breakfast yet?”
Sam, from below: “I claim the Fourth Amendment.”
“Fifth.”
“Fifth what?”
“It’s the Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate yourself.”
“Whatever.”
Elizabeth exhaled and turned to the Hispanic woman. “Hilda?”
Hilda threw her arms up. “ Señora , he runs like the wind.”
Sam, trying to hide between Ben’s legs: “Help.”
Ben diverted the conversation to save his grandson. He extended his hand to the FBI agent and said, “Ben Brice. I’m Gracie’s grandfather.”
“Eugene Devereaux, FBI.”
He was a big man with big hands and a firm grip. The two men regarded each other.
“Ben Brice,” Agent Devereaux said. “That name sounds familiar. Have we met?”
Ben shook his head and diverted the conversation again. “Have you gotten a ransom call?”
“No, sir.” Agent Devereaux turned to Elizabeth. “What about Gracie’s underwear?”
“Kate,” Elizabeth said, “what underwear was Grace wearing?”
“She wears Under Armour to her games.”
“Under what? ”
Agent Devereaux interrupted: “Under Armour. Sports underwear. All the kids wear them now ’cause the pros do. My daughter wears them under her basketball uniform.” To Kate: “Did Gracie wear compression shorts?”
“Yes. Blue ones. And a sleeveless tee shirt, blue.”
Agent Devereaux glanced down the gallery and called out: “Agent Jorgenson!” He motioned, and a female FBI agent walked up. He addressed her: “We have white Lotto soccer shoes, blue knee socks, shin guards, blue Under Armour shorts and sleeveless tee shirt, blue soccer shorts, a gold soccer jersey with ‘Tornadoes’ on the front and a number nine on the back.” Back to the others: “Anything else?”
“Her necklace,” Ben said, triggering a sharp look from Elizabeth.
“What necklace?” Agent Devereaux asked.
“Silver chain with a silver star.”
“Are you sure she was wearing it?”
“I’m sure.”
Kate confirmed with a knowing nod.
To the female agent, who was writing on a notepad, Agent Devereaux said, “And the necklace. Get the updated description to the media.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and then she departed.
Agent Devereaux gave Ben and Kate a polite nod and said, “Mr. Brice, Mrs. Brice,” then he and Elizabeth walked away down the gallery. Ben turned to Kate.
“Why are they asking about her”—a glance down at Sam—“clothes? I thought it was about ransom.”
She turned her hands up. “Until they get a call …”
Sam tugged at Ben’s legs. “Grandpa, what happened to Gracie? No one’ll tell me the truth.” He gestured up at Kate. “Not even Nanna.”
Ben squatted and came face-to-face with a miniature version of John—the same mop of curly black hair, the same dark eyes, the same black glasses, although his grandson’s glasses had no lenses; Gracie said Sam had taken to wearing the frames so he’d be like his father. Ben had sent his grandson birthday and Christmas gifts each year (hand-carved wooden coyotes and horses and a little rocking chair with SAM carved into the seat back) and had talked to him whenever Gracie had called; and Gracie had sent the photos of Sam that were stuck to the refrigerator in the cabin, so Ben felt as if he knew Sam, but he hadn’t seen the boy since his birth. Ben had never been welcome in his son’s home.
“She’s gone,” Ben said.
“Can I have her stuff?”
“What?”
“You know, like when she goes to college, I’m gonna get her room and all her stuff.”
“No, it’s not like that, Sam. She didn’t want to go.”
“So why did she?”
“A man took her.”
An innocent face. “The mailman?”
“No, not a nice man.”
“A cretin?”
“A what?”
“A bad man.”
“Yes, Sam, a bad man.”
“Where did she sleep last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the cretin feed her dinner?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s ransom?”
“Money.”
“The cretin wants money to let Gracie
Sam, from below: “I claim the Fourth Amendment.”
“Fifth.”
“Fifth what?”
“It’s the Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate yourself.”
“Whatever.”
Elizabeth exhaled and turned to the Hispanic woman. “Hilda?”
Hilda threw her arms up. “ Señora , he runs like the wind.”
Sam, trying to hide between Ben’s legs: “Help.”
Ben diverted the conversation to save his grandson. He extended his hand to the FBI agent and said, “Ben Brice. I’m Gracie’s grandfather.”
“Eugene Devereaux, FBI.”
He was a big man with big hands and a firm grip. The two men regarded each other.
“Ben Brice,” Agent Devereaux said. “That name sounds familiar. Have we met?”
Ben shook his head and diverted the conversation again. “Have you gotten a ransom call?”
“No, sir.” Agent Devereaux turned to Elizabeth. “What about Gracie’s underwear?”
“Kate,” Elizabeth said, “what underwear was Grace wearing?”
“She wears Under Armour to her games.”
“Under what? ”
Agent Devereaux interrupted: “Under Armour. Sports underwear. All the kids wear them now ’cause the pros do. My daughter wears them under her basketball uniform.” To Kate: “Did Gracie wear compression shorts?”
“Yes. Blue ones. And a sleeveless tee shirt, blue.”
Agent Devereaux glanced down the gallery and called out: “Agent Jorgenson!” He motioned, and a female FBI agent walked up. He addressed her: “We have white Lotto soccer shoes, blue knee socks, shin guards, blue Under Armour shorts and sleeveless tee shirt, blue soccer shorts, a gold soccer jersey with ‘Tornadoes’ on the front and a number nine on the back.” Back to the others: “Anything else?”
“Her necklace,” Ben said, triggering a sharp look from Elizabeth.
“What necklace?” Agent Devereaux asked.
“Silver chain with a silver star.”
“Are you sure she was wearing it?”
“I’m sure.”
Kate confirmed with a knowing nod.
To the female agent, who was writing on a notepad, Agent Devereaux said, “And the necklace. Get the updated description to the media.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and then she departed.
Agent Devereaux gave Ben and Kate a polite nod and said, “Mr. Brice, Mrs. Brice,” then he and Elizabeth walked away down the gallery. Ben turned to Kate.
“Why are they asking about her”—a glance down at Sam—“clothes? I thought it was about ransom.”
She turned her hands up. “Until they get a call …”
Sam tugged at Ben’s legs. “Grandpa, what happened to Gracie? No one’ll tell me the truth.” He gestured up at Kate. “Not even Nanna.”
Ben squatted and came face-to-face with a miniature version of John—the same mop of curly black hair, the same dark eyes, the same black glasses, although his grandson’s glasses had no lenses; Gracie said Sam had taken to wearing the frames so he’d be like his father. Ben had sent his grandson birthday and Christmas gifts each year (hand-carved wooden coyotes and horses and a little rocking chair with SAM carved into the seat back) and had talked to him whenever Gracie had called; and Gracie had sent the photos of Sam that were stuck to the refrigerator in the cabin, so Ben felt as if he knew Sam, but he hadn’t seen the boy since his birth. Ben had never been welcome in his son’s home.
“She’s gone,” Ben said.
“Can I have her stuff?”
“What?”
“You know, like when she goes to college, I’m gonna get her room and all her stuff.”
“No, it’s not like that, Sam. She didn’t want to go.”
“So why did she?”
“A man took her.”
An innocent face. “The mailman?”
“No, not a nice man.”
“A cretin?”
“A what?”
“A bad man.”
“Yes, Sam, a bad man.”
“Where did she sleep last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the cretin feed her dinner?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s ransom?”
“Money.”
“The cretin wants money to let Gracie
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