CHAPTER 15

Columbia, South Carolina

STACY MOYER WOKE WITH a start. Had she heard something? She straightened on the couch, cocked her head, and strained to hear whatever awakened her. The only thing she heard was the soft droning of a late-night talk show host yammering on the large flat screen mounted to the wall opposite the sofa.

She waited for the noise to reappear but heard nothing out of the ordinary. I'm snoring again. Over the last few months, for reasons she couldn't explain, she started snoring. Eric assured her it wasn't loud or disruptive, but what did he know. He spent many of his nights sleeping in the company of men in a tent, on a plane, or in some concealed location. If he lay down in a safe place, he could sleep through earthquakes, tornadoes, and tank movements. On mission, he once told her, he could be awakened from a sound sleep by a fly rubbing its legs together. That was her husband: soldier, father, teller of tall tales.

Stacy rubbed the back of her neck. She hated it when she fell asleep on the couch. A stiff neck always followed. Her back didn't feel much better. To make matters worse, she had been drooling.

"How embarrassing. Good thing no one is around to see me in all my glory."

On the cushion next to her rested a sketch pad, a thick book titled Functions of Interior Spaces, a box of colored pencils, and four issues of Architectural Digest. The sight of them made her smile.

Earlier in the year, Stacy initiated the adventure of remaking herself. Why shouldn't she? Rob had just turned eighteen, had a job, and would graduate high school in a few weeks. Eric needed minimal care, fresh meat for his barbeque when he was home, beer in the fridge, and his beloved big-screen television. Gina, although just in the second of her teenage years, was always more mature than her chronological age. Although there were moments when she acted like the junior high girl she was, she never presented a problem. If there were a magazine called Perfect Child, Gina would be on the cover every month.

Feeling freer than she had in many years, Stacy enrolled in the local junior college and began classes in interior design. The topic had always interested her and her professors said she showed a flair for the art. Perhaps. Even if she didn't, she enjoyed attending the classes, trying something new, and making friends. The family was supportive. In fact, Gina pushed her to step out and "get her design on." Stacy smiled at the recollection—

Gina?

Stacy looked at her watch. Just after midnight. Wow. I must have really been out. I didn't hear her come in. Retrieving her sketch pad, she studied the drawing she had been working on before dozing off. It was due soon and drafting was Stacy's weakest skill. She picked up the pencil and set the point to the coarse paper.

She stopped. Something nibbled the back of her brain. Setting the pencil and pad down, Stacy rose, stretched her aching back, and walked to Gina's bedroom.

The door was closed. Nothing new. Gina always kept her bedroom closed. She glanced at the threshold, looking for light seeping beneath the bottom of the door. Gina often stayed up at night to study or watch a video on her computer. Tonight she appeared to have gone straight to bed. Good for her.

Stacy started to turn away but stopped before she took her third step. She returned to the door, took hold of the knob, and gave it a gentle turn. The tongue of the lock retracted into the door. Slowly, trying to avoid any squeaks, she pushed the door open and looked through the narrow opening.

Gina's bed sat in the middle of the room, the headboard pushed to the wall. The pale glow of Gina's computer monitor gave the space an otherworldly look. Stacy saw the three stuffed animals Gina always kept on the bed. Every morning, her daughter would make her bed and place the toys in a particular order. Hoseface the Elephant rested on the left; Bandit, a one-foot-tall Panda bear occupied the center of the mattress; and Donnie the Donkey rested on the right side.

The toys were in their usual places, mute witnesses to the fact Gina was not in bed.

Stacy opened the door to the stops and stepped in. She must be seeing things wrong. She stepped closer to the bed.

Empty.

Stacy's heart seized like a fist and she raised a hand to her chest. Instinct drove her to flip on the light. The room was empty.

Easy, girl. Panic doesn't help. A few steps later, Stacy stood in the hall bathroom. Also empty. The heart that refused to beat began to pound against her breastbone.

"You picked the wrong day to become a rebellious teenager, young lady." She hoped that was all that was going on.

In the minutes that followed, Stacy checked the other rooms of the house. She was alone. Very, very alone. Returning to the living room, Stacy snatched her cell phone from its resting place on the coffee table and checked for messages. None. She dialed Gina's cell number. It rang five times, then went to voice mail.

"It's after midnight, young lady, and I told you to be home by eleven. You had better have a good explanation." Stacy ended the call.

Her heart recruited help from her stomach, both determined to tear her up from the inside.

The sound of a car door closing pressed through the walls. Stacy crossed her arms and waited for the front door to open. Both barrels of her emotional shotgun were loaded.

The door opened.

Rob entered, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Oh, it's you."

"I missed you too, Mom. Sheesh. Should I leave?"

"No, no. I'm sorry. I heard the car door close and thought it might be Gina."

"First, Gina doesn't drive and doesn't have a car. Second, she said she was going to her study group at Pauline's. Third, no one has ever mistaken me for Gina."

"You know what I mean. I thought maybe Pauline's mother or father had driven her home."

"I take it the Golden Child is late."

"Don't be contrary, Rob. I'm upset."

"Yeah, I can see that." He slipped off his McDonald's shirt and started for his room. "Have you called the Wysocki's yet?"

"No, it's after midnight."

"You don't have to tell me. I didn't think this day would ever end. Closing isn't as much fun as it sounds."

"I mean, it's too late to call over there."

Rob stopped. "Not if Gina's there it isn't. You want me to do it?"

"No. If I wake her parents I'll just apologize."

"Good thinking. You know Gina; she's probably studying the night away with her geek friends. I'm gonna change. I smell like a hamburger."

Stacy took a deep breath and let it out in a long exhalation. Retrieving the number from the contact list in her cell phone, she placed the call. She had only spoken to Pauline's parents a few times and felt bad about the late night—no, she corrected herself—early morning call.

"Hello." A sleepy female voice answered.

"Mrs. Wysocki, this is Stacy Moyer. I'm sorry to call so late. I hope I didn't wake you."

"After midnight. Why would I be asleep?"

The sarcasm was clear. "Again, I apologize. I wonder if I might speak to my daughter. She's not answering her cell phone."

"Gina." The woman's tone turned serious. "Gina's not here. All the girls left about eleven. I remember Gina saying she had to hurry, she was running late."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure . . . Wait a minute. I'll double-check. I suppose she could have come back for some reason."

Stacy heard a slight grunt and assumed the woman was crawling from bed. A few moments later: "I've checked everywhere. I even went out on the porch. My daughter is in bed."

"Alone?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry. That did sound bad. What I mean is, Gina didn't fall asleep or something."

"No. She's not here." Her voice softened. "Maybe she went to another friend's house."

"That's not like her. I'm getting scared."

"Do you want me to come over?"

Stacy hadn't expected that. "No, thank you."

"Please keep me informed. Let me know if I can do anything. We'll be praying."

"Thank you." Stacy hung up and doubled over. Something was wrong, very wrong.

"So anyway, closing up a burger joint is more work than I thought. You know me, I'm allergic to work—" Rob stopped. "Mom? What's wrong?"

"Gina left Pauline's house over an hour ago."

"But it's only a three block walk—" He spun and walked back into his room and reemerged a few moments later, car keys in hand. "Get your shoes on. We're going Gina hunting."

Rob was starting to sound like his father and that gave Stacy a moment of comfort.

STACY LET ROB DRIVE. She didn't trust her nerves. First they reversed the path Gina would have taken home but saw nothing. Rob then drove the side streets covering routes Gina probably wouldn't have taken but might have if she was feeling adventurous—a quality she never displayed before. Again nothing.

They drove half-a-dozen ever-widening circles with Pauline's house at the center. During that time, Stacy called the police and received the usual, "She has to be gone for forty-eight hours to be declared missing." They did promise to dispatch a patrol car to search the area and would issue a BOLO. Rob had to explain that meant "be on the lookout."

Twenty minutes into the search Rob said, "This is nuts." He turned the car around.

"What are you doing?"

"Going back to Pauline's. You're going to drive."

"Why?" Tears burned her eyes.

"I feel like we're missing something. I'm going to walk from Pauline's to home. I want you to follow."

Rob wasn't asking; he was telling her this was the way it was going to be. He stopped in the middle of the street, removed a flashlight from the glove compartment, and exited. Stacy moved to the driver's seat and watched as her son started at the Wysocki porch, lowered his gaze, and began to walk slowly toward home. She could see his head moving from side to side as he scanned the area in front of him and shone the light beneath every car parked along the curb or left on a driveway.

One block gave way to the next as Stacy crept along the street, forcing herself to not only focus on Rob, but on where she was directing the car. At times Rob would disappear behind some curbside vehicle, then reappear a moment later. They came to a pickup truck and Rob peered into the cab and then the truck bed. The thought of him finding her daughter hurt or worse, lying in the back of a 1980s Chevy pickup, came as a waking nightmare. Her hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel.

Rob started across an intersection, then paused in the middle of the street. He looked down one street, then the next. Stacy didn't need a conversation to know he was wondering if Gina might have tried a different way home. Possible, but not likely. Gina loved her habits. She rose at the same time every day. When her friends longed to sleep in until the crack of noon, Gina would rise at six on school days and seven on weekends. The ritual never changed.

Just like her father.

Stacy wished with all her might Eric were here. He'd know what to do. He would have found her by now. And if someone . . . She couldn't complete the thought, but God help the person who would harm his little daughter.

Rob stopped suddenly. Stacy pulled forward until she could see him through a gap between parked cars.

He picked up something.

Her heart stuttered. Stacy slammed the car's transmission into park and exited, leaving the vehicle idling in the middle of the street, the driver's door open, the overhead lamp shining in the dimness of the late hour.

"What?" She approached, her stomach so tight and twisted she couldn't stand erect. Rob held a book. "What is it?"

He turned. "I think this is hers." He held up the tome. It was thick with a worn cover and dulled corners, the abuse from a student who had it before Gina. "I've seen it on Gina's desk."

Stacy took it from her son and studied the cover: Basic Speech Communications. Stacy had also seen the book in Gina's room. She wanted to deny it, to consider it a coincidence, to assume the book belonged to someone else's little girl.

She sucked in a lungful of air and opened the front cover. Pasted to the inside cover was a white card with WARDLAW JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL printed in black ink at the top. The card bore the names of students who had been assigned the book in previous sessions.

"Oh, God. Oh, dear God. Please no." A glint in the light of a streetlamp caught her attention. A small cell phone lay in the gutter—Gina's cell phone.

She started for it, but Rob placed a hand on her shoulder. "No. Let me." He stepped close to the device. Stacy followed just two feet behind. Even in the dim light she could tell the phone was dropped and the scratches in the case suggested it was kicked or thrown to the side.

Stacy stepped around Rob and started to reach for the phone.

"No." He pulled her back. "Don't touch it. Let the police do that."

"But—"

"Mom, leave it alone." His tone was firm but kind. "Give me the book. I want to put it where I found it."

Reluctant to release the textbook, Stacy pulled the book to her breast. Rob eased it from her embrace. It seemed like she had just released her daughter. Her hands shook, then her arms. Gooseflesh covered her skin. Her legs wobbled. She was hot. Emotional pressure built in her like a runaway boiler.

"Gina! GINA." Her screams rolled down the street. "Where are you, baby? It's Mommy. Where are you?"

A pair of hands seized her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "Stop it, Mom. That's not helping."

"But—"

"You know what Dad would say. 'Keep the main thing the main thing. Keep focused on the mission.' We have to keep it together or we will be of no help to Gina. Do you understand me?"

It was as if she were listening to Eric. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"Okay, I'm calling the cops."

"They already said she hasn't been missing long enough."

"They don't know about the book and cell phone."

Rob keyed his cell phone, put it on speaker, and waited. Then, "I want to report an abduction."

"You saw an abduction?" A woman's voice, tired and disinterested.

"My sister hasn't come home and we've found one of her textbooks and her cell phone in the street."

"Are you sure she's not at a friend's house?"

"Positive."

Stacy could hear the tension in Rob's voice.

"How old is your sister?"

Rob sighed. "Fourteen. Can you send someone out?" He gave the address.

"How long has she been missing?"

"She was supposed to be home almost two hours ago."

"Sir, two hours is not very long."

"As I said, we found her textbook and cell phone in the street. Are you going to send someone?"

"We prefer that a person be missing longer than a couple of hours."

"I want you to send someone right away." His words had a sword's edge to them.

"Sir, I don't need the attitude."

"Lady, I don't care what you need. It's not your sister who's missing."

"In most cases the person usually shows up on her own."

"And what about the other cases?"

"Sir, I'm just trying to do my job—"

"And I'm trying to make sure my sister is all right. Now are you sending someone or not?"

"Our patrol cars are very busy with crimes—"

"Kidnapping is a crime. Send someone."

"Sir—"

Rob's knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone. "Okay, lady, I'll make a deal with you." He looked at his watch. "It's 12:32. In ten minutes I begin breaking windshields, setting off car alarms, and putting bricks through bedroom windows of every house on the block. Will that get your attention?"

"Sir—"

"You have a little over nine minutes before the first brick goes into someone's living room." Rob hung up.