Carol O’Connell - Find Me

Jill’s D ad led the wolf close to the Mercedes and lifted one hand to show his wristwatch, acknowledging Riker’s rule of only fifteen minutes for exercise. And now he moved on to his pickup truck, where the animal was locked up in the cab as promised.

Riker holstered his gun, but he continued to watch the pair for a while. The man did not appear to have any love for the wolf-and the wolf loved no one. This animal was no pet, nor had it been brought along for security; it never barked. And the man? He carried no posters of his missing daughter and cared nothing for reporters. He had even less use for the FBI.

What listless, lifeless eyes. Yet Jill’s D ad was quick to spot each newcomer and just as quickly disappointed every time. This man was definitely waiting for someone, a person he would know on sight.

Riker knew he should kill the wolf, shoot it right now. Ah, but then Jill’s Dad might buy a gun, and the detective did not want to shoot this man.

Done with his wake-up coffee, he lit a cigarette and tossed the match on the ground. When had he last seen a car equipped with an ashtray or a cigarette lighter? Now there was only a hole for car chargers. He plugged in a portable television set confiscated from a news van. The screen was only eight or nine inches on the diagonal and called for much squinting, but the volume was clear. He listened to a replay of last night’s interview with Melissa Hardy’s mother. And now the anchorwoman gave her national audience the updated report that six-year-old Melissa no longer played the piano. She was dead.

Riker left the Mercedes to greet a state trooper’s c ar as it parked near the circle of caravan vehicles. Tw o civilians emerged from the back seat, and they were introduced to him as the Hardys from the Oregon branch of the family. Some woman named Mallory had called and asked them to come for their cousin. They had taken the very next plane.

And how many Hardys had Mallory called before she found someone to come for Melissa’s mother and take her safe home? This argued well for the existence of a human heart-but it was also police procedure, and so Riker still had no proof in the young cop’s favor.

At this moment, he was watching his partner drive off again, and so was the boy beside him. But Peter Finn did not seem alarmed this time. Her return last night was proof that Riker had not lied to him, and Mallory had not abandoned him-not yet.

The detective and the boy stood side by side as the silver car disappeared down the road. Riker rested one hand on Peter’s s houlder, saying, “Let me guess, kid. You’re wondering if Mallory’s e yes glow in the dark.” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled the words with the smoke. “Yes… they do.”

The sun was half risen, and Mallory was running late for this appointment with the road. After rolling the car onto the shoulder and cutting the engine, she opened another letter that had been penned long ago when Peyton Hale last passed through Oklahoma. She read his instructions for how to watch a sunrise by looking at the roadside instead. The land was waking, going from gray to green, silence to gentle noises and birdsong.

But the morning was spoiled. The bottom of this letter was marred by a smudge of lipstick that could only belong to Savannah Sirus, and now this flaw was fixed with the scratch of one long red fingernail. All gone.

Not quite.

The image of this woman remained: Savannah on her knees, mascara running-the weeping had lasted for days; Savannah reaching for the letters-a little moment of horror-they were Mallory’s letters now; Savannah’s hand grasping air.

Mallory did not recall closing her eyes, but an hour had passed before she awakened. She wanted to check off this last stop, but could not find her gold pen, an old birthday gift from Charles Butler.

A pencil would do.

Back on the road again, she recalled placing the pen on a napkin at the restaurant. She had missed the napkin when she reached out to use it, and she had forgotten all about her favorite pen. How was that possible? She carried it everywhere. Mallory put this bit of carelessness down to lack of sleep.

Not a natural-born camper, not a nature lover, the New York detective checked into a motel. The cell phone was turned off, and the shower turned on to fill the bathroom with steam. When the last of the road dust was gone down the drain, she was ready for a few hours of sleep, all she needed, but sleep would not come. She emptied her knapsack on the bedspread, but the lost pen was not there. Ariel’s autopsy photographs mingled with pictures of a man with green eyes. The image that hurt her most was the one of Peyton and Cassandra. The questions posed in yesterday’s letter ran round her brain in an endless chant: Where do we come from? Why are we here? And where are we going?

She had no idea.

And now these mysteries resolved themselves into one: Why did I have to be born?

Riker ended his cell-phone call to the undercover agents riding at the rear of the caravan, and turned to the man at the wheel. “It’s working, Charles. The moles haven’t s potted any cars taking the exits. Who knew reporters would come in handy?”

On the downside, the moles had counted ten more parents joining up with this parade. The caravan had swelled to a hundred and fifty vehicles, yet they moved along the interstate at a good clip. By some miracle, only one old junker had broken down, and that one was now being towed by a Winnebago.

“This is it,” said Riker. “Ta k e Exit 108.”

The exit ramp led them uphill to the Cherokee Restaurant, another travel plaza. When they pulled into the parking lot, the news crews were already there, unloading sound equipment, lights and cameras.

While Charles parked the car, Riker’s e yes were trained on a sign for homemade pies, and he gripped the door handle as soon as the car stopped. But his friend remained behind the wheel and showed no signs of moving.

“Problem?” asked Riker. “Hey, just spit it out.”

“About Mallory,” said Charles. “When were you planning to tell me the rest of it? There has to be more to this than her not showing up for work. You’re so confident that she’s coming apart. You don’t t hink you can trust me with all of it?”

“No, it’s not that.” Riker released his grip on the door handle. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. This was going to take some time. “Her doorman, Frank, called me one night. He said there were shots fired in Mallory’s apartment. So I asked him if he’d thought of calling 911. Well, Frank didn’t s ay a word. Finally, he tells me he talked to Mallory on the house phone. She told him somebody left a window open… and she had to kill a few flies. Now the kid’s a real big tipper. So Frank wouldn’t t u rn her in if she shot four tenants right in front of him. He calls me instead. I go over there. Mallory opens the door, but just a crack. I had to muscle my way in. She goes for her gun. She aims it at the wall. I look-I see a fly- I hear a bang. And now there’s a hole in the wall where the fly used to be. She’s good. I don’t know a single cop who could’ve made that shot.”

Charles closed his eyes. “When did this happen?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“When Savannah was there.”

“But I didn’t know that,” said Riker. “I swear-I never saw one sign of her in that apartment.”

“The poor woman was hiding,” said Charles. “So Mallory was-”

“Torturing her houseguest? Probably.” Riker blew smoke out the window and considered the odds that this story would ever be told in a com- petency hearing. He knew that Charles Butler would lie for Mallory in a heartbeat-if he only could. Unfortunately, the man’s face gave away too much, and his blush prevented him from ever pulling off a lie to save her.