The views were stunning. Western Pennsylvania this time of year was a glorious carpet of lush greens and golds.
But all of it was lost on Tommy. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the maple leaf with its lost dancer. Hope was dangerous. He’d learned that this past year, following false lead after false lead.
But, like any junkie, he just couldn’t help himself.
His phone rang, the sound an intrusion, shattering the tranquility of their surroundings. It was Gloria, Charlotte’s mother. She usually checked in with him around lunchtime to solidify plans for Nellie’s pickup from school.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, with none of the gentle calm she usually radiated. “The school’s been trying to call you.”
He glanced at his phone. One bar—which meant probably none while he’d been below the plateau. “What’s wrong? Did she start another fight?” Nellie’s tantrums at school had been almost as bad as her ones at home. “What did Sister Agnes say?”
“Tommy.” Anguish flooded her voice. “She’s missing. Nellie’s gone.”
TOMMY TURNED IN
a circle, still clutching the phone, scanning the horizon as if he’d suddenly developed superpowers and could see Nellie from the mountainside. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“No,” he gasped. “What—how—”
“We’re at the school, Peter and I. Searching the grounds with the teachers and staff. Sister Agnes is certain Nellie is still on campus, but there are so many places a small child can hide—”
“Did you call the police?”
She hesitated. “Do you want us to call the police? Sister Agnes thought we should wait. You know how Nellie’s been acting lately. Running off and hiding, sulking—”
“Sister Agnes is worried about the school’s reputation,” he snapped, starting for the trailhead then stopping when the reception grew fuzzy. He backed up a few steps to avoid losing the call. “Call the police. Now.”
He glanced up, trying to fight the garrote tightening around his throat, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. He wanted to hurl the phone, to howl at the brilliant sun overhead, to hammer his fist into the stone of the iron furnace. But instead he swallowed, forcing his emotions aside. For Nellie. He had to stay calm, had to think, focus. He was all she had.
No, that wasn’t true. She was all
he
had.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked, her face a blur until he blinked and focused.
He didn’t answer. Leaning against the lichen-covered furnace, the hard limestone biting into his back and the smell of ancient charcoal escaping the structure to choke the air, he blinked at the sun. Then he called Lucy. “It’s me. I just heard from Nellie’s school. She’s missing.”
Lucy didn’t waste any words on sympathy. Good thing, because he probably would have snapped if she had. “Any signs of forced abduction?”
“No. Her teachers think she’s still on campus, probably hiding. She’s been acting out, throwing tantrums.”
“Still. She’s only five. Are the police involved?”
“Not yet, but I told them to call them. Will you—”
“I’m on my way. Our Lady of Sorrows, right?”
“Right. I’m with Sarah at Fiddler’s Knob. It’ll take us a while—”
“Try not to worry. I’ve got it covered.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” He hung up. The phone was a weight, heavier than a black hole, pulling him to his knees, pain spiraling through him. He fought the panic attack, the elephant sitting on his chest, smothering the life out of him. No time to fall apart. He had to go, had to get off this damn mountain.
Sarah knelt in front of him and eased the phone from his numb fingers. “Look at me,” she coaxed. “It’ll be all right. Just come with me.”
Their trip down the mountain was a blur. She moved fast, always holding his elbow as if guiding a blind man, steering him around obstacles he was oblivious to, talking in a calm voice that became his touchstone. Finally they reached the parking lot, where the Volvo sat all alone in the shadow of the mountain.
“I’ll drive,” she said, taking the keys from him.
He stumbled around to the passenger door, barely able to get into the car and fasten his seat belt.
“You sure?” he asked, although it was already too late, she was turning the key in the ignition.
“Muscle memory,” she answered, zooming them back out of the lot and shifting gears without the clutch slipping. “But I’ve never driven a car as ancient as this one. At least, I don’t think I have.”
“It’s not ancient, it’s a classic. Only has two hundred thousand on it.” His reply was automatic. Another milestone Charlotte had missed—they’d been planning to do something fun to celebrate the Volvo’s “car birthday,” as Nellie had called it. But sometime last month, the day had come and gone without anyone—including Tommy, who must have been driving—even noticing.
Nellie… if he lost her, too…
Sarah kept talking, filling the silence, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He was staring at his phone, willing the bars to stabilize. As soon as they turned onto the main highway, reception looked solid once more, and he called Lucy. “Anything?”
“I just got here. The school is on lockdown and they’re taking roll call of all the students. With the fence surrounding the school, the convent, and the church, the place is fairly secure. The only point of access would be the church since it’s open to the public.”
“They take the children to Mass every day.”
“Okay, that complicates things. Wait, here’s the principal. What’s her name again?”
“Sister Agnes.”
“Give me a minute.”
Tommy’s body was rigid as he clutched the phone, the scenery rushing past like a freight train barreling down on him. Sarah placed her hand on his thigh. “She’ll be all right.”
“Don’t say that.” The words emerged like a slap, but he didn’t apologize. He’d lived through too many warm thoughts and prayers and empty platitudes—useless, all of them. He still returned home each night to an empty bed, a house that had been bled dry of its joy, a child he could not comfort with the truth.
Sarah nodded and returned her gaze to the road. She was a fast driver, and they made it to the Parkway in record time. Still on the phone, Lucy was now arguing with several people; he recognized Sister Agnes’s voice, but now two men had joined in on the conversation. Something about permission or rules, private versus public property… the words blurred into meaningless noise until Lucy cut through them, taking control with a tone of command he’d never heard from her before. Was this what she’d been like at the FBI?
She got back on the phone. “We got the search organized. I have the cops setting up road blocks and a perimeter, but turns out the teacher isn’t quite sure how long she’s been gone, so that might be problematic.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whether she left on her own or was taken or even picked up by a Good Samaritan after getting lost, we have no way to know how far she could have gotten without knowing when she left. I think we need to declare her a critical missing person.”
From her tone, Tommy knew she would have already done that if he hadn’t been on the phone with her. Was fairly certain she wasn’t even asking his permission, just taking the extra twenty seconds to warn him. Because he knew exactly what happened when word of a critical missing person—especially a child, but it also happened with their pretty social worker mothers—was made public.
A media feeding frenzy. And Tommy would be the chum in the water.
They couldn’t hurt him any more than the pain slicing through him now, the pain of not knowing that Nellie was safe. Pain he barely felt as his mind returned to the cold, numb vault he’d buried himself in after Charlotte had gone.
How can this be happening again? What if she’s gone, what if some madman has her…
One last shred of panic, before he swallowed it whole, knowing he’d pay the price later—nothing stayed buried forever.
“Tommy?”
“Do it. Make the call.”
DURING THE COURSE
of her career, Lucy had noted that during any critical missing person case, especially those involving children, two emotions invariably surfaced: fear and anger.
The fear she understood. A missing child was any parent’s worst nightmare. The anger usually took the form of guilt and blame—also understandable. But as she marshaled the police and school staff to effectively search for Nellie Worth, she encountered an emotional response that was unusual: denial.
It came from the school principal, a middle-aged nun whose stern countenance radiated a steadfast refusal to relinquish control over the situation.
“There is no ‘situation’ here,” Sister Agnes told Lucy. “This is totally unnecessary. The girl isn’t missing. Eleanor is a willful, stubborn child crying out for attention. I tell you, she’s hiding.”
“But you searched the school and didn’t find any sign of her.” They sat in a dark-paneled office with one narrow window that cast Sister Agnes in a reddish glow that was less halo and more hellfire. The principal had offered Lucy a straight-backed wooden chair with uneven legs, as if designed to force whoever occupied it to spend all their energy on not toppling. It was an interrogation technique Lucy was well aware of, dating back to the Gestapo.
“Mrs. Guardino, do you have any idea how conniving and inventive a five-year-old girl mad at the world can be? By responding in such a dramatic and excessive manner, you are merely reinforcing her immature and inappropriate behavior.”
“You make her sound like an unrepentant convict. She’s five. She has no idea where her mother has been for the past year or even if she’s still alive.”
“Exactly. The child must learn to place her faith in God’s plan and accept His will.”
Cold comfort. Lucy wondered if maybe Sister Agnes saw herself as a prison warden, shouldering the burden of rehabilitating young sinners before releasing them into the world at large. She tried a new tactic. “Perhaps I could speak with her teacher? Gain some insights into Nellie’s behavior?” The nun hesitated. “After all, the sooner we find her hiding place, the sooner we’ll be gone and you can resume your normal routine.”
“Very well.” The nun rose in an abrupt motion. If she’d been wearing an old-fashioned habit with the veil and skirts that fell to the ground, the sweeping movement would have created a fine bit of drama. As it was, her actions merely caused the cross hanging at the front of her turtleneck to shudder.
Sister Agnes led Lucy down a hall decorated with art projects and posters celebrating school events, saints, and martyrs. Sister Agnes opened a classroom door and entered without knocking.
A circle of children sat on mats on the floor listening to a young woman read them a story.
Daniel in the lion’s den
, Lucy recognized before the woman stopped and everyone looked up.
“Miss Cortez, this is Mrs. Guardino. She’d like to talk to you about Eleanor Worth.”
Miss Cortez leapt up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, stretching a hand to take Lucy’s. “Ava, please. Thank God you’re here. We’re all so worried.”
Sister Agnes made a hrumphing noise at that. “I’ll leave you to it. I’d best oversee those police trampling through the convent and rectory. When Monsignor returns from Harrisburg, he is going to be extremely unhappy.” Her glare at Ava Cortez made it very clear who would be taking the blame.
Ava flushed and looked down. She didn’t glance back up until the door had shut behind Sister Agnes. “She’s right. This is all my fault.”
The children behind her sat obediently, watching the two adults with appraisal—except for two little boys and a girl who were busy exchanging glances and smirks with each other.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ava. Would it be okay if I spoke with you and the children about when and where everyone saw Nellie last?”
“Of course. That will be easy, because we do everything together as a class, don’t we, class? We stick together, right?”
“Yes, Miss Cortez,” came a well-rehearsed chorus. The three children in the back were practically snickering their response.
“Class, this is Mrs. Guardino. She’s here to help find Nellie. No one is in trouble, we just need to know if you saw or heard anything.”
“Thanks,” Lucy told Ava. Then she turned to the children, who all had their heads tilted back, staring up at her wide-eyed as if she were a visitor from another planet. “I’ll start with those three, in the back.”
“Matthew, Glinda, and Joseph,” Ava replied. “Why don’t you show Mrs. Guardino our art corner?” She turned to Lucy. “We’ve been creating stained glass windows with tissue paper.”
“Wonderful. Show me.” Lucy inserted the slightest tone of command into her voice, aiming it at the trio of troublemakers. The two boys stopped smirking and shut their lips tight. The girl, however, grinned back and looked Lucy straight in the eye. Ahhh… the leader of the pack.
The girl, Glinda—really? What were her parents thinking?—simpered, stood, and took Lucy by the hand to lead her to the back corner near the windows. She wore a pink dress that flounced and made rustling noises as if she wore old-fashioned crinolines. Perfect Princess type, Lucy thought. Megan had skipped that phase, except for playing the occasional dress-up and a few months of ballet before she discovered soccer and decided she was a tomboy at heart.
The art corner was behind a waist-high partition of shelving that contained supplies in labeled bins. No rugs here, just easy-to-clean linoleum. There was a low, round table stained with paint and glitter, with colorful child-sized chairs around it. Glinda took a seat in front of the window, arranging herself like a queen taking her throne. The two boys stood to one side, watching warily.
Glinda folded her hands in front of her and nodded to the chair opposite, as if daring Lucy to fold her adult-sized body into the tiny chair. Lucy didn’t take the bait. Instead, she perched herself on the radiator that ran in front of the window, placing her body between Glinda and the boys, effectively dividing their forces. The boys sat down in the chairs on Lucy’s left. From her seat higher than them, she could see all three while shifting the boys’ attention from Glinda to her.