RATH LAY AWAKE in bed, the wind shrieking under the eaves like a succubus in throes, icy air leaking into the bedroom through the ancient window casings. An idea sifted through his sleepy mind. He needed to write it down. But sleep overtook him as the first blue light of dawn bled into the room.
Rath was startled awake by a loud sharp crack, like a rifle shot, as a maple tree crashed through his bedroom window. Glass shards scattered on his bed. He leapt up and stood on the cold floor as the icy wind swam around his feet and flapped the hem of his pajamas.
He remembered his last thought before sleep had claimed him. He called Grout, who was short with him. Distant.
“I want to check all the girls’ phone records,” Rath said.
“Larkin did that.”
“I want to check again.”
“There are no common numbers between them.”
“It may not be a single matching number.”
“Fine. I’ll e-mail the records to you. You can open files on your dial- up, right?”
Rath hung up and stared out his broken window toward the clouds darkening the morning sky. “We’re in for it,” he said to no one in particular.
IT WAS 10:30 P.M., and the rake of the wind at the windows more insistent as Rath leaned back in his chair. He could hear the flapping sound from his bedroom, where he’d stapled plastic over the broken window. A man had come earlier and cut the tree up with a chain saw while Rath worked on his theory.
Rath stretched, his back catching with pain. He could not wait to get injected and end this torment. All day and into the evening he’d scoured the records of each girl’s home and cell phones from the months before the girls had gone missing. In search of a single common number, he’d camped at his desk, gnawing on jerky and drinking from a liter jug of ginger ale that went warm and flat, stopping only to piss off the back porch. He’d not found a phone number that connected the girls. But, he had found something when checking each number against switchboard.com. To make certain what he’d found was accurate, he dialed a number on his cell phone.
A computerized voice answered, “Dr. Stephens’s office is not open at the moment—”
Rath hung up and dialed again.
“Northeast Vermont Pediatrics is currently closed—”
He hung up and dialed again. “Dr. Linda Bullock’s office is closed for the day—”
Rath wiped his palm over his dry mouth and dialed a fourth number.
“You’ve reached Monadnock Health Services, we’re currently—”
Rath dialed one last number.
“Dr. Langevine’s office is closed. Our office hours are Monday and Wednesday through Friday, nine to five. Please leave a clear message at the tone, and we will get back to you during office hours. If this is an emergency, please dial 911.”
“Dr. Langevine. This is Frank Rath. Please call me as soon as possible, anytime day or night.” He left his home and cell numbers.
“WELL?” GROUT SAID the next morning at 8 A.M. He seemed in a better mood, eating a cider donut as he leaned against the vending machine in the cramped, so-called squad room. It was a reach to call a staff of five, including the chief, a squad. The room was home to a beat-up farm table and a countertop the length of an ironing board, on which were crammed a relic coffeemaker, a microwave, and a minifridge.
“Where’s Sonja? She ought to hear this,” Rath said.
“She’s got downed trees blocking her drive,” Grout said.
“Each girl called a doctor of some kind, at least three times in the month before her disappearance,” Rath said. “And each girl called a Family Matters. Different ones because of where they lived, so the numbers didn’t match.”
The fluorescent light flickered as the wind outside grew wild and shook the building by its lapels.
“That’s not coincidence,” Grout said, begrudgingly, finishing his donut and licking his fingers.
“We need to interview each doctor. Maybe the girls were referred by a single person, which links them. Or their respective doctors referred them to a single person or entity that links them. Something.”
“Or is on staff at a Family Matters.”
“It’s there somewhere.”
“So, someone, somehow, knew these girls were pregnant and sought them out to, what?” Grout licked sugar from his fingertips, one by one.
“You tell me.”
“How would a guy like George Waters get such info?” Grout said.
“It lessens the odds its him. But maybe he had a girl from the AA meetings, like you said,” Rath said.
“Or a girl who went searching for victims at these Family Matters meetings.”
“What meetings?” Rath said.
“Family Matters has support groups for girls.” Grout reached in the bag for another donut. “They have to keep lists of attendees. Being a non-profit 501(c)(3). I’ll get Sonja on all the lists from Family Matters in the greater region. You and I need to talk to some doctors.”