helplessly by while their innocents were caught in the mayhem of the world.
But she sat quietly.
The policeman noted how self-possessed the family seemed. His training had barely touched on missing children. There were certain realities, though, and he was aware of them: Most missing children were found within twenty-four hours; most were runaways. When they were done violence, it was most often at the hand of a parent or another family member. When they were abducted by strangers, they were most often found dead, or never found at all.
There were indications that this child had run away. The bicycle was gone, for one thing. According to the mother there were clothes missing.
"We call in a detective from Wilton in missing child cases. He's had a lot of experience with these cases. I just have to get the preliminaries, so we can put out a bulletin and get the picture over to KKNX. I'm sure they'll want it for the ten o'clock news."
"Billy's been kidnapped." Mary Neary's voice was smooth with terror.
"Well, ma'am, we assume the worst, hope for the best. That's how we do these things. But with his bike gone and the clothes obviously taken, this is very apt to be a runaway. Very apt to be."
"He left his watch behind,'' Sally said. "He never leaves his watch."
"I don't want to get your hopes up, but we've never lost a runaway here in Stevensville."
At first he thought he was hearing a distant siren. It took a moment of listening for him to understand that the sound was coming out of Mary Neary. Slowly it got louder. He glanced at the husband, who looked perplexed. Then the man's face went pale. As if she was a figure in a dream, the daughter's closed fists slowly came up to her cheeks. Her mother's eyes screwed shut, her arms whipped around her breasts and her whole body seemed to snap.
The sound of her anguish was made more painful to hear by her efforts to stifle it, not opening her mouth, throwing her head back, and all that tortured noise coming from her nose.
Afterward there was a stunned hush.
Sally ran out to the kitchen. She turned, her posture that of a soldier at the edge of the battlefield.
"The coffee's getting cold," she said in a shrill voice. She closed her eyes. In that moment she was wounded as certainly as if somebody had cut her with a whip. For the rest of her life she would be exquisitely sensitive to those sudden hushes that can stop a moment. And she would forever think, when they came, that somebody she loved had just been lost.
8.
At five o'clock in the morning Barton had passed through Des Moines. He had seen only one other vehicle on Interstate 235, a pickup truck going north, its headlights cutting the last of the dark.
He had left the interstate and driven through the streets hunting for a place to get a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Around him the city was drifting toward morning. This was the hour of last dreams, and the quiet was made more true by the dull hum of air conditioners and the slippery sound of an occasional passing car.
The public nakedness of a sleeping city would have thrilled him ordinarily, but this time it only added to his unease. He had expected to be exhilarated by his victory, but he felt an altogether different emotion. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was deeply and terribly wrong, that he had made some mistake so basic he simply could not see it.
Without finding a place to get a doughnut he returned to the highway.
As the van sped westward the sun rose. It first sent the Aerostar's shadow far ahead, then caused it to contract. He thought of the shadow's astonishing cargo. Charming Billy.
What have I done wrong?
From the bed in the back Billy moaned. Barton heard an edge of consciousness in the voice. He would pull into the next rest area and do a heavy needle on the boy, put him out for eighteen hours.
Again there was a sign of consciousness, a thick, muffled word that was probably "Dad."
"Dad'll be here in a
But she sat quietly.
The policeman noted how self-possessed the family seemed. His training had barely touched on missing children. There were certain realities, though, and he was aware of them: Most missing children were found within twenty-four hours; most were runaways. When they were done violence, it was most often at the hand of a parent or another family member. When they were abducted by strangers, they were most often found dead, or never found at all.
There were indications that this child had run away. The bicycle was gone, for one thing. According to the mother there were clothes missing.
"We call in a detective from Wilton in missing child cases. He's had a lot of experience with these cases. I just have to get the preliminaries, so we can put out a bulletin and get the picture over to KKNX. I'm sure they'll want it for the ten o'clock news."
"Billy's been kidnapped." Mary Neary's voice was smooth with terror.
"Well, ma'am, we assume the worst, hope for the best. That's how we do these things. But with his bike gone and the clothes obviously taken, this is very apt to be a runaway. Very apt to be."
"He left his watch behind,'' Sally said. "He never leaves his watch."
"I don't want to get your hopes up, but we've never lost a runaway here in Stevensville."
At first he thought he was hearing a distant siren. It took a moment of listening for him to understand that the sound was coming out of Mary Neary. Slowly it got louder. He glanced at the husband, who looked perplexed. Then the man's face went pale. As if she was a figure in a dream, the daughter's closed fists slowly came up to her cheeks. Her mother's eyes screwed shut, her arms whipped around her breasts and her whole body seemed to snap.
The sound of her anguish was made more painful to hear by her efforts to stifle it, not opening her mouth, throwing her head back, and all that tortured noise coming from her nose.
Afterward there was a stunned hush.
Sally ran out to the kitchen. She turned, her posture that of a soldier at the edge of the battlefield.
"The coffee's getting cold," she said in a shrill voice. She closed her eyes. In that moment she was wounded as certainly as if somebody had cut her with a whip. For the rest of her life she would be exquisitely sensitive to those sudden hushes that can stop a moment. And she would forever think, when they came, that somebody she loved had just been lost.
8.
At five o'clock in the morning Barton had passed through Des Moines. He had seen only one other vehicle on Interstate 235, a pickup truck going north, its headlights cutting the last of the dark.
He had left the interstate and driven through the streets hunting for a place to get a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Around him the city was drifting toward morning. This was the hour of last dreams, and the quiet was made more true by the dull hum of air conditioners and the slippery sound of an occasional passing car.
The public nakedness of a sleeping city would have thrilled him ordinarily, but this time it only added to his unease. He had expected to be exhilarated by his victory, but he felt an altogether different emotion. He couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was deeply and terribly wrong, that he had made some mistake so basic he simply could not see it.
Without finding a place to get a doughnut he returned to the highway.
As the van sped westward the sun rose. It first sent the Aerostar's shadow far ahead, then caused it to contract. He thought of the shadow's astonishing cargo. Charming Billy.
What have I done wrong?
From the bed in the back Billy moaned. Barton heard an edge of consciousness in the voice. He would pull into the next rest area and do a heavy needle on the boy, put him out for eighteen hours.
Again there was a sign of consciousness, a thick, muffled word that was probably "Dad."
"Dad'll be here in a
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