Leslie Glass - Burning Time

“It’s all right.” Mechanically, Jason went through the motions of calming him down. He was a stoic and a doctor. Staying in control when people around him were bouncing off walls was what he did. He had managed his raging panic on the plane and continued to do so now without thinking.

“It set me off for the whole night, I’ll tell you.” The man followed him to the elevator. “I didn’t leave them alone for a minute. Stayed with them the whole time,” he insisted.

“Thank you.” Jason got on the elevator, hardly knowing what he was saying. The acid had begun eating away at his insides again. Emma had not magically returned. He refused to let himself think about Troland Grebs.

Upstairs, he went through the apartment carefully. He saw the towels, still damp in the bathroom, and her purse on the bed. Nothing of hers seemed to be missing. Not a coat, not a dress, not a credit card, not a hairbrush or a toothbrush or a lipstick. There was no way in the world that she would voluntarily go anywhere without those essential items.

He went into the kitchen. There was the lettuce in a bowl in the sink. The treadmill in the laundry room was still on Pause. In the bedroom he turned on the answering machine and fiddled with it. Detective Woo had been right. Several messages had been counted by the machine, but not recorded. Only blank tape played back. This had happened with the machine before, but it had righted itself before Emma had gotten around to getting it fixed.

Just like the police, Jason saw an interruption in life in the apartment. But he did not want to jump to any conclusions about it. There could be more than one explanation for Emma’s disappearance. She could have gone out to the store for something and had an accident. Only a month ago an old woman crossing Riverside Drive had been struck by a van when the driver ran a red light. More recently a taxi jumped the curb and smashed into the window of the video store on Broadway. The driver had been distracted by a homeless man waving a stick at him. And other things happened, too. Bicycle messengers, silently racing the wrong way on one-way streets, knocked people over all the time.

Emma might have been sideswiped by a bus, or a car, and was in the hospital. There were a thousand unexpected, freaky things that happened to people every day in New York City.

Jason took his jacket off and went back into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of strong coffee and started calling hospital emergency rooms and morgues. No Emma Chapman or unidentified woman who fit her description had been admitted anywhere that night.

When he could think of nothing else to do, he went into his office and played back the messages from his own answering machine.

55

April had arranged to meet Dr. Frank in his office as soon after eight o’clock as she could get there. She had that in her mind as she spent several precious minutes placating her angry mother.

But even after she got away from Skinny Dragon Mother late at night, April didn’t sleep. She spent nearly an hour writing up her notes on the Chapman case. As she worked, she tried to put out of her mind the unrelated incidents her mother insisted on telling her as tit for tat about jealous lovers and humiliated husbands in long-ago China. April hadn’t wanted to hear about it. It was after two in the morning, and had nothing to do with now.

“That’s what you think,” Sai said huffily, blocking the stairs. “People crazy like fox everywhere.”

Her mother was offended, but April had to sleep. What did a kidnapped young noblewoman locked up in a farmer’s cave in a mountain because she was pregnant and his only wife was barren—ninety years ago—have to do with anything?

Still, April kept thinking about the young woman in the cave for a long time before she could fall asleep. What was the meaning of the story? There was no way to know if it was true, or the myth of anxious mothers-in-law, made up to prevent unhappy young wives from straying far from home. Women had to be obedient or suffer terrible consequences in China.

It came to April later, in her troubled sleep, that her mother might be telling her the actress was a runaway. The same thing April herself once told the parents of the missing girl, Ellen Roane. She forgot to tell her mother missing girls and wives in America don’t leave their credit cards behind on the bed. There had to be another meaning.

It seemed like only five minutes passed before the alarm went off and April was up again, pulling herself together and heading back into the city. Luckily, in the morning her mother was too busy with her father to come upstairs and knock on her door.

Luckily, too, Sergeant Joyce was already in when April got into the precinct a full ten minutes early. April went into her office to fill her in on what had happened, except for the part about how she and Sanchez went out for dinner. She was a little uneasy about that.

Sergeant Joyce made a lot of listening faces and frowned when April asked if she could go out to take Dr. Frank’s statement on his missing wife. Nothing was happening right then, and no one else was around yet, so Sergeant Joyce reluctantly said okay.

“But we’ll have to review the case when you get back,” she said ominously.

It was April’s turn to frown. She knew that meant her coming back might be the end of the case for her. Sergeant Joyce would reassign it to someone with more experience, maybe even take it for herself. And April would be stuck doing foot-soldier work in the wrong part of town. She might even have to learn Spanish. That was a horrible thought. She stopped at her desk for a minute. Sanchez wasn’t in yet. Humph. So much for his being an early riser.

She took a Missing Person form from the color-coded stacks of forms on top of a filing cabinet. Then she checked her bag for the notebook with the long list of questions she had prepared last night, for the investigation she probably wouldn’t be allowed to finish. Finally she drove the few blocks over to Riverside Drive and parked by the same hydrant she and Mike had parked in front of the night before.

In the building, as she waited for the elevator that was like a cage, she stood looking up at the stained-glass skylight which was brilliant with color in the morning light. More than once she felt in her bag for the hard shape of her gun to reassure herself that she was meant to be here and knew what she was doing. Her confidence fell apart when Dr. Frank opened the door.

“She’s been abducted. She’s been kidnapped,” he cried wildly, hustling her inside his office.

“What?”

Waiting room, empty of everything except a few chairs and some bookcases, all filled with books and periodicals. Brown rug on the floor. Two floor lamps gave off a lot of fairly harsh light. His office was much more crowded with objects and furniture, the desk cluttered with papers and notebooks. There were three clocks in the room, all ticking away. Like the ones in his apartment, they looked pretty old.

April tried to take everything in all at once, the way she was taught. How he looked. How the room looked. What he was saying. Most important, what he was saying. She was aware from her first second on the scene that above all she had to keep her wits about her and find the real story.

“My wife’s been kidnapped,” he cried. “What are you going to do about it? It’s been a whole night. We’ve got to find her right away. We don’t have much time. It may be too late already. Grebs threatened to kill her. He will kill her. We have to hurry.”

He stood in the middle of the room talking rapidly, as if he thought he could propel her right into action without going through any of the preliminaries first. His appearance was alarming. He was large and pale, and so shaky April was terrified he might topple like a tree from the stress.