The rain came during the night and continued all morning. Jo took a truckload of produce into the market stalls at Monticello, and set up under the awnings there. The storm continued, the wind slashing at the canvas overhead and tipping baskets over. By eleven o’clock, having not made a sale in almost an hour, she decided to pack up and head for home.
When she got back to the farm, the rain hadn’t abated and the wind was still up. The creek had expanded, overflowing the pond and encroaching on the pasture field. The goats and the pony had taken shelter under the overhang of the shed and were standing in a row, watching the drizzle beyond. Jo parked the truck and climbed down and then heard Henry shouting at her from the house, where he was leaning out of the screen door. He was waving, beckoning her.
When she went into the front room, the TV was on and Rachel Jackson was standing before a large bank of cameras, alongside a dark-haired man of about forty-five, the man wearing a suit and loosened tie, his hair unkempt. Somebody else, a woman, was talking over the footage.
“…looks as if we’re just about ready to go here,” she was saying. “All that we know at this point is that the Jackson family has called this press conference. You’re looking at Rachel Jackson on the right and the man beside her, we are told, is Detective Derek Bell of the NYPD. It is unclear if Sam Jackson will be taking part in the press conference. As we have stated, this has been hastily arranged. Oh, here we go—”
Rachel Jackson stepped to the microphone and began to read from a sheet of paper. “I have a statement. I was recently contacted by a woman who claimed to have knowledge of the whereabouts of my daughter. We spoke only briefly. I am here today to request that this woman call me back at the same number. I very much would like to talk to you again. Please call me.” She hesitated. “Please.”
She stepped back and the questions began.
“Where is your husband today?”
“My husband is in Wyoming. He’s campaigning.”
“Why isn’t he here?”
“Because he’s campaigning,” Rachel said again. “We’re in constant touch. The FBI is traveling with him.”
“What makes you think the woman who called has your daughter?”
“She said things that made me believe that she does.”
“What kind of things?”
“Personal details,” Rachel said.
“Do you think your daughter is alive?”
“Of course I do,” Rachel snapped. “How can you ask me that?”
“Does your husband believe it?” the same reporter persisted. “Why isn’t he here?”
At that point the detective named Bell stepped forward. “We didn’t call this press conference to discuss the whereabouts of Sam Jackson. We’re only interested in finding this little girl. Mrs. Jackson has assured you that she and her husband are in constant communication on this.”
“But Sam Jackson has repeatedly said that he has no proof that these people have the little girl. Has his opinion changed?”
“That’s a question for Sam Jackson,” Bell said. “We’re here today to reach out to this woman. We need to keep the conversation going. We need to bring this little girl home.”
There were more questions after that, most of which centered around the fact that Sam Jackson was in Wyoming while his wife was calling a news conference in New York City to talk about their missing daughter. After several minutes of this, the detective brought the proceedings to a halt. Before he did, he mentioned a phone number where he himself could be reached. The number ran on a scroll across the bottom of the screen.
Jo turned the TV off and looked at Henry, who shook his head.
“Sonofabitch went back to Wyoming.”
“Yeah,” Jo said.
“But she wants to talk.”
Jo looked at him. “Like I said before, talking to her doesn’t help us. She’s got nothing to trade.”