IT TOOK US A DAY to get organized for our trip, but everybody seemed to enjoy the spontaneity, and also the special treat
of our all being together on a vacation for the first time. And so Damon, Jannie, Nana, Christine, and I left D.C. in the
afternoon and arrived in high spirits at Bermuda International Airport late on Thursday evening, the twenty-fifth of August.
I definitely wanted to be out of Washington for a few days. The Mr. Smith murder case had been followed too quickly by the
Jane Doe investigation. I needed a rest. I had a friend who was part owner of a hotel in Bermuda, and it wasn’t a particularly
long airplane ride. It was perfect for us.
One scene from the airport will always stick in my mind—Christine’s singing “Ja-da, ja-da,” with Jannie stuck at her side.
I couldn’t help thinking that they looked like mother and daughter, and that touched me deeply. They were so affectionate
and playful, so natural. It was a mind-photo for me to have and to hold, one of those moments that I knew I’d never forget,
even as I watched the two of them dancing and singing as if they’d known each other forever.
We were blessed with extraordinarily good weather for our holiday. It was sunny and blue-skied every day, morning until nightfall,
when the sky turned a magical combination of reds, oranges, and purples. The days belonged to all of us, but especially to
the kids. We went swimming and snorkeling at Elbow Beach and Horseshoe Bay, and then raced mopeds along the picturesque Middle
and Harbour roads.
The nights belonged to Christine and me, and we made the most of them. We hit all the best spots: the Terrace Bar at the Palm
Reef, the Gazebo Lounge at the Princess, the Clay House Inn, Once Upon a Table in Hamilton, Horizons in Paget. I loved being
with her, and that thought kept drifting through my mind. I felt that what we shared had been strengthened because I had backed
off and given her time and space. And I felt whole again. I kept remembering the very first time I had seen her in the schoolyard
at Sojourner Truth.
She’s the one, Alex
. That thought still played in my head, too.
We sat at the Terrace Bar overlooking the city and harbor of Hamilton. The water was dotted with small islands, white sails,
ferries going back and forth to Warwick and Paget. We held hands, and I couldn’t stop staring into her eyes, didn’t want to.
“Big thoughts?” she finally asked.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about going into private practice again,” I told her. “I think it might be the best thing to do.”
She stared into my eyes. “I don’t want you to do it for me, Alex. Please don’t make me the cause of your leaving your job
with the police. I know you love it. Most days you do.”
“The Job has been tearing at me lately. Pittman isn’t just a difficult boss; I think he’s a bad guy. What happened to Sampson
and the others is just bullshit. They were working unsolved cases on their own time. I’m tempted to give the story to Zach
Taylor at the
Post
. People would riot if they knew the truth. Which is why I
won’t
give it to the
Post
.”
She listened and tried to help but she didn’t push, and I appreciated that. “It does sound like a terrible, complicated, nasty
mess, Alex. I’d like to punch out Pittman, too. He’s choosing politics over protecting people. I’m sure you’ll know what to
do when the time is right.”
The next morning, I found her walking in the garden, with tropical flowers strewn in her hair. She looked radiant, even more
than usual, and I fell in love all over again.
“There’s an old saying I’ve been hearing since I was a little girl,” she told me as I joined her. “If you have only two pennies,
buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other.”
I kissed her hair, in between the flowers. I kissed her sweet lips, her cheeks, the hollow in her throat.
The kids and I went back to Horseshoe Bay Beach early that afternoon. They couldn’t get enough of the deep blue sea, swimming,
snorkeling, and building sand castles. And, of course, it was almost time to start school again, so everything about our vacation
was extra-special and intense.
Christine took a moped trip into Hamilton to pick up mementos for a few of the teachers at Sojourner Truth. We all waved until
she was out of sight on Middle Road. Then back into the water!
Around five o’clock, Damon, Jannie, and I returned to the Belmont Hotel, which sat like a sentinel on lush green hills framed
by china-blue skies. All around, everywhere we looked, were pastel-colored cottages with white roofs. Nana was sitting out
on the porch, talking to a couple of her new best friends.
Paradise regained
, I thought, and felt something deep and sacred coming back to life inside me.
As I stared out at the cloudless blue sky, I regretted that Christine wasn’t there to share it. I actually missed her in just
that short a time. I hugged Jannie and Damon, and we were all smiling at the obvious: we loved being here together, and we
were so damn fortunate to have one another.
“You miss her,” Jannie whispered. It was a statement, not a question. “That’s good, Daddy. That’s the way it should be, right?”
When Christine still hadn’t returned by six o’clock, I struggled between conflicting thoughts of waiting for her at the hotel
or driving into Hamilton myself. Maybe she’d had an accident.
Those damn mopeds
, I thought, having found them fun and perfectly safe just the afternoon before.
I spotted a tall, slender woman entering through the front gates of the Belmont, walking against a background of hibiscus
and oleander. I sighed with relief, but as I started down the front stairs, I saw that it wasn’t Christine.
Christine still hadn’t returned, or called the hotel, by six-thirty Or by seven o’clock.
I finally called the police.
INSPECTOR PATRICK BUSBY from the Hamilton P.D. arrived at the Belmont Hotel around seven-thirty. He was a small balding man
who from a distance looked to be in his late fifties or sixties. As he approached the front porch, though, I could tell he
was no more than forty, around the same age as me.
He listened to my story, then said that visitors often lost track of time and of themselves in Bermuda. There were also occasional
moped accidents on Middle Road. He promised me that Christine would show up soon, with a mild “road rash” or a “slightly turned
ankle.”
I wouldn’t have any of it. She was always punctual, and at the very least, she would have called.
I knew that somehow she’d call if she had a minor accident. So the inspector and I rode together between the hotel and Hamilton,
and then we toured the streets of the capital city, particularly Front and Reid streets. I was silent and solemn-faced as
I stared out of the car, hoping to get a glimpse of Christine shopping on some side street, forgetful of the hour. But we
didn’t see her anywhere, and she still hadn’t called the hotel.
When she still hadn’t turned up by nine, Inspector Busby reluctantly agreed that Christine might be missing. He asked a lot
of questions that showed me he was a decent cop. He wanted to know if we’d had any kind of argument or disagreement.
“I’m a homicide detective in Washington, D.C.,” I finally told him. I’d been holding it back because I didn’t want this to
get territorial. “I’ve been involved with high-profile cases involving mass murders in the past. I’ve known some very bad
men. There might be a connection. I hope not, but that could be.”
“I see,” Busby said. He was such a precise, neat man with his thin pencil mustache. He looked more like a fussy schoolteacher
than a cop, more like a psychologist than I did. “Are there any other surprises I should know about, Detective Cross?” he
asked.
“No, that’s it. But you see why I’m worried, and why I called you. I’m working on a series of nasty murders in Washington
right now.”
“Yes, I see a reason for your concern now. I will put out a missing-persons report forthwith.”
I sighed heavily, then went upstairs and talked to the kids and Nana. I tried my best not to alarm them, but Damon and Jannie
started to cry. And then Nana did, too.
We had learned nothing more about Christine or her whereabouts by midnight. Inspector Busby left the hotel at quarter past
twelve. He was kind, actually, and considerate enough to give me his home number; he asked me to call right away if I heard
from Christine. Then he said my family and I would be in his prayers.
At three, I was still up and pacing my hotel room on the third floor, and doing some praying myself. I had just gotten off
the phone with Quantico. The FBI was cross-checking all of my homicide cases to see if anyone I’d investigated had any connection
with Bermuda. The Bureau was now concentrating on the current series of unsolved murders in Southeast. I’d faxed them my profile
on the Weasel.
I didn’t have any logical reason to suspect that the killer might be here in Bermuda, and yet I feared he might be. It was
just the kind of feeling that The Jefe had been rejecting about the murders in Southeast.
I understood that the Bureau probably wouldn’t get back to me until later in the morning. I was tempted to call friends at
Interpol, but I held off?. And then I called Interpol, too.
The hotel room was filled with mahogany Queen Anne furniture and wicker, and had dusty-pink carpets. It seemed empty and lonely.
I stood like a ghost before the tall, water-stained dormer windows, stared out at the shifting black shapes against the moonlit
sky, and remembered how I held Christine in my arms. I felt incredibly helpless and alone without her. I also couldn’t believe
this had happened.
I hugged myself tightly and became aware of a terrible pain all around my heart. The tightening pain was like a solid column
that went from my chest all the way up into my head. I could see her face, her beautiful smile. I remembered dancing with
her one night at the Rainbow Room in New York, and dinners at Kinkead’s in Washington, and that one special night at her place
when we’d laughed and thought maybe we’d made a baby. Was Christine out there somewhere on the island? She had to be. I prayed
again that she was safe. She had to be safe. I refused to have any other thought for more than a couple of seconds.
The telephone in the room rang, a short burst, at a little past four in the morning.
My heart was stuck in my throat. My skin crawled, felt as if it were shrinking and no longer fit my body. I rushed across
the room and grabbed the phone before the second ring. My hand was trembling.
The strange, muffled voice scared me: “You have e-mail.”
I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t think at all.
I’d brought my laptop with me on vacation.
Who knows that I have my computer here? Who could know a small detail like that about me? Who’s been watching me? Watching
us?
I yanked open the closet door, grabbed the computer, hooked it up, and logged on. I scrolled down the e-mail to the last message.
It was short and very concise.
SHE’S SAFE FOR NOW. WE HAVE HER.
The curt, cold message was worse than anything I could imagine. Each word was branded into my brain, repeating over and over.
“She’s safe for now
.
“We have her.”
SAMPSON ARRIVED at the Belmont Hotel the day after Christine disappeared. I hurried down to the small front lobby to meet
him. He threw his large arms around me, clasping me tightly but gently, as if he were holding a child in his arms.
“You okay? You holding up?” he asked.
“Not even close,” I told him. “I spent half a day checking the e-mail address I got last night. It came from [email protected].
The address was falsified. Nothing is going right.”
“We’ll get Christine back. We’ll find her.” He told me what he knew I wanted to hear, but I was sure that he also truly believed
it in his heart. Sampson is the most positive human being I’ve ever met. He won’t be denied.
“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to all of us. I can’t think straight about anything. I’m really rattled, John. I can’t
even begin to imagine who could have done this. Maybe the Weasel—I don’t know.”
“If you
could
think straight now,” John said, “I’d be more worried about you than usual. That’s why I’m here.”
“I kind of knew you’d come.”
“Of course you did. I’m Sampson. Occam’s razor and all that other deep philosophical shit at work here.”
There were a half-dozen guests in the hotel lobby, and all of them looked our way. The hotel staff knew about Christine’s
disappearance, and I’m sure that the guests at the Belmont knew as well, as did just about everybody else on the small, chatty
island.
“The story’s on the front page of the local newspaper,” Sampson said. “People were reading copies at the airport.”
I told him, “Bermuda is small, mostly peaceful and orderly. The disappearance of a tourist, or any kind of violent crime,
is unusual here. I don’t know how the paper got the story so quickly. The leak must have come out of the police station.”
“Local police won’t help us. Probably get in the way,” Sampson muttered as we walked over to the hotel registration desk.
He signed in, then we trudged upstairs to show Nana and the kids that Uncle John was here.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the two of us met for hours with the police in Hamilton. They were professionals, but a kidnapping
was a rarity for them. They let us set up in their station house on Front Street. I still couldn’t concentrate or focus the
way I needed to.
Bermuda is a twenty-one-square-mile island. While the British colony is small, we soon discovered that there are more than
twelve hundred roads on the island. Sampson and I split up and covered as much ground as we possibly could. For the next two
days we went from six in the morning until ten or eleven at night, without a break. I didn’t want to stop, not even to sleep.