clothes and all.
Alice goes into her own bedroom, and climbs into bed, thinking she will take a nap before three, be ready for whatever may come next.
In an instant, she is dead asleep.
The nightmare comes the way it always does.
The family is sitting at the dinner table together.
It is seven-thirty P . M . on the night of September twenty-first last year; she will never forget that date as long as she lives.
Eddie is telling her he feels like taking the Jamash out for a little moonlight spin. The Jamash is a 1972 Pearson sloop they bought used when they first moved down here to the Cape. It cost $12,000 at a time when Eddie was still making good money as a stockbroker, before Bush got elected and things went all to hell with the economy. They named it after the two kids, Jamie and Ashley, the Jamash for sure, a trim little thirty-footer that was seaworthy and fast.
But Eddie has never taken her out for a moonlight spin without Alice aboard, and this has always required making babysitter plans in advance.
“Just feel like getting out on the water,” he tells her.
“Well… sure,” she says, “go ahead.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Just don’t take her out on the Gulf,” she says. “Not alone.”
“I promise,” he says.
From the door, as he leaves the house, he yells, “Love ya, babe!”
“Love ya, too,” Alice says.
“Love ya, Daddy!” Ashley yells.
“Love ya,” Jamie echoes.
In the Gulf of Mexico the next morning, an oil tanker spots the boat under sail, moving on an erratic course, tossing aimlessly on the wind.
They hail her, and get no response.
When finally they climb down onto the deck, there is no one aboard.
Alice gets the phone call at ten that morning.
She screams.
And screams.
The telephone is ringing.
She climbs out of bed, rushes into the living room. The grandfather clock reads ten minutes to two. Sloate already has the earphones on.
“She’s early,” he says.
Marcia is behind her tracing gear now.
Sloate nods.
Alice picks up.
“Hello?” she says.
“Listen,” the woman says. “Just listen.” And then, in a stage whisper, “Tell her you and your brother are okay, that’s all. Nothing else.” And then, apparently handing Ashley the phone, she says, “Here.”
“We’re both okay,” Ashley says in a rush. “Mom, I can’t believe it!”
“ What can’t…?”
“Do you remember Mari—?”
The line goes dead.
“Who’s Marie?” Sloate asks at once.
“They’re alive,” Alice says. “My children…”
“Do you know anyone named Marie?”
“No. Did you hear her? They’re both okay!”
“Or Maria?”
“I don’t know. They’re alive !”
“Fifteen seconds this time,” Marcia says.
“Marie? Maria?”
“I don’t know anyone named—”
“A relative?”
“No.”
“A friend?”
“No. My children are alive. How are you going…?”
“Someone who worked for you?”
“…to get them…?”
“Marie,” he insists. “Maria. Think !”
“ You think, damn it! They’re alive! Do something to—”
And suddenly the knowledge breaks on her face.
“What?” Sloate asks.
“Yes. Maria.”
“Who?”
“A babysitter. This was a long time ago, I’m not even sure she—”
“What’s her last name?”
At two o’clock that afternoon, Charlie Hobbs, at the wheel of the Chevy pickup he uses to transport his huge canvases, drives into the bus-loading area at Pratt Elementary School, and asks to talk to Luke Farraday. It is a hot, bright, sunny day on the Cape, the temperature hovering at ninety-two degrees. Charlie is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Farraday is wearing a blue uniform with a square shield, and a little black plastic name tag over the left breast pocket. L . FARRA - DAY . Yellow school buses are already beginning to roll into the lot.
Charlie has to be careful here.
The warning from whoever has taken Alice’s kids could not have been more explicit:
Don’t call the police, or
Alice goes into her own bedroom, and climbs into bed, thinking she will take a nap before three, be ready for whatever may come next.
In an instant, she is dead asleep.
The nightmare comes the way it always does.
The family is sitting at the dinner table together.
It is seven-thirty P . M . on the night of September twenty-first last year; she will never forget that date as long as she lives.
Eddie is telling her he feels like taking the Jamash out for a little moonlight spin. The Jamash is a 1972 Pearson sloop they bought used when they first moved down here to the Cape. It cost $12,000 at a time when Eddie was still making good money as a stockbroker, before Bush got elected and things went all to hell with the economy. They named it after the two kids, Jamie and Ashley, the Jamash for sure, a trim little thirty-footer that was seaworthy and fast.
But Eddie has never taken her out for a moonlight spin without Alice aboard, and this has always required making babysitter plans in advance.
“Just feel like getting out on the water,” he tells her.
“Well… sure,” she says, “go ahead.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Just don’t take her out on the Gulf,” she says. “Not alone.”
“I promise,” he says.
From the door, as he leaves the house, he yells, “Love ya, babe!”
“Love ya, too,” Alice says.
“Love ya, Daddy!” Ashley yells.
“Love ya,” Jamie echoes.
In the Gulf of Mexico the next morning, an oil tanker spots the boat under sail, moving on an erratic course, tossing aimlessly on the wind.
They hail her, and get no response.
When finally they climb down onto the deck, there is no one aboard.
Alice gets the phone call at ten that morning.
She screams.
And screams.
The telephone is ringing.
She climbs out of bed, rushes into the living room. The grandfather clock reads ten minutes to two. Sloate already has the earphones on.
“She’s early,” he says.
Marcia is behind her tracing gear now.
Sloate nods.
Alice picks up.
“Hello?” she says.
“Listen,” the woman says. “Just listen.” And then, in a stage whisper, “Tell her you and your brother are okay, that’s all. Nothing else.” And then, apparently handing Ashley the phone, she says, “Here.”
“We’re both okay,” Ashley says in a rush. “Mom, I can’t believe it!”
“ What can’t…?”
“Do you remember Mari—?”
The line goes dead.
“Who’s Marie?” Sloate asks at once.
“They’re alive,” Alice says. “My children…”
“Do you know anyone named Marie?”
“No. Did you hear her? They’re both okay!”
“Or Maria?”
“I don’t know. They’re alive !”
“Fifteen seconds this time,” Marcia says.
“Marie? Maria?”
“I don’t know anyone named—”
“A relative?”
“No.”
“A friend?”
“No. My children are alive. How are you going…?”
“Someone who worked for you?”
“…to get them…?”
“Marie,” he insists. “Maria. Think !”
“ You think, damn it! They’re alive! Do something to—”
And suddenly the knowledge breaks on her face.
“What?” Sloate asks.
“Yes. Maria.”
“Who?”
“A babysitter. This was a long time ago, I’m not even sure she—”
“What’s her last name?”
At two o’clock that afternoon, Charlie Hobbs, at the wheel of the Chevy pickup he uses to transport his huge canvases, drives into the bus-loading area at Pratt Elementary School, and asks to talk to Luke Farraday. It is a hot, bright, sunny day on the Cape, the temperature hovering at ninety-two degrees. Charlie is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Farraday is wearing a blue uniform with a square shield, and a little black plastic name tag over the left breast pocket. L . FARRA - DAY . Yellow school buses are already beginning to roll into the lot.
Charlie has to be careful here.
The warning from whoever has taken Alice’s kids could not have been more explicit:
Don’t call the police, or
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