Jan Burke - Kidnapped

She felt the tension go out of her. She had the upper hand now. “Why are you telling me about it?”

“Don’t take that tone with me-”

“Don’t say my name,” she interrupted, knowing her name would have been the next word out of his mouth. Studying herself in the mirror over the bed, she tapped a cigarette from the pack on her nightstand and lit it.

“Are you smoking?” he asked.

“Yes.” She made a smoke ring, knowing he would be annoyed if he could see it.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked, his voice gentle now.

“I’m not the one who called.”

He waited.

She sighed. “How big a mess are you in?”

“We.”

“Hmm. Okay. We.”

“No name released yet, but when I learned-Well, it’s only a matter of time, and probably not that much time.”

She was silent.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Two years ago-”

“Not this again!”

“Two years ago,” she said firmly, “you-know-who gave my job to someone else. And what has come of that?”

“You weren’t in the country.”

“Thanks to you!”

“Are you saying it would have been better if you were here?”

She hesitated, then said, “No. Only that you should have waited for me to return.”

“We couldn’t wait! Listen-if you want me to say that this whole business is completely fucked up, and that if you had done it, we’d be all right, then fine, you have that admission from me.” He paused but could not keep himself from adding bitterly, “Again.”

She smiled. Took a drag. Blew a smoke ring.

“I know the address,” she said.

“You know…” He was clearly shocked. She found it delightful that she could throw him so off-balance.

“I know the address, the layout, the obstacles. I’ve been preparing for weeks.” Years, she added silently.

“I just-You amaze me, that’s all.”

Time to relent a little. “Say the word, and I’ll deal with it.”

There was a long silence, but she could hear his breathing, the change in it made by certain kinds of stress. This was always so hard on him. She wished she could be there with him, to actually see the tension in him.

“Please,” he whispered at last.

“Of course,” she said, soothingly now. No point-or pleasure-in pushing him too far.

She looked at the clock next to the bed, anticipating his next question. He didn’t disappoint her.

“When?” Still whispering.

“Within the next few hours. Call me at ten. Not this number.”

“Of course not.”

She smoked the cigarette, listening to his breathing steady.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. She made a kissing sound. “Good-bye for now.”

“Be careful,” he said, just as she knew he would.

“You, too.”

He made a kissing sound, too, just before he hung up.

She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray-almost never used-next to the bed. She looked up into the mirror and ran her hands over her skin from shoulders to crotch. Then she stretched like a cat-a very proud cat, pleased with what she saw. Time to get up.

She sang a little song to herself as she made her way to the shower.

She loved her work.

Monday, April 24

7:20 P.M.

OFFICE OF THE EXECUTIVE EDITOR

LAS PIERNAS NEWS EXPRESS

JOHN was still in his office when we got back to the paper. Mark and I spent a few minutes filling him in on recent events, then Mark went to his desk to make a few changes in his story-and to try to contact Jane Serre for comment. I was still talking to John when Mark leaned his head in the doorway.

“She’s got a photo of her son she’s willing to give me. Want to run it?”

John glanced at the clock on his wall. “Hurry. I’ll hold the front page as long as I can. If you can talk her out of one of her ex, even better.”

As Mark left, John sighed and said, “There goes the whole front page.”

He stood up, ready to go out and start ordering changes.

“I’m headed home, then,” I said.

“Kelly, hold up.”

I looked back at him.

“I know you and Ben Sheridan are close friends, and that probably prejudices you against this dog woman, so I still want Mark to cover this-”

“I understand. I was glad to be of help today, but it’s Mark’s story.”

“Thing is, he’s tied up tonight tracking down the widow. But after listening to you talk about this Sheila Dolson, I find myself being as cynical as Ben. Mind putting in a few minutes on research before you head out this evening?”

“A few minutes?” I laughed.

“Just make a start, anyway. By all rights, we should at least cover what happened out there with the dog tonight. We can be careful about how we phrase things, but…I smell a setup here, and let’s just say I don’t want the paper to be burned if it turns out she’s a fake.”

The paper had been caught up in a scandal of its own making not many weeks earlier, and I knew John was being extremely cautious these days. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll look into it.”

“Good. And tomorrow morning, let’s talk about that follow-up piece about the missing children you pitched to me earlier. With this story on the Serres, maybe we can make a go of it.”

THE name Sheila Dolson didn’t produce any likely hits on any search engine. That amazed me. She had the kind of need for attention that surely would have put her name up on the Web if not in a newspaper, and stories of dogs finding people-even dead ones-would usually find space in a paper.

I considered trying a business search. Most search-and-rescue work was done on a volunteer basis, but Sheila claimed she was also a trainer. I was about to enter “obedience training”-although I quickly realized I’d probably have to sort through a lot of hits for bondage sites-when I had a sudden inspiration. I looked up the home phone number for Melna Knox, a friend who started out at the Express but had moved to Chicago a few years ago and now worked for the Tribune. She’s a dog lover, and when she lived here, her dogs had been in dog shows and competitions.

Sheila had told me she moved here from the Chicago area and had once mentioned to me that she did agility training, which implied the possibility that she had dogs in competition. Melna’s dogs might be involved in something completely different, but there was a chance Melna might know Sheila from that world of highly trained dogs. If so, Melna might be able to give me some insight even a news file wouldn’t provide.

Or tell me she had never heard of Sheila, and remind me that in a city the size of Chicago, they could work in the same building and not know each other-but I wouldn’t be any worse off for trying.

I dialed, and she answered on the fourth ring.

The hello was sleepy.

“Melna? It’s Irene. Sorry-I didn’t think you’d be in bed at”-I glanced at a clock and did the arithmetic-“ten o’clock.”

“Irene? Oh…usually I’m not. But I’ve had the flu.”

“Sorry you’ve been ill.” I felt guilty. I should have just used the computer to search for information. Maybe Altair had his own Web site.

“What’s up? Must be a story if you’re calling me at this time of night.”

“Just trying to get some background. Dog world stuff.”

“Unless it’s agility competition, there’s probably not much I can help you with.”

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Do you know a dog handler named Sheila Dolson?”

“You’ve got the name wrong, I think.”

“No, I don’t think so. Dog is a German shepherd named Altair.”

“Now I know you’ve got it wrong. Her name was Chula-C-H-U-L-A. Not Sheila.”

The name difference surprised me, but it wasn’t what caught my attention. Amazing how one small verb can make you feel cold. “Was?”