Desiree runs the gauntlet of reporters and TV camera crews who dance around her like dogs waiting to be fed. Their broadcast vans and media cars are blocking the street outside the Valdez house, drawing spectators and grief tourists who have come to watch the news being made.
A police family liaison officer opens the door with one hand resting on her sidearm. Sandy Valdez is standing behind her in the hallway. Eyes wide. Hopeful. She’s dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans, her feet bare, hair tousled, face free of makeup, showing her lack of sleep. They talk in the living room where the curtains are closed and blinds lowered. Desiree sits. Eschews coffee.
“Is your husband at home?”
Sandy shakes her head. “You can’t ask someone like Ryan to sit still. He wants to be out there shaking the trees and yelling from the rooftops.”
Desiree says she understands, although Sandy seems to doubt that.
“Why didn’t you tell us that Max was adopted?”
Sandy pauses with the tissue beneath her nose. “What difference does it make?”
“Did you withhold the information on purpose?”
“No! Of course not!”
“When did you adopt him?”
“When he was four—why is that important?”
Desiree ignores her question. “Through an agency?”
“We went through all the proper channels, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sandy perches on the edge of the sofa, her knees together, working the soggy tissue in her fingers until it starts to break apart. “Ryan said he’d been abandoned. Somebody found him wandering in the woods. Dirty and freezing. Ryan took him to the hospital and tried to find his momma. Afterwards he stayed in touch with the DFPS.”
“You fostered him and then adopted him?”
“We’d been trying to start a family. We went through it all—injections, egg harvesting, IVF—but nothing worked. We’d never really talked about adoption until Max came along. It was like God delivered him to us.”
“Does Max know?”
Sandy glances at her hands. “We were planning to tell him when he was old enough.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“There was never a right moment.” She changes the subject. “Do you know he never uttered a single word for five months. Not a sound. Nobody knew his real name. We called him Buster for a long time—after the dog that found him—but then he started talking and said his name was Miguel. Ryan didn’t want to call him that, so we settled on Max and the little boy didn’t seem to mind.”
Desiree doesn’t answer. “Did Miguel tell you his surname?”
“No.”
“Did he say where he came from?”
“Once or twice he would point at pictures or say something that could have been a clue, but Ryan said we shouldn’t push him.” Sandy screws up her eyes. “I used to be so scared that somebody would come looking for him. Every time I heard the phone ring or a knock at the door, I thought it was going to be his mother wanting him back. Ryan said it wouldn’t make any difference because Max was legally ours now.”
She looks at Desiree, her eyes brimming. “Why are we being punished? We did a good thing. We’re good parents.”
Audie looks in the kitchen cupboards, stocktaking. He’s going to run out of time before they run out of food. Tony is watching him, his face pale but no longer shiny with sweat.
He’s a talker—making observations that segue into stories about his life. Maybe he’s read somewhere that hostages should try to bond with their kidnappers. Either that or he’s trying to bore Audie to death.
“You ever serve?” he asks.
“No.”
“I was in the navy—too young to fight the Krauts or the Koreans, too old for Vietnam. They made me a welder. Used to do the plumbing and insulate the engine rooms with asbestos. That’s how Maggie died—my wife. They said I brought it home on my clothes and she washed ’em and the fibers got in her lungs. Didn’t affect my lungs but it killed her. That what people mean when they say sumpin’ is ironic?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just bad luck, I guess. I’m not complaining.” He pauses, his lips thin lines. “No, fuck it! I am complaining, it’s just nobody ever listens.”
“Don’t you get medical insurance if you’re a veteran?” asks Audie.
“I didn’t serve overseas.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“Knowing what’s right don’t make it happen.”
Tony flinches and thumps his chest as though restarting a nonexistent pacemaker. He should be in a hospital or at least see a doctor. Audie doesn’t want another death on his conscience. The next part of his plan was always going to be problematic. It could be argued that he didn’t bother with an exit strategy because he didn’t expect to get this far. Max knows the truth now. He may not believe some of the details, but he has that choice. It’s like taking a kid to church and Sunday school, giving him a faith he can accept or reject.
Audie has a hundred and twelve dollars left. He counts the money and puts it in his front pocket. Unzipping his backpack, he takes out his cell phone and installs a new SIM card before turning on the power and looking for a signal. First he calls the Texas Children’s Hospital and asks for his sister. Bernadette is on the ward. Somebody has to fetch her.
Audie glances at Tony. He and Max are talking to each other. Nodding. Maybe they’re plotting. It won’t matter soon.
“It’s me. I can’t stay on the line very long.”
“Audie? The police have been here.” Bernadette is cupping the phone and whispering.
“I know.”
“Are you going to hurt that boy?”
“No.”
“Give yourself up. Let him go home.”
“I will, but I need you to do something for me. That file you’ve been keeping for me, do you still have it?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to give it to someone. Her name is Desiree Furness. She’s a Special Agent with the FBI. You have to give it directly to her—not anyone else. Face to face. You understand?”
“What do I say to her?”
“Tell her to follow the money.”
“What?”
“She’ll understand when she reads the file.”
Bernadette’s voice is shaking. “She’s gonna want to know where you are.”
“I know.”
“What do I say?”
“Tell her the boy is safe and I’m looking after him.”
“You’re going to get me into more trouble. I keep telling people that you’re a good person, but then you prove me wrong.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“How are you gonna do that if you’re dead? Let that boy go home.”
Where’s home, wonders Audie. “I will.”
Ending the call, he makes another. The only person he can vaguely trust is the one who helped him survive in prison. He doesn’t understand how Moss got out of Three Rivers and managed to find him, but the grave that Audie was digging in the woods was supposed to be for both of them.
A woman answers: “Harmony Dental Service.”
“I’m looking for Crystal Webster.”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Audie Palmer—we’ve met once or twice before.”
“I know who you are,” says Crystal, nervously.
“Have you heard from Moss?”
“He calls me most days.”
“Do you know why they let him out of prison?”
“He was supposed to find you.”
“Then what?”
She hesitates. “Hand you over. They said he could have the money if he found it.”
“There is no money.”
“Moss knows that, but he was hoping they might commute his sentence if he did what they asked.”
“What does he think now?”
“He knows they were lying.”
Audie gazes out the window where seagulls are floating above the waves, beating their wings and uttering strange deep-throated cries. Sometimes they sound just like human babies.
“When you hear from Moss, tell him I have a plan. I want him to come and get the boy. He can take the credit. Give him this address. I’ll be here for another six hours.”
“Can he call you?”
“I’ll be turning this cell phone off.”
“Is the boy OK?”
“He’s fine.”
“Why shouldn’t I just call the police right now and tell ’em where you are?”
“Ask Moss. If he agrees, let him call the police.”
Crystal thinks about this for a while. “If my Moss gets hurt, I’m gonna come looking for you myself. And let me promise you, Mr. Palmer, I’m a lot scarier than he is.”
“I know that, ma’am. He told me so.”