Missing Since Monday

  “That was the first time!” I cried. “He’s never mentioned her before. I swear.”

  “Just how many of these calls have you gotten, Maggie? And when did they start?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know how many exactly.” I followed Becker into the kitchen and sat down opposite her at the table. “They started about three weeks ago. I’ve gotten three, maybe four, a week. But he’s always just interested in me. He’s never asked about Courtie.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your father or Leigh about the calls?”

  “I was embarrassed. The guy asks what I look like, that kind of stuff. I know he means what do I look like naked. I can’t tell Dad something like that. And I wouldn’t tell Leigh. Besides, he’s never said he was coming over or that he knows where I live. I didn’t think the calls meant anything—just that some creep dialed our number one day and got a young girl on the phone. Anyway, if I’d said something, Dad and Leigh wouldn’t have gone on their honeymoon. And they needed the vacation.”

  Becker looked very displeased. “Well, why didn’t you tell us about the calls?”

  “Because then you’d have told Dad and Leigh.”

  Becker put her head in her hands. “Creeps like him can be dangerous,” she said. “Do you recognize the voice at all? Does it sound like anyone you know?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t tell.”

  “It sounds as if the caller’s disguising his voice,” Becker remarked. “Maggie, the next time this person calls, please keep him on the line, even if it means leading him on a little. We’re going to try to trace his call.”

  “Okay.”

  “You realize, don’t you, that I’m going to have to tell your father and stepmother about this? The calls could be critical in finding your sister.”

  I nodded miserably.

  “But,” Becker went on, “I’d rather nobody else heard about them. This piece of knowledge will be more useful to us as a secret. If the caller knows we’re waiting to trace his calls, he’ll stop calling, right?”

  “Right. Can I tell Mike about them?”

  “I’d just as soon you didn’t.”

  “Why not? He’s my brother. He’s part of this family and part of the investigation. He won’t say anything.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Becker repeated.

  “Hey, are you accusing Mike of something?” I cried. “Are you saying he’s the caller?”

  Becker opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “Because I’ve gotten tons of the calls while he was standing right next to me.”

  “Just keep it to your—” Becker broke off as the front door opened.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Hello-oh!” called a voice.

  It was Mrs. Simon. She’s asked me about a hundred times to call her Grandma, but I can’t bring myself to. “It’s Leigh’s mother,” I whispered to Becker.

  I went into the front hall, and there she was, dressed all in white—a white pants suit with a white blouse, white shoes, big white plastic jewelry, a white thing fastened to her hair at the back of her head, and of course the white cigarette holder. The only thing that wasn’t white was the cigarette itself, which was pink.

  Mrs. Simon embraced me in a cloud of perfume and sympathy. “You poor, poor dear,” she said. I could tell she was loving every minute of it. Mrs. Simon thrives on drama and emergencies. Her day really improves if, for example, someone dies.

  She let go of me and I backed away. “Thanks for coming so … quickly, Mrs. Simon,” I said.

  “Grandma. Call me Grandma,” she corrected me, holding out a foil-wrapped package.

  “Oh, gee, thanks. A brisket. How’d you make it so fast?”

  “I had it in the freezer. I took it out as soon as I returned. It was the very first thing I did. I know your family doesn’t eat right. Leigh never did learn how to cook prop—”

  Becker had stepped into the room. I introduced her to Leigh’s mother, handed her the brisket, and then took Mrs. Simon upstairs, where I left her with Leigh. When I came back into the living room, Becker was sitting on the couch, writing in her notebook. “Quite a woman,” she commented.

  I made a face. “Did you notice she didn’t say a thing about Courtie? All she cares about are her briskets and grand entrances and the excitement.”

  “Maybe she’s just covering up.”

  “Oh, sure. They find the slashed-up body of a four-year-old thrown in the woods like a piece of garbage, so naturally Mrs. Simon thaws out a brisket and finds a pink cigarette.”

  Becker attempted a smile, but I burst into tears.

  “Maggie,” said Becker soothingly.

  I tried to stop crying and couldn’t. “Can I call Martha?” I said through my tears.

  “Of course.”

  I dialed Martha’s number, but it was David who answered the phone. “Maggie?” he said sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you come over?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  About ten minutes later, the doorbell rang and David was standing on our front steps, out of breath from running. I opened the door, and he came in and put his arms around me. He held me for a long time before he asked what had happened.

  It was funny. Leigh was upstairs being comforted by her mother, and I was downstairs being comforted by David. We should have been comforting each other, but things just never worked out for us. I felt as if I never gained any ground with Leigh. It was always a step forward, a step back, a step forward, a step back. Sometimes two steps back.

  “They found a body in the woods, Sussex Woods,” I finally told David. “A little girl, all slashed up.”

  David turned as white as a sheet. “Oh, my God.”

  “Well, we don’t know that it’s Courtie,” I said as Becker handed me a tissue. I took it gratefully, and David and I sat down on the couch in the living room. Becker ducked out. “Dad and Mike went to … wherever you go, to look at the body. They ought to be back soon, I guess.” I wiped my eyes.

  David and I sat there holding hands and talking until Dad, Mike, and Lamberton returned. Dad was absolutely ashen. Mike looked green, and in fact went into the bathroom and threw up.

  I stood up, and Dad came over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “It wasn’t Courtenay,” he said.

  “Thank God. What’s wrong with Mike?”

  “It was a pretty horrible sight.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let me go upstairs and talk to Leigh.”

  “Mrs. Simon’s there.”

  “Good.”

  “She brought a brisket.”

  Dad gave me a wry grin and started up the stairs. I grinned back, forgetting momentarily that I was supposed to be mad at him.

  I looked at Lamberton. “So who was it?”

  “The body?”

  “Yeah.” Who else? I thought.

  “We don’t know.”

  “How can you not know? Hasn’t someone reported their daughter missing?”

  “Over the last couple of years, thousands. It could be any of them. It could be the child of a runaway who’s been missing for years herself. It could be a child who’s been missing since birth. It could be a child who hasn’t been reported missing. Kids, families, fall through the cracks. You’d be surprised.”

  Mike came out of the bathroom then.

  “Are you okay?” David asked him.

  Mike nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to try to get some sleep. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” we said.

  Dad and Mrs. Simon came downstairs a few minutes later, and David took off like a shot. He may be big-hearted, but Mrs. Simon drives even him crazy, which only goes to show how annoying she is.

  “Well, ’night, everybody,” I said.

  Dad looked at his watch. It was only eight-thirty.

  I shrugged and ran upstairs. When I reached the top, I slowed down. The door to Dad and Leigh’s bedroom was ajar. I peeped in. It was pitch black inside. “Lei
gh?” I whispered.

  No answer.

  I pushed the door open. The light from the hall fell across Leigh’s face. She was lying on her side, breathing deeply and evenly. She looked peaceful. I tiptoed into the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and put one of her hands between both of mine. She stirred sleepily. “Maggie?” she murmured.

  “It’s okay, Leigh. Go back to sleep.”

  “Mmm.”

  I held her hand for a while longer. Then I placed it gently on the blanket and tiptoed back out, closing the door behind me.

  13

  The Search Continues

  THE NEXT FIVE DAYS became a blur of school, policemen, and meetings and fund-raising projects with our friends and the kids at school. We held our first bake sale, hastily arranged, and it was such a success that we decided to hold another the following weekend. Mike and I tried desperately to catch up on our missed schoolwork and to keep up with the new work, but it was impossible. I decided to resign myself to summer school. Just then, Courtie seemed more important than classes.

  On Tuesday evening, I was sitting alone in the den, working on Courtenay projects. Dad was in the kitchen talking to Lamberton (Becker wasn’t around much anymore), and Mike was over at Paul Keane’s house, helping him stack the posters into packs of fifty. I was scribbling away so furiously that I didn’t hear Leigh. I wasn’t even aware that she had come into the den until she sat down beside me.

  I jumped and dropped my pen. “You scared me!”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to. You were writing so busily.”

  I looked at Leigh. She was wearing the same robe she’d had on for days—ever since the TV news interview. There were huge dark rings under her eyes, and because she’d been living mainly on coffee since she and Dad got back from Saint Bart’s, she was visibly thinner, especially around her cheekbones.

  That was the first time she’d spoken to me voluntarily since the day they returned.

  “What are you working on?” she asked tiredly, rubbing her forehead.

  I paused. “Courtenay stuff …”

  “Courtenay stuff?”

  “For our search. We printed up four thousand posters about Courtie. Then, to pay for them, we held a bake sale, which earned almost two hundred and fifty dollars, a car wash, which earned about the same amount, and a jogging marathon, which earned three hundred dollars. We’ve already paid for the posters, we have money left over, and we still have a bunch of other projects to do. All the money’s going into a Search for Courtenay Fund. Mr. Sakala at school helped us set it up.” I couldn’t look at Leigh. I was afraid of what I’d see.

  “Who’s ‘us’?” was all she said.

  “Me, Mike, David, Martha, Jane, Andrew, and a hundred and forty-one kids at school. More join us every day.”

  Leigh nodded. “Maggie, why didn’t you come to your father and me when you started getting the obscene phone calls?”

  I’d been waiting for that question. “Because I was embarrassed,” I replied. “And because I was afraid you’d give up your vacation if you knew about them.”

  “But don’t you think it would have been wiser for us to stay home?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be the cause of that.”

  “What do you mean, Maggie?”

  “Everything’s always my fault around here!” I blurted out. “I mess up with Courtenay, I cause problems with you and Mike and me, I make dumb mistakes, I’m not reliable. The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for ruining your vacation.” My eyes filled with tears.

  Leigh reached out and took my hand. “Honey, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I sniffed.

  “I’m impressed with all the money you’ve earned,” she said. “Very impressed.”

  “Thanks. … You want to help us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But Leigh, it’s for Courtie.”

  Silence. Then, “You’re doing a good job with the search,” she said finally, and left the room.

  I sat there bristling. It wasn’t that Leigh didn’t want to help find Courtie. She just didn’t want to help me do it.

  I was glad the fund-raising projects were going so well, but what concerned me the most were the posters. They would be the most helpful in locating Courtenay. As fast as Mike and Paul could sort the posters into stacks, kids came and got them and put them up. They were all over the county. You couldn’t go more than two steps without seeing Courtie’s giggly face smiling at you from a lamppost or phone pole, or from inside a store window.

  On Wednesday afternoon, the day after my talk with Leigh, David and I decided to put up a stack of posters as well as some of the Jacobssens’ fliers. “Let’s take Hopewell instead of Cranberry,” I said as I climbed into his car. “I know we haven’t hit Cranberry yet, but Hopewell isn’t too far from here, so we should cover it soon.”

  “Okay, boss,” replied David. He slid behind the wheel, and we took off for Hopewell.

  “Look how green everything is, David,” I said after we’d been driving for a while. “You know, I’ve been so wrapped up in Courtenay, I’ve been forgetting other things, important things—like the fact that summer’s on the way.”

  “You know what else is on the way?”

  “What?”

  “The Junior Prom.”

  I froze. Then a pleasant, tingly feeling began to creep up my body, starting in my toes. “The Prom?” I repeated breathlessly.

  “Yeah. … Would you like to go?”

  I couldn’t believe it! Would I like to go? Would I like a million dollars? Would I like to have Courtie back? Of course I wanted to go! I’d been dreaming of going to a prom ever since I first heard of them. I was wild to go. But I simply said demurely, “Oh, David. Thank you! I’d love to.”

  “Great,” he said. He reached over and squeezed my hand, then returned to his driving. David is a serious, careful driver.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes for a few moments. I wanted a white gown. White couldn’t possibly clash with red hair. Something simple would be nice—maybe spaghetti straps and a full skirt.

  Suddenly I jerked upright. What was I doing? How did I dare daydream about something as lovely as my first prom when Courtie was missing?

  “It’s such a mystery,” I said.

  “What is?” asked David.

  “Courtie. She gets on the school bus, but she never gets to school, and nobody notices when she disappears. She couldn’t just vanish into thin air.”

  “No,” said David.

  “But do you know how many weird cases of missing people there are? I mean, famous cases. Like Judge Crater. In 1930, he stepped into a cab in New York City—and was never heard from again. Not a single trace of him was found. If he was murdered, his body should have been found. If he was still alive, somebody should have seen him. Then there was Dorothy Arnold. In 1910—I think it was 1910—she said goodbye to a friend she’d been chatting with in front of a store in New York, crossed Fifth Avenue—and was never heard from again. Or that famous writer Ambrose Bierce. He investigated one of the strangest cases of disappearance ever—this guy Orion Williamson really did vanish into thin air, right in front of the eyes of his family—and then Bierce himself disappeared. It was about sixty years later. He left the United States, crossed into Mexico—and was never heard from again.”

  “Those stories are bizarre,” said David. “Are you sure they’re true?”

  “Well, that’s how they’ve been documented, by lots of different writers and journalists. I get goose bumps just thinking about them. And there are plenty more stories like them. I’d die to know what happened to those people, but I guess we’ll never find out.”

  “Yeah.” David slowed down, stopped at a light, and turned left onto the road that would take us to Hopewell. “But you know, I bet it wouldn’t be so hard to disappear if you really wanted to. I mean right now, if we just kept on driving, we could probably disappear so that no one would ever hear from
us again. Nobody knows where we’re headed. Back at Paul’s, we said we were going to cover Cranberry, and then we changed our minds as we got in the car. If we drove another hundred miles or so, we could take this car to a junkyard to be crushed by a compactor, then buy bus tickets to some little town in the middle of nowhere, change our identities. … I bet we could do it.”

  “David!” I said with a gasp. “That is bizarre.”

  “Bizarre, but possible.”

  “I suppose so. Why would anyone want to do that, though?”

  David shrugged. “Who knows? An impossible marriage, escaping from trouble or the law. It’s better than killing yourself or something.”

  I shivered. “But Courtie’s only four. Those things don’t apply to her.”

  “No, that’s true. I’m just pointing out that every mystery does have a solution, even if we don’t know what it is, and some of those solutions are probably pretty mundane. But the mysteries remain mysteries because we don’t know what the solutions are. Judge Crater could simply have gotten fed up with his life and taken off for a cabin in the mountains or something. His story just seems more frightening because we don’t know what really happened.”

  “You’re too practical!” I teased. “Those mysteries fascinate me.”

  “You’re too romantic,” David teased back, smiling. “But don’t change. I like you that way.”

  We were driving slowly along the main street of Hopewell. When David found a parking space, he maneuvered the car into it and we got out, armed with posters and fliers.

  “Well?” said David.

  “I guess we might as well split up and each take one side of the street.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing, even though it would be more fun to do this together.” Hopewell is such a quaint little town that people come every day just to look around and window-shop and buy gifts. Consequently, a lot of stores have sprung up recently and the town is a busier place than it used to be. We’d get a lot more accomplished separately than together.

  For the next hour, I pounded the pavement. I tacked posters to phone poles, lampposts, signposts, fences, and mailboxes. I went into every store, asked the clerks for permission to put a poster in the window, and made a point of telling them about Courtie and her disappearance. I walked up to strangers on the street, handed them fliers, and said, “This is my sister. She’s missing. Have you seen her?”