Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (11 page)

 

Chapter 20

D
ONOVAN IS IN
the lobby.

“Just got done,” he says, gripping my arm. “They brought in two examiners, one for me, one for you. Some type of professional courtesy, I guess.”

“More like they want us done in time for the press conference,” I say, nodding to the steps outside, where there's a podium with a police seal on it. The clock says ten to ten. Grace has been gone for nearly nineteen hours.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Donovan says, seeing the crowd gathering outside.

“It'll be quick.” I know that seeing our worry-­ravaged faces might make Grace's disappearance real enough for ­people to start looking for her and the kidnapper. I have to believe that Grace is being held somewhere alive for some reason. I have to believe that she's out there somewhere unharmed. I can't let my mind go anywhere else. Every once in a while, in a deep, dark place in my mind, murky forms huddle in shadows and whisper to me what might be happening to Grace. I have to stomp the voices down, push them back, or I will be sucked into a black hole from which I'll never escape.

Reporters are beginning to cluster on the sidewalk outside the station. Glancing through the glass door, I see a commotion when several TV reporters jump out of their vans and, holding microphones, rush toward a group of ­people coming up the steps.

It's my family. All at once, my brothers and sisters-­in-­law are on the steps, reporters trailing after them until they burst through the door. Sally and Nina rush over to me and we stand, hugging. We all hold hands so tightly my fingers hurt.

“How's Mom?” I ask Sally.

“No change,” she whispers, squeezing my fingers.

Once my family is inside, Marco, who is wearing a suit over a tight black T-­shirt, stands in the doorway, facing the reporters outside and blocking their way.

“My name is Marco Giovanni. I'll be the official spokesman for our family. If you want to talk to anyone, go through me.”

He rattles off his cell-­phone number, and reporters scribble it in their little white notebooks.

“If you bother anyone else in my family, such as my sister, Gabriella, or Detective Donovan, you're cut off. I won't talk to you and I'll make sure you are left out of any information we give about my niece. So mind your manners and we won't have any problems.
Capisce
?” He glowers at them.

The reporters eye each other but don't say a word.

Marco closes the door. He walks over to Donovan and grabs him in a hug. I'm close enough to hear what he says in his ear. “Hope that's okay with you. I don't want you guys to have to worry about any of this.”

“Thanks,” Donovan says, clapping Marco on the back. Donovan was raised with six sisters. He says Marco and Dante are the brothers he never had. He knows they would do anything for him.

Sergeant Jackson comes out of the inner offices, holding a sheet of paper, and clears his throat. This time, instead of a Garfield tie, he has one with the Looney Tunes' Tasmanian Devil, Daffy Duck, and an Oakland Raiders logo. A uniformed officer follows with a stack of fliers.

“Detective? Gabriella? Can I speak to you for a second,” Jackson says, and we follow him over to a corner. He hands me an eight-­by-­ten picture of Grace, the same one that is on the flier—­all big brown eyes and dark curls.

“You guys churchgoing folk?” he asks, which takes me aback, but Donovan quickly responds.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Jackson says. “There are certain things I'm going to ask you to say and certain things I'm going to ask you to avoid saying, okay?”

We both nod. Donovan gives my hand a squeeze. I loosen my grip. I was clutching his hand so tightly I'm worried my nails were close to drawing blood.

“I want you, Gabriella, to hold up Grace's picture when Sean speaks. Then, when you speak, he'll hold it,” Jackson says in a low voice. “I want both of you to say Grace's name as often as you can. I want this sick bastard to look at her as a person, your daughter, and not an object to destroy.”

I feel slightly faint at his words, but I swallow and nod. He continues.

“No matter what, do not show your anger or disdain toward whoever took your daughter. Instead, I want you to do the best acting of your life. I want you to look right in the cameras and tell the kidnapper—­which by the way is a word you shouldn't use right now—­that you forgive him and God forgives him and God wants him to let Grace be reunited with her mom and dad. If he's got a soft spot for God, which often ­people do, we want to work that. Can you remember all that?”

I nod, thinking of the Bible verses. I sneak a glance at Donovan. His jaw muscle is working as he chews the inside of his lip. A nervous habit.

We head back to the others, and I introduce Jackson to my brother Marco and explain that he volunteered to be the family spokesman.

“Good idea,” Jackson says, shaking Marco's hand and handing him his card. “We'll keep in close touch.”

Jackson clears his throat. “Everyone ready?”

We all nod.

“Let's do this.”

O
UTSIDE, AT THE
top of the steps, my family stands in a semicircle behind the podium. I feel hands from everyone touching my waist and back and shoulder, sending me their support.

There are more than a dozen microphones taped to the podium. The police closed off the street below to traffic because the reporters and bystanders are spilling off the steps and sidewalk.

My friend Nicole, our court's reporter, is in the crowd. Her eyes are red-­rimmed from crying. She called my cell phone three times yesterday, but I never picked up. She nods at me, biting back tears, and her thick blond bob bounces slightly. She holds her hand to her heart, and I have to look away.

To my relief, the police chief comes out the front door right then, and as all the reporters jostle for position, Nicole's sorrowful face blends into the crowd. I'm surprised that the chief is going to do the news conference himself.

“Thank you for coming this morning. When a child in our city disappears, we make it our number one priority to bring her home safely as quickly as we can. Part of that involves getting the word out, and that's where we are asking for your help. My staff is passing out fliers with information that I hope you share immediately with your public.”

He goes on to read the contents of the flier.

I stare at the one in my hand, feeling numb, out of body, almost as if I'm watching myself from high above. Someone nudges me, and I realize the chief has introduced me.

I shuffle in front of the microphone. The crowd before me is blurry. I blink and focus on one face up front. It's the weekly reporter, Michael Dillman. He is nodding and encouraging me to speak. The world narrows so it is just the two of us. His eyes are telling me it is okay. I stare at him as I speak.

“Please, I beg you, help us find our daughter, Grace. Help us find Grace. Please share her picture with everyone you know, and please call the tip line. Even if you think it's nothing, it might be something important. You never know.”

The weekly reporter gives me a solemn nod. Time to address her kidnapper.

“Whoever has Grace, I want you to listen.” I take a deep breath and briefly close my eyes. When I open them, I look right into the lens of Channel 5, the best-­watched news station in the Bay Area. “If you took Grace, I want you to know that I forgive you. I want you to know that God forgives you. Please just return Grace to her family. It's not too late to do the right thing. We understand. We know that you want to do the right thing and let Grace come home to us. Thank you.”

I back away. Donovan passes me the eight-­by-­ten photo of Grace he's been holding. I hold it in front of my face as he steps in front of the podium. The blood is rushing in my ears so loudly I don't hear anything else. I don't realize Donovan's done until he steps back beside me.

The chief returns to the podium, and the reporters jockey for position, all asking questions at the same time.

“That's all we are releasing at this time,” the chief says and turns away.

As the reporters on the steps below begin to leave, I cast one last glance at Dillman. As soon as I meet his eyes, he looks down.

Back in the lobby, Marco walks into the center of the room and waits until we are all watching him.

“Tomorrow afternoon we meet at Nana's,” he says. “The whole family will be there, along with some special security ­people we are bringing in to conduct our own search.”

A look of surprise flashes across Donovan's face. He shoots a glance at Jackson, who is in the corner, busy on his phone.

“The police are fine, but we need more than them,” Marco says. “If she is not back by tomorrow, we take matters into our own hands. We need to find Grace now. There is no time to waste. If she is not found, we will meet tomorrow at three.”

My mind goes where I don't want it to go: today at three o'clock Grace will have been missing for twenty-­four hours. I block this thought out and watch as Dante and Nina leave. They make such a striking ­couple. Nina makes her way down the sidewalk in a black pencil skirt, black silk blouse, and Louboutin heels, one hand holding onto Dante, in his dark suit with a black shirt and black silk tie.
They are dressed for a funeral
. The thought pops into my head before I can stop it. A few reporters start to approach them but see Marco standing in the doorway, watching, so they back off, talking among themselves.

Marco's wife, Sally, hangs up the phone, tucking her blond hair behind her ears.

“A tiny bit of good news, honey,” she says, her pale cheeks now flushed. “The governor is willing to offer a ten-­thousand-­dollar reward to find Grace.”

“Thank you,” I say, pressing my lips tightly together. I know that wasn't the right response, but I can't figure out what else to say.

Jackson is shuffling papers. He hands me a pen and forms to sign. For Grace's dental and medical records to be released. I scribble my name, my hand shaking.

A few reporters linger on the steps, casting glances our way. Dillman is gone, but then one familiar face I'd rather never see again materializes out of the crowd. He's swinging the front door open.

Andy Black. My competition at the
San Francisco Tribune
. My one-­night stand. The reporter who taunted Donovan about me, got a punch in the jaw from Donovan that ran on national TV, and then got Donovan suspended.

He starts to brush his way past us in the lobby, but then pauses and turns back to Donovan.

“How did your lie detector test go?” he asks. Donovan is already lunging for him. Marco grabs Donovan's arms.

Before I can react, Sergeant Jackson swoops in, grabs Black by his jacket collar, and nearly throws him out the front door.

“I was just going to use the bathroom,” Black yells as the door closes. Outside, he makes a big show of smoothing out his jacket and pants before leaving.

The door to the inner offices swings open, and I'm relieved to see a familiar face.

Lieutenant Scott Strohmayer. He immediately hugs me.

“Let me know what I can do,” he says, grabbing Donovan in a hug after me. “I've been out all night on the grid search.”

“Thanks, man,” Donovan says, giving him a hearty pat on the back.

We've been friends with Strohmayer and his wife, Mary, for the past five years. Grace loves hanging out with their twelve-­year-­old twin boys.

“Mary's recruiting ­people to spread the word and search as we speak.”

There is so much I want to say, but all my dry throat can manage is the one word that counts. “Thanks.”

Strohmayer glances outside at the few stray reporters milling around on the steps.

“You ready to get out of here?”

Donovan and I nod.

“Give me your keys,” he says as he holds out his hand. “I'll pull your car around back to the employee lot. Meet me there.”

Donovan hands him the keys and we head toward the back.

Out in the parking lot, Strohmayer leaves the car running and hops out. Donovan's phone rings, and I wait inside the car, watching, as he paces outside, smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone.

Strohmayer leans in my window.

“We'll find her, Gabriella.” His mouth is set in a grim line.

I don't answer; I just try to form my lips into a smile of thanks. I'm not sure if it works.

Donovan hangs up the phone, steps on his cigarette, and hops in the car. He's not smiling. He meets my eyes and shakes his head slowly.

Dread fills me.

“It's not Grace,” he says before I manage to speak. A mixture of disappointment and relief fills me. See, the thing about not knowing is that it also gives me another few seconds to believe Grace is alive. I sweep away that thought. Of course she is.
She's alive, god
damn it. She's alive
.

“They found another body. In Benicia this time. Another Bible verse.” Something about the way he says it sends a series of alarms pinging throughout my body. My mouth is as dry as cardboard. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his gaze is piercing.

“What was the verse?” I swallow back my dread.

“He shortened it again.”

“Tell me what it said.”

Donovan rakes a hand through his hair before he speaks, his voice wavering.

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.' ”

It is the third verse Anderson sent me. Acid fills my mouth. There is not a shred of doubt now. There is no way for me to deny it any longer.

Frank Anderson has Grace.

 

Chapter 21

T
HE WIND IS
whipping my hair across my eyes, lashing my cheeks as I stare at the gray-­blue ocean that stretches for what seems like forever until it meets the same color sky.

I want to run down the length of the beach, screaming for Grace. I demanded that Donovan drive to the beach before we went home. Donovan and I walk to the spot where the waves dampen the sand without saying a word.

For the first time since Grace was taken, I allow myself to cry. I weep silently but violently, falling to my knees, digging my fingers into the sand. When I'm done, my face is covered in snot and tears. I wipe my face, now scratchy with sand, with my sleeve. When I stand and turn around, Donovan is gone.

I see him back in the parking lot, leaning against the car, smoking and watching me.

I've cried until the tears have dried up. Now what? I look around me, taking in my surroundings. The beach looks so harmless. A place where families pack picnic lunches and build sand castles. A spot where lovers lay on blankets or college girls come to work on their tans. A place that is now ominous in my thoughts. A nightmarish landscape that has sucked my child away from me.

How could she have been here one minute, laughing and playing in the sand, then snatched away from us the next? I whip my head around, looking down the beach in both directions as far as I can see. The sand is deserted on such a cool day. Roiling clouds overhead cast grayness upon everything in my sight. I'm standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, yet it feels like a desert, a vast, barren desert leached of color and life.

Get it together. Be strong for Grace. You owe her that. You're a Giovanni. You can do this.

Gooseflesh rises on my arms and I hug myself tightly. I realize with horror that at this exact moment I wish I'd never had a child. At the same time, I'm mortified that this even crossed my mind.

A rush of determination surges through me. I can't sit still on this beach, wallowing in self-­pity. She's not on this beach. But she is somewhere. She's alive. I would know if she were dead. I have to believe I would know.

Some say there is an invisible cord that connects a mother with her children. I once read a
Scientific American
article about the incredible bond, both psychologically and physically, between a mother and her children. The article talked about microchimeric cells, which are cells from another person found within you.

In most cases of microchimerism, a mother and her child have exchanged cells, either across the placenta during pregnancy or transferred from mother to child during nursing.

Grace and I share cells. If she were dead, I would know. But I also know that is one question I never ask the parents of a missing child: Do you think she's still alive?

In the past, I've believed that most ­people have to cling to the hope, the slightest tendril of a chance, that their precious child is still alive to keep them from collapsing in a heap of flesh and bones. Now I know this is true.