended hours ago, and most of the reporters had retired to a town down the road. A few of the jackals still haunted the perimeter of the caravan city, probably hoping for fresh blood, or maybe the sound bite of a scream in the night. Cooking smells haunted Riker with every breeze, though all the campfires were burning low, embers only. The site was better lit tonight. He had appropriated stationary power packs and pole lights from departing television crews. More illumination came from the traveling flashlights of patrolling FBI agents. Apart from the tinny music of a few radios and small conversations in twos and threes, all was quiet.

And along came Mallory.

Riker never heard the sound of her engine or the slam of a car door. She was simply there when he turned around and already passing him by. A knapsack was slung over one shoulder. She carried it everywhere these days, and he wondered if this was where she kept the letters that had once belonged to the late Savannah Sirus.

Mallory walked toward the campfire of Mrs. Hardy, and now he knew whose little girl had been found in the grave down the road.

And the mother sensed it.

Mrs. Hardy sat on a blanket spread before a dying fire. She forced a smile for the approaching detective, perhaps believing that escape was still possible. But no-Mallory’s s t ride had the resolve of a train wreck in the making-this was going to happen. And now the older woman patiently waited for the younger one to come and destroy her with words. The detective sat down on the blanket, and the ritual began: the slow shake of the mother’s head-disbelief-no, not her child-some mistake. And when it was finally understood that denial was wasted on Mallory, the mother collapsed against the young cop’s b reast. Mrs. Hardy cried for a long time. None of the other parents approached her, as if the death of a child might be a contagious thing. And Mallory did not desert her.

Turning his sad eyes away from Mrs. Hardy’s c ampfire, Joe Finn doused his own embers with a pail of water. Then he leaned down to kiss the brow of his sleeping son. Sleep was his only chance, for Peter had arrived at that heartbreak age when he would not hold his father’s hand in public anymore-a big boy now. One day a gangly teenager would take Peter’s place, a sullen moody version who would not even speak to his father, and that time would come all too soon. He kissed his child again, so greedy to love this boy while love was still allowed.

He laid Peter down in the tent alongside sleeping Dodie. Fixing his eyes on his youngest girl, he stared hard, willing her damaged mind to heal. Settling for keeping her safe, he unrolled his sleeping bag in front of the tent so that his body would bar the way to his children.

Irony was not in the boxer’s s t o re of words, but he had the sense of it in every twinge of pain from old fight wounds. He had endured so many blows and spent too much time away from home, and he had done this to buy a fine future for his children. But now he used his savings to go in search of the child that was lost because he had not been there to protect her.

Ariel, my Ariel.

His late wife had drawn from Jewish roots to give their firstborn child that name. In Hebrew, it meant Lioness of God.

“How much can you stand to hear?” Mallory held the crying woman in her arms.

“I want the rest of it. All of it.” Mrs. Hardy’s reply was a struggle, a gurgle of words. “I have to know.”

The FBI agent standing behind them finally made her presence known to the crying mother. Mallory had been aware of Nahlman from the start, listening to the shift of feet, a clue of reticence to come any closer to raw emotion.

Agent Nahlman knelt down on the blanket beside Mrs. Hardy. “I read the old police report. They found blood on the ground at the bus stop. So that’s where Melissa died.”

“Then he didn’t-he never-”

“No,” said Nahlman, “she wasn’t molested. We never found a child with signs of more than one wound-the fatal wound. That’s how I know she died where they found her blood on the road.”

Mrs. Hardy nodded, for this was confirmation of what Mallory had already told her.

“It was a quick death,” said Nahlman. “I don’t t hink Melissa ever saw the knife. There wasn’t e ven time to be afraid. It happened that fast. Shock was setting in. Melissa was losing consciousness.”

“Like going to sleep?” Mrs. Hardy pulled back from Mallory the better to see the young cop’s e yes, wanting reassurance that this was true.

Mallory only stared at the FBI agent and marveled that any mother could be taken in by that fairy tale.

“Yes,” said Nahlman, stumbling for a beat in time, “just like going to sleep… no fear.” Having done her good deed for the night, the agent stood up, turned her back on them and walked away.

Mallory was not a believer in kind lies to grieving parents. She had a clear picture of a little girl with a pounding heart, watching, wild with fear, as the blood flowed from her slashed throat to run like a river down her dress and splatter her shoes. And she could even see the terror in Melissa’s eyes as she was dying.

All through the night, Mallory stayed to cradle Mrs. Hardy, lightly rocking her, patiently waiting for this woman to work through the lies. It was hard to fool a mother for very long; and Mallory should know, for she had two of them: Cassandra, who had borne her, and Helen, who had fostered her. Mothers knew things. They were spooky and wondrous that way.

On toward morning, Melissa’s mother cried fresh tears and said, “She must have been so frightened.”

“Yes, she was.” Mallory held a bottle of water to Mrs. Hardy’s lips, forcing the woman to drink. “I’ll tell you one true thing.” And now she drew upon her own life for the right words to say. “When kids are really scared, they always yell for their mothers.”

“But my Melissa-”

“No,” said Mallory, “she couldn’t yell-her throat was cut. But I know she tried. And that’s how I know Melissa was thinking about you when she died.”

The driver’s-side door of the Mercedes hung open. Riker had one foot on the ground and one hand on his gun. The sun was rising, and he donned his sunglasses to keep watch on the man who walked beside the wolf. This camper had more names than most: In Riker’s notebook, he was the George Hastings who matched up with the owner registration of a pickup truck. On Dr. Magritte’s growing list of parents, he was known only by his Internet moniker. And the young FBI agents had code-named him Wo lfman, a mistake in Riker’s o pinion. This parent was not a mean or quick-tempered sort. He seemed like a very patient man, and this was what worried the detective.