Ten

“The hurricane’s turning north!” Maggie screamed up the stairs the next morning as I hobbled toward the bathroom, stiff-jointed after a restless night of half sleep. “There’s an even bigger chance it’ll hit Galveston. Thirty percent instead of only twenty, Mom. Did you hear me? The storm is turning, and it’s bigger and stronger!”

“On my way, Magpie,” I shouted in response. “I’ll be right there.”

In the kitchen, Mom’s pancakes bubbled on the griddle. If there’d been any doubt that she was worried about the storm, the mixing bowls, eggs, sugar, and milk put it to rest. On the side, Mom, whose name is Nora Potts, runs a little company called Mother Adams Cheesecakes, baking desserts for caterers and fancy restaurants. Since she went pro, we have to have a crisis for her to pull out the cake tins for us. Otherwise, she pretty much sees it as work. The storm, it appeared, had done the trick, and Mom’s anxiety had birthed a baking binge, evidenced by enough home-baked breads and desserts cooling on the counters to keep us on a weeks-long sugar high.

I gestured at the stacks of ingredients, and she smiled a bit awkwardly, then laughed. “Well, dear, look at the bright side. At least you’ll have chocolate cheesecake tonight,” she said.

“Mom, really, the storm is still three days away, and we don’t even know it’s coming this way,” I protested.

“I know. I really do,” she said. “But it looks more and more like it might. And I wanted to use up some of the milk and eggs, in case the generator isn’t enough to keep the refrigerator running, or we can’t get enough gas for it. I would hate to see it all spoil.”

“You sure?” I asked, doubtful. It seemed the older Mom got, the more cautious she was about things. The more she worried.

“Well, the truth is, yes, I’m nervous. There, I said it. I keep thinking about all those people who died when the hurricane hit Cuba. Terrible,” she said, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “This is my way of handling it. And that’s good, right?”

“Of course,” I said. “Handling it is good.”

A nod of the head and a grimace that turned to a smile, and Mom went back to kneading a loaf of jalapeño bread, working out her anxiety on the dough as she threw it against the floured counter and massaged it with her palms. Meanwhile, I turned my attention to a stack of blueberry pancakes and watched the morning news. It was predicted to be another hot day, with temperatures in the nineties and humid. The aerial views of Juanita were breathtaking, and I understood Mom’s concern. The storm was growing, collecting around a clearly visible opening, the eye of the hurricane. Stalled, it continued to absorb power from the unusually warm waters. When it hit land, forecasters were predicting a twenty-foot surge and damage that could be catastrophic.

“Gram, don’t forget to pick up extra horse feed, to stock up before the storm,” Maggie said on her way out the door to catch the school bus. The kid worried almost as much about being prepared as Mom, which was saying something.

“Yes, Maggie,” Mom answered, smiling at me. After the screen door slammed, she laughed. “You know, that girl of yours reminds me of you at her age. I remember the time you stayed up all night waiting for a hurricane. Missed us completely, and I was pretty sure you were disappointed.”

“Ah, I don’t remember that,” I protested. Actually I did, kind of, but it was one of the things from my childhood that I’d been hoping for a long time Mom would forget. “You sure?”

“Sure as I am about that storm coming somewhere close. I can feel it in my bones,” she said.

Just then, footage of the park the night before flashed onto the television screen. David and I could be seen in the squad car headlights. Mom, it appeared, didn’t notice, and I didn’t point myself out. The night shots cut to morning, and a reporter, voice lowered and somber, as if in a funeral home, described how the city was responding to reports of a missing child. Where we’d stood the night before, where Joey’s Batman tennis shoe had been found, was a growing memorial of flowers, teddy bears, and notes, many written by children who lived in the neighborhoods surrounding the park. One said: “Joey, come home!” Another: “To the bad man who took Joey Warner: Bring him back!” A third simply: “Don’t hurt Joey!”

At the end of the segment on Joey’s disappearance, the reporter held up the flyer with the boy’s photo, to my deep dismay the same one I’d seen the night before. Somehow, even the following morning, word hadn’t gotten out to the television station that the picture they were showing of the child was an old one.

“Damn,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said. Then, “Everything. I have to go. I need to get to the office.”

I stood to leave, but the anchorwoman announced that the station was cutting away to a news conference where the mother of the missing child would make a statement. Then there she was, Crystal Warner, with an odd expression on her face, as if caught somewhere between terror and jubilation, including just the slightest tug of a smile. Standing in the street outside an office building, beside a man and woman who looked much like her, only older, I assumed her parents, she read from a sheet of legal paper clutched in her hands.

“I’m appealing to everyone to help us find my son,” she said. “Joey is four years old, and he’s been missing for sixteen hours. My parents and me are worried that someone took him. We don’t believe he wandered off or that he’s lost in the park.”

In the kitchen, Mom moved up and stood beside me as the television coverage continued. “Joey is a good kid, and we love him and want him back. Please help in the search. Watch for my son.” With that, Crystal held up a new photo of Joey, a more recent one. Maybe, I was thinking, the mom was on the level. Maybe she loved the little guy and she wasn’t involved. But then something else happened, something that reminded me of what Evan Warner had predicted the night before, that his soon-to-be ex-wife was involved and had a motive.

“Crystal Warner says she’s doing all she can to help police find her little boy,” said the reporter, a bright-faced young woman with a shrill voice. “And to help defray costs associated with the search and her inability to work until her son is found, the family has set up an account at a local bank where people can donate, either via the Internet or by stopping in at a branch office.”

“Money,” I muttered. “Maybe it is all about money. But where’s the kid? Did she pay someone to stash him?”

“Did you say something, Sarah?” Mom asked.

I was still thinking and didn’t answer.

“You know,” Mom went on, “in my opinion, that girl’s statement seemed a little strange. I mean, she didn’t seem quite right. Is that the way a mother with a missing child would act? I could be wrong, but to me, she actually looked happy.”

Just then the telephone rang, and within minutes I was on my way.