Chapter
Eleven

The next morning, Zac made it through the entire church service without any outward signs of trauma. He stood off to the side and filmed Jonathon as he preached. We had gotten permission to film, but the elders and Jonathon had requested that we try not to disrupt the service. Zac did a great job. I doubted that most of the people in the sanctuary even noticed him.

The praise service was enthusiastic and moving. We sang songs that were new to me, but there was something about them that felt personal, as if those singing them really knew God. I glanced at Zac a couple of times, and although he remained stoic, it was obvious from his expression the worship touched him.

For a young man, Jonathon exhibited a confident presence in the pulpit. I noticed that some of the women in the church seemed to be interested in more than just the sermon. Jonathon had startling blue eyes and thick black hair that framed an interesting face. His looks weren’t cookie-cutter handsome, but he was certainly appealing.

The sermon focused on Philippians chapter three, verses thirteen and fourteen. Jonathon encouraged his parishioners to follow the apostle Paul’s commitment to forget the past and concentrate on the future.

“Too many people are changed by one or two events in their lives. Something that colors their perceptions and alters the course of their existence on this earth. Usually the event is traumatic, something painful. But our lives are made up of many moments—good and bad. One incident should never define us, because God has already defined us. He calls us His beloved children. Victors—not victims. He calls us overcomers not overcome. We are new creations.”

I felt like God was speaking directly to me. I thought about the changes that occurred in my family after Ryan went missing. All of us were altered by his disappearance. Not only in our emotions, but also in the way we reacted to one another. I couldn’t help but wonder why we hadn’t pulled together instead of allowing ourselves to be torn apart. What was it in us that had driven us to become weaker instead of stronger?

Jonathon went on to say that no one ever won a race by running backward. Instead, we need to keep our eyes forward if we ever hope to find the destiny that God has for us. His words struck a chord in me, and I knew I would remember them for a long time.

Outside the church, I talked to several people about Sanctuary and actually interviewed a couple of them for our report. Jonathon was happy to talk to us and was very articulate about the town’s strong spiritual foundation.

After a quick lunch at Esther’s, Zac and I took off. Before we left, I made a phone call I didn’t want to make. I needed help and there was only one person I knew who might be able to provide it. Jonathon’s sermon had given me the courage I needed to take a step of faith.

Zac and I took the tour of the Bonne Terre mine. When we walked down the stairs into the mine, I felt as if I’d entered another world. The boat trip on the below-ground lake was eerie and silent, and somewhere in my mind I could hear the echoes of chisels and tools carving out the huge passages we drifted through. Rather than being claustrophobic, it was peaceful. I felt protected from the confusing world above me. I watched as the heads of divers popped up around us, causing the still water to ripple. It was a surreal experience.

Ed had approved the mine tour in Bonne Terre, even though everyone in Missouri knew about it. Surprisingly, a large number of Missourians had never taken the tour, in spite of it being a big tourist attraction. Missouri was rife with abandoned mines and littered with caves. Maybe the appeal of the tour wasn’t strong enough for people so used to the incredible natural and man-made features that made Missouri so special. We interviewed our guide after the tour and caught the reaction of a few of the visitors.

Afterward, we headed to a little Italian restaurant not far from the mine. Angelo’s had a reputation for great pizza and calzones. Small and cozy, it was the kind of place where patrons dusted off their chairs before sitting down and ignored the stickiness of the plastic green- or red-checkered tablecloths. From the moment we stepped inside, the incredible smells made my stomach rumble with hunger and my mouth salivate with anticipation. Faded murals celebrating Italy decorated the walls. Grapevines covered porticos of Italian piazzas drenched in sunlight.

My eyes swept the room. I spotted him sitting at a corner table, already looking uncomfortable. I walked toward him, Zac on my heels.

“Hi, Dad.”

My father stood up, a throwback to the old-fashioned manners of his youth.

“Hello, Emily.”

He stuck his hand out toward a surprised Zac. I should have told him I’d called my father, but for some strange reason, I hadn’t been able to find the words.

“I’m Lyndon Erwin,” he said.

Zac took his hand while shooting me a look designed to let me know he didn’t appreciate the ambush.

“Zac Weikal,” he said. “Glad to meet you.”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t.

Dad waved his hand toward the chairs across from him. “Have a seat. I waited on you to order. Their stromboli is incredible, but it’s huge. Anyone want to split one?”

“Not me,” I said. “I want pizza.”

Dad raised an eyebrow. “You still eat those weird pizzas?”

I studied him for a moment. Although his hair was grayer, he was still a handsome man. My mother had always said he reminded her of James Garner from The Rockford Files, her favorite television show in the seventies. Now Dad looked like Jim Rockford in his fifties, still handsome, still dashing.

“Yeah, Dad. Still eating those weird pizzas.”

He shrugged and turned his attention to Zac. “How about you, Zac? Feel like splitting a stromboli?”

Zac nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Dad turned to look for the waitress, who was already on her way over to us. When she got to the table, Dad turned on the charm. It was like a switch he could flip on and off at the drop of a hat. Most people seemed to find it appealing, but it embarrassed me. I still hadn’t recovered from his attempt to captivate my college friends with his overblown charisma. In the end, I’d dissuaded him from visiting me on campus. Seeing him a couple of times a year at a neutral location had been more than enough contact for me.

I refused to drop in on his new family. Ditching Mom for a woman with two kids hurt. I met his new wife once and took an immediate dislike to her. She was everything Mom wasn’t—overdone makeup, bleached hair, and eyes as dead as a shark’s. It was immediately clear to me that my father’s money was the main attraction. I felt sorry for her children, who looked like they were only biding time until they could make their escape.

Dad ordered a stromboli for himself and Zac and then looked at me. “What do you want, Emily?”

“I’ll take a small pizza with cheese, green pepper, and pineapple,” I said to the waitress, whom Dad had just referred to as “sweetie.”

She nodded.

“What kind of a pizza is that?” Dad asked, shaking his head. “Pizza should have meat,” he said to the waitress, whose name tag said Sally. “Isn’t that right, Sally?”

She smiled. “I like my pizza with mushrooms and pineapple.”

Dad colored slightly. “Guess you and I are the only ones who understand Italian food, Zac,” he said loudly. “Women just don’t get it, do they?”

Zac shrugged. “Guess everyone’s tastes are different.”

I thanked Sally for taking our order, giving her an out so she could scurry away.

“I asked you here today because I need help, Dad,” I said, trying to get right to the point.

“I’m glad I was available, Emily. I’ve been out on the road for two weeks and just wrapped up my business in St. Louis last night. I head back to Chicago tomorrow.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Zac asked.

I nudged him under the table. Once my dad started talking business, he could go on for at least an hour. He used to regale everyone he met with stories about his mortgage banking company. After he sold out and went into insurance, the long-winded diatribes began to diminish in length, but the boasting continued.

“Insurance,” he said. “I run my own agency.”

Surprisingly, that was it. Caught off guard, it took me a moment to gather my thoughts and jump in before Dad came up with something else work related.

Briefly, I explained my assignment. Then I said, “Dad, I want to show you a picture.” I took the file folder of photos out of my tote bag, pulled out the shot of Elijah, and pushed it across the table. “This boy. He . . . he looks like Ryan. I came out here to find out if it could possibly be him.”

My father’s face went pale as he stared at the photo. “Ryan’s dead, Emily. How could you possibly think—?”

“But what if he’s not? What if someone took him? Kept him? I’ve got to know, Dad. I won’t walk away until I know for certain this isn’t him.”

My father hadn’t taken his eyes off the picture since I’d shoved it in front of him. “But it can’t be him. If Ryan was alive, he would have contacted us.”

Briefly, I explained all the reasons that assumption might be wrong. Everything Zac and I had discussed.

“So you see, it is possible. Ryan was only seven when he was taken. His abductors could have told him anything.” I paused to take a deep breath. “Look, Dad. I went to Sanctuary half expecting to look this teenager in the face and know he wasn’t Ryan. I wondered if the picture I saw was a fluke. Just an odd-angled shot of someone who happened to look like my brother. But the young man I met looks like the picture that caught my eye. The one that made me wonder if it could be him. And now he’s disappeared. I can’t help but think that someone might be trying to hide him. You’re the only one who has the answers I’m looking for. The only one who can help me.”

My father finally broke his gaze away from the photograph and looked up at me. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes. “If you think this is Ryan, why haven’t you called the police? You have no business taking this on by yourself.”

“Before the authorities descend on Sanctuary, I want to know I’m not starting something that will blow up in my face and cause trouble for innocent people. That’s why I need your help. You can identify Ryan better than I can. You know things about him that I don’t. Like birthmarks, scars, physical markers I can’t remember clearly. If you’ll help me, if you’ll see this young man for yourself—”

My father jumped to his feet. “You should have left this alone, Emily. You really should have left this alone.”

With that, he walked out the front door. I heard his car door slam, his engine start, and his tires squeal as he drove away.

Zac’s mouth was open. “What just happened?” he asked finally. “Is he coming back?”

“No. He’s gone.” Anger coursed through me, tasting like sour bile in my throat. “That’s my father. Running out when his family needs him. I should have known.”

Just then, Sally came to the table with our food. She frowned at my father’s empty chair. “Is he coming back? Should I keep his food warm?”

“If you don’t mind, just put his half of the stromboli in a box. We’ll take it with us.”

As she walked away, Zac leaned back in his chair and studied me carefully. “So now what?”

I picked up a piece of pizza. “Now we eat. Then we figure out our next move.”

I should have enjoyed Angelo’s great pizza, but at that moment, it tasted like ashes in my mouth.