Janie Face to Face

  It made him grin, and suddenly he was happy.

  Once he was back in New Jersey, he dutifully looked at Janie in some puffy dress and said hi to Nicole and ate leftover pizza. He retreated to his room when the girls began a lengthy gown recap, and watched a game on his iPad on MLB.com.

  I guess I’m going to be a spectator, not a pro, he thought. I think I can still be happy.

  The word “happy” buzzed in his brain. The Happy Kidnap.

  Brendan’s hair prickled.

  His mouth dried out.

  His heart raced.

  From the very first reading, the writing had seemed female.

  There were a lot of women to consider. His mother. Janie. Jodie. Miranda. Sarah-Charlotte. Lizzie. Kathleen.

  None of them felt right.

  But there was one other woman.

  Hannah.

  THE THIRTEENTH PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE

  All conditions were right. Witnesses, darkness, weakness—these tilted in Hannah’s favor. An older man, definitely not one of Boulder’s athletes, trudged up to the ATM Hannah was watching. He inserted his card, entered his numbers as if it took the last of his strength, took his card back, and counted the stack of bills.

  He was afraid of Hannah’s knife. She was disappointed when he just gave her the wallet. He left the way he had come and she went the other way, peeling off her outer layer of clothing and her enveloping scarf. In a moment she was slim and beautiful and young again. Nobody could ever recognize her as the person at the ATM.

  She was invincible.

  Why had it taken so long to assert herself? Once she jettisoned that silly thing called caution, it was easy. She just had to act casual, as if she belonged, and of course, now that she was slim and beautiful and young again, she did belong.

  When she got home, she counted the money.

  She was beside herself. All that risk! All that planning! And the bills were just twenties. They hardly added up to anything!

  She would have to do this over and over.

  Which had a certain appeal.

  She was not a person who wasted time. When she had a brilliant idea, she ran with it. By noon the next day, she had pulled off three more ATM events. People saw her knife and they gave her everything.

  Safely back home, she counted her twenties again and again.

  There were so many possibilities for this money. Yes, the original plan. But she was getting tired of the original plan. It was actually very hard to write all those pages. Each page seemed to say the same things she had said on the previous page. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t had the advantages other writers had. It was so unfair. But now she had new plans. She tried to sort out her plans, but they meshed and separated and wriggled around in her brain.

  Somebody knocked.

  Hannah froze. She had never had a visitor.

  She picked up her knife. She picked up her shard of china.

  “Jill?”

  Somebody from one of her jobs was standing at her door?

  Impossible. They didn’t have this address. She always gave a false address. She didn’t rent this place as Jill Williams, either.

  Who could it be?

  The FBI?

  The police?

  Hannah stood motionless, listening hard.

  Eventually she heard the person leave. She crept out to see who it was. Some woman. Unidentifiable from the back.

  Hannah Javensen followed.

  When Hannah got home, she was so excited she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t reread her pages and polish them. She twirled in giddy circles, admiring her knife.

  Several hours passed before she checked in with Adair. Everybody was going to the wedding. It was going to be super fun. They would meet at Adair’s and, in rented vans, drive to New Jersey in groups.

  Wait!

  It wasn’t in July anymore!

  Those people had changed the date!

  That Jennie/Janie was probably laughing at Hannah! Ha-ha! I got you! You thought you had until July.

  Adair thoughtfully provided a map to the church.

  Hannah read everything.

  One post was particularly interesting.

  —They’re not sure Janie’s dad can go, wrote somebody. He might not be well enough and have to stay in the nursing home and miss the wedding.

  It wasn’t a nursing home. They didn’t have nurses at the Harbor. They had aides. Stupid Michael had told her everything about the Harbor. She even knew which elevator to take.

  The word “harbor” was meant to imply that the institution created a safe harbor for its residents.

  No, Frank, she said across the years and miles. It doesn’t.

  She giggled, caressing a new plan. She was experienced now, because of that woman who tried to blackmail her. Using a knife was easy and fun.

  And she had money. Where to drive? The wedding? Or the Harbor?

  Choices, choices.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jodie and Sarah-Charlotte were on the phone, putting together a Friday morning shower for Janie.

  “Reeve doesn’t fly in until Friday afternoon,” said Jodie. “He has to see Father John one more time, plus get his tuxedo and shoes and see his parents and make it to the rehearsal on time. Janie has nothing to do on Friday morning.”

  “Who’s coming?” asked Sarah-Charlotte. “Adair’s group is driving down Saturday morning.”

  “My group’s here, though. And Reeve’s family is showing up Thursday at the hotel so they can have a family reunion at the same time. They’ll come. You drive down Thursday night, Sarah-Charlotte, and stay with us. I wanted to ask you something else. You met that guy Michael, didn’t you? The one pretending to be a researcher?”

  “He was pretending to be a boyfriend,” Sarah-Charlotte corrected. And then she thought, Jodie’s right. It was all pretend. He wasn’t even a researcher. That was pretend too. Why? And why follow me in Boston?

  “Nicole’s cousin Vic is on the local police force, the one that originally handled the kidnapping. Calvin Vinesett hasn’t even talked to them yet. If you haven’t talked to the original police on the scene, who have you talked to?”

  It was a good question, thought Sarah-Charlotte. Why have Michael/Mick try to interview me when I know nothing? The only thing I can talk about is Janie herself.

  Because the book isn’t about Hannah, she thought suddenly. It’s about Janie.

  She remembered the weird thought of a few days ago.

  It was no longer weird.

  It was possible and it was terrifying.

  “Jodie, I have to go,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “See you Thursday.” She stared down at her cell phone.

  Janie had received her first cell phone from her New Jersey parents. The Springs had entered Agent Mollison’s number into Janie’s contact list. Janie was grumpy and didn’t want it there. Sarah-Charlotte’s mother had said, “You never know, Janie,” and to Sarah-Charlotte’s shock and excitement, entered that same number into Sarah-Charlotte’s cell.

  “Mom, what are you picturing?” Sarah-Charlotte had demanded. “That the kidnapper will rise to life again? Corner us in the high school parking lot? We’ll need to summon the cavalry?”

  “You never know,” said her mother again.

  It was fun to have that contact in her phone, as if she really did lead the kind of life where a person needed her own FBI contact.

  I really do, she thought.

  She called.

  An unidentified voice asked her to leave a message.

  It’s probably not even him anymore, she thought. Whoever hears this message probably won’t have any idea what I’m talking about.

  She said, “Okay, I’m hoping this will reach Agent Mollison. This is Janie Johnson’s best friend from high school. Sarah-Charlotte Sherwood. Remember Janie? The face on the milk carton? Janie is being stalked. She knows about it. She thinks she solved it. But who would want that stalking to happen? I think it has to do with Hannah. I think we’
re in trouble.”

  Stephen Spring spent a sleepless night. A miserable day. A second bad night.

  If only he could see Kathleen as clearly as Reeve saw Janie.

  Like Reeve, Stephen saw his career with clarity. But unlike Reeve, he was lost when it came to girls.

  He gave up on sleep. He went and opened the window that faced the distant mountains. The night was clear. On his cell phone he had a star app. He turned it on, and up came the shivery music and the wonderful strange map of the sky. He leaned way out the window and rotated, and the star map on his phone shifted to match what was above him. Too much ambient light here to see much.

  He and Kathleen had once slept out under the stars, up in the mountains, and used this app in the pitch-darkness, identifying the tiny twinkles of light.

  At four in the morning, when the sky was darkest, Stephen texted Kathleen.

  R u up? can I come over?

  In spite of the fact that Kathleen had thought of nothing but Stephen, she did not know what to do. She lay in bed, staring at the glowing little message on the glowing little phone. Finally, she called back. “Stephen?”

  “Kathleen, I’m sorry. I apologize for losing my temper and stomping off. I—I’m very sorry. Can we talk?”

  “It’s too late, Stephen. I made a decision you will not like.”

  “I think I still love you,” he said fearfully, although he had never said that he loved her in the first place.

  Kathleen tightened a blanket around herself. Timing is everything, she thought. Neither one of us has good timing. “I definitely still love you,” she told Stephen. “But I did call my father. And I did call him as an FBI agent, not as a parent. Because I think the situation is bad. I told him everything.”

  She had called her father while she was still hurrying away from the spooky eyes of the possible Hannah. Her father was on the phone to his colleagues in a minute, and the New York office called Calvin Vinesett. They were going to trace the source of the emails sent to Michael Hastings. Brendan Spring had turned over the book chapter. Experts would peruse the “preface” Kathleen had photographed.

  “Would you like an update?” she asked Stephen.

  Her father’s report had been shocking. He told her, “Our expert had a lot to say about the writing. There was no reason to send Brendan’s or Stephen’s interviewers any chapters or paragraphs. That was done from pride. Look at what I’ve written pride. The chapter on Miranda Johnson is not simply filled with hate, but with inaccuracies, repetitions, and threats. The real thrust of that chapter was to excuse the author from any responsibility in life and place it all on a three-year-old or a parent she herself chose never to communicate with. The author is almost certainly Hannah Javensen.”

  “Dad, that’s crazy,” Kathleen had said.

  “You were thinking that Hannah Javensen was sane?”

  “But why would Hannah expose herself through a book?”

  “Criminals are cocky,” her father had said. “They believe they’re smarter than the law. And she has been. Seventeen years of not being found is long enough for anybody to feel smarter than us. The Javensen woman probably looks back on that day in New Jersey with excitement. What better way to showcase her brilliance than a book?”

  “But—wouldn’t she be caught?”

  “Obviously she didn’t think so. Whatever her plan was, she expected to pull it off. And she might have. Luckily you and Brendan Spring and Sarah-Charlotte all knew enough to call the FBI. Three friends or relatives of Janie Johnson, scared enough to call? After all these years? That got attention. As for the three possible Hannahs—that list is in an email to your researcher. So Hannah chose those names. You ascertained that these women exist. We now assume that Hannah knew or knows those women. I cannot believe you and Stephen were stupid enough to interview them yourselves.”

  “Stephen is not stupid!” Kathleen had cried.

  “Stephen is a jerk,” said her father. “I’m glad you’ve broken up with him.”

  Now, on the phone, she listened to Stephen’s voice. It was rougher and quicker than usual. “I don’t care about any news on Hannah. She is what she is. I’m thinking of us. Kathleen, it’s Friday. Or it will be when the sun comes up. I checked the flight. I can still get you a plane ticket. Will you come to the wedding? Will you fly to New Jersey with me today? I—I want you to meet my family.”

  My family has just decided you are a jerk and I’m better off without you, and I don’t own a dress, and now you’re not leaving me time to buy one. “Have you thought this through, Stephen?”

  “I haven’t thought of anything else since I stormed away from you. I didn’t ask you to come to the wedding earlier because just thinking about my sister getting married gave me the hives. We’ve gotten close, you and I, and I didn’t plan on closeness in my life, and I’m still not that sure of it. But I want to show you off to my family.” He paused. “And I’m sorry. I was wrong to run.”

  He may be a jerk now and then, Kathleen told her father silently, but he can say the right words in the end. “When’s our flight? Do I have time to go shopping first?”

  Brendan had a lot to tell his parents.

  They were the ones putting on the wedding. They had to be told about Hannah.

  They also had to know about some seriously unpleasant paperwork that had just arrived from college. No surprise, since he had blown off an entire semester, but seeing it in writing made him feel sick.

  He could discuss how he had learned a lot this year about life and effort and family and loss and Calvin Vinesett. But he didn’t see his parents falling for that.

  He wondered if the school would take him back next September. Or if he should live at home and commute to classes. He’d rather join the army.

  Actually, he would rather join the army. Which maybe he wouldn’t discuss with his parents, who were knee-deep in houseguests and flower arrangements. Rental vans were dropping off tables and chairs for the reception. Everybody was either back from an airport run or setting out.

  Brendan kept trying to corner his father but in the end, his father cornered him. “Hey, kid. You and I better talk.” Dad swept Brendan away from everybody and everything. His father was a big man, but Brendan was bigger. It was odd to be shifted around as if he were still a little guy. It was kind of touching.

  “You got a letter from the college?” Brendan asked nervously.

  “College is not our main worry right now,” said his father. “First of all, I’m proud of you, cornering Michael Hastings and finding Calvin Vinesett. Brilliant work.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I’ve been talking to Agent Mollison all along. I wanted him at the wedding. From the minute it hit Facebook, I knew anybody anywhere could find out every detail of this wedding. We can’t find Hannah, but she can always find us.”

  Brendan’s thoughts had not gone that far. He had been thinking books, not a physical invasion.

  “I haven’t read that material you got hold of,” said his dad, “but I understand that this crazy woman holds a three-year-old or her poor mother responsible for her decisions. I want the church secure.”

  Brendan was horrified. “We should move the wedding someplace else.”

  “No. My daughter is getting the wedding she wants with the boy she loves and neither she nor Reeve is going to be aware of this. Your mother isn’t going to know either. She’s too happy. We’re not slapping her with this. Father John is okay with it.”

  Brendan was reeling. “What’s my job, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to get a daughter and a wheelchair to get down the aisle, so I need somebody in the family who knows about the threat and can jump in.”

  He trusts me, thought Brendan.

  Kathleen and Mandy hit the department store the minute it opened. They galloped into Better Dresses and told the saleswoman they had exactly thirty minutes to find clothes for a rehearsal dinner and a wedding, size 10, shoes 7B. Mandy handled shoes, racing back
and forth with matches.

  Kathleen kept saying, “It can’t be a cocktail dress, it has to look right in a church, that’s too short, I’m five nine, that’s too frumpy!”

  “Stop being picky!” yelled Mandy. “You’re down to twelve minutes and you still have to swipe your credit card!”

  “I found just the right thing!” shouted the saleswoman. “Here! Perfect for you! Sleek and stylish in a good color.”

  They dashed into the dressing room.

  Kathleen stared at the reflection in the mirror. She was no longer a leggy hiker or a camo-clad college student with a torn sweatshirt. She was a woman with style. And the shoes didn’t even hurt. And she did have the best ankles in the world.

  She even had time to text Brendan. Stephen didn’t want an update. He doesn’t know anything. It’s you, me, and S-C.

  On the plane, Stephen and Kathleen could not get seats next to each other. He was two rows down, across the aisle, and in the middle. He would never have bought a middle seat for himself. So he was in the last-minute seat and he’d given the good one to her.

  See, Daddy? she said silently. He isn’t a jerk.

  She yearned to communicate with Stephen. But all cell phones had to be off. The woman next to her was doing a crossword puzzle with a pencil. Kathleen didn’t carry pencil or paper. She opened the flight magazine, ripped out an advertising card, and said to her seatmate, “May I borrow your pencil for one second?”

  She wrote Stephen a note and passengers passed it on.

  He wrote back. Soon the narrow white margin of the card was full.

  She started a second advertising card.

  Then she found a receipt in her purse with a blank back.

  She had never passed notes before. It was so much fun. And what a way to get Stephen to commit: he had to write it all down!

  She was actually sorry when the woman next to her offered to switch seats with Stephen.