Speaking in Tongues

  It was raining again, a gray drizzle. In the mist and rain he couldn't see the driver clearly though he was now certain he was young and black.

  And because he followed Matthews so carelessly and obviously he sure wasn't a cop.

  But who?

  Then Matthews remembered: Megan had a black boyfriend. Josh or Joshua, wasn't it? The boy that Dr. Hanson had suggested she leave--if Megan had been telling the truth about that bit of advice, which he suspected she might not have been.

  What was going through the young man's mind?

  As a scientist, Matthews believed in logic. The only time people acted illogically--even psychotics--was when they were having seizures. We might not be able to perceive the logic they operated by and their actions might be illogical to rational observers but that was only because they were not being empathetic. Once we climb into the minds of our patients, he wrote in his well-received essay on delusional behavior in bipolars, once we understand their fears and desires--their own internal system of logic--then we can begin to understand their motives, the reasons behind their actions, and we can help them change . . .

  So, what was this young man thinking?

  Maybe Megan had planned to meet him at the office after the appointment. Maybe he'd just happened to see her car, being driven by a man he didn't recognize, and followed it.

  Or maybe--this accorded with Matthews's perceptions on the frighteningly powerful dynamics of love--he'd been waiting at the office to confront the doctor about the breakup. Maybe even attack him.

  Thanks for that, Dr. Hanson, he thought acerbically. Should have broken your hip, not Mom's . . . Rage shook him for a moment. Then he calmed.

  Did the boy have a car phone? Had he called the police and reported the Mercedes's license number? It was a stolen plate but the number didn't belong to a gray Mercedes and that discrepancy would be reason enough for the cops to pull him over and look in the trunk.

  But no, of course, he hadn't called the cops. They'd be after him by now if he had.

  But what if he'd called her parents? What did Tate Collier know? Matthews brooded. What was the man thinking? What was he planning to do?

  Matthews sped on until he came to a rest stop then he pulled suddenly into the long driveway, weaving slowly through the tractor trailers and four-by-fours filled with vacationers. He noticed that the white Toyota had made a panicked exit and was pulling into the rest stop after him. Fortunately the rain was heavy again. Which gave Matthews the excuse to hold an obscuring Washington Post over his head as he ran to the shelter.

  Chapter Eight

  They were trotting through the rain to Tate's black Lexus when his cell phone buzzed.

  As they dropped into the front seats he answered. "Hello?"

  "Tate Collier, please." A man's voice.

  "Speaking."

  "Mr. Collier, I'm Special Agent William McComb, with the FBI's Child Exploitation and Kidnapping Unit. We've just received an interagency notice about your daughter."

  "I'm glad you called."

  "I'm sorry about your girl," the agent said, speaking in the chunky monotone Tate knew so well from working with the feds. "Unfortunately, I have to say, sir, based on the facts we've got, there's not a lot we can do. But you made some friends here when you were a commonwealth's attorney and so we're going to open a file and put her name out on our network. That means there'll be a lot more eyes looking for her."

  "Anything you can do will really be appreciated. My wife and I are pretty upset."

  "I can imagine," the agent said, registering a splinter of emotion. "Could you give me some basics about her and the disappearance?"

  Tate ran through the physical details, Bett helping on the specifics. Blond, blue eyes, five six, 128 pounds, age seventeen. Then he told McComb about the letters. Tate asked, "You heard about her car?"

  "Um, no sir."

  "The Fairfax County Police found it at Vienna Metro. It looks like she went to Manhattan."

  "Really? No, I didn't hear that. Well, we'll tell our office in New York about it . . . But do I hear something in your voice, sir? Are you thinking that maybe she didn't run away? Are you thinking there was some foul play?"

  Tate had to smile. He'd never thought of himself--especially his speech--as transparent. "As a matter of fact, we've been having some doubts, my wife and I."

  "Interesting," McComb said in a wooden monotone. "What specifically leads you to believe that?"

  "A few things. Megan's mother and I are on our way to Leesburg right now to talk to her therapist. See what he can tell us."

  "He's in Leesburg?"

  "His mother's in St. Mary's Hospital. She had an accident."

  "And you think he might be able to tell you something?"

  "He said he wanted to talk to us. I don't know what he's got in mind."

  "Any other thoughts?"

  "Well, Megan told her girlfriend that there was a car following her over the past few weeks."

  "Car, hm? They get any description?"

  "Her girlfriend didn't. But we think a teacher at her school did. Eckhard's his name. He's supposed to be at the school later, coaching volleyball. But I'd guess that's only if the rain breaks up."

  "And what's her friend's name?"

  He gave the agent Amy Walker's name. "We're going to talk to her too. And pick up Megan's book bag from her. We're hoping it might have something in it that'll give us a clue where she's gone."

  "I see. Does Megan have any siblings?"

  "No."

  "Is there anyone else who's had much contact with the girl?"

  "Well, my wife's fiance."

  Silence for a moment. "Oh, you're divorced."

  "That's right. Forgot to mention it."

  "You have his name and number?" McComb asked.

  Tate asked Bett, who gave him the information. Into the phone he said, "His name's Brad Markham. He lives in Baltimore." Tate gave him Brad's phone number as well.

  "Do you think he was involved in any way?" the agent asked Tate.

  "I've never met him but, no, I'm sure not."

  "Okay. You working with anyone particular at the Fairfax County Police?"

  "Konnie . . . That'd be Dimitri Konstantinatis."

  "Out of which office?"

  "Fair Oaks."

  "Very good, sir . . . You know, nearly all runaways return on their own. And most of the ones that don't, get picked up and sent back home. A little counseling, some family therapy, and things generally work out just fine."

  "Thanks for your thoughts. Appreciate it."

  "Oh, one thing, Mr. Collier. I guess you know about the law. About how it could be, let's say, troublesome for you to take matters into your own hands here."

  "I do."

  "Bad for everybody."

  "Understood."

  "Okay. Then enough said."

  "Appreciate that too. I'm just going to be asking a few questions."

  "Good luck to both of you."

  They hung up and he told Bett what the agent had said. Her face was troubled.

  "What is it?" He felt an urge to append a "honey" but nipped that one fast.

  "Just that it seems so much more serious with the FBI involved."

  *

  How foolish people are, how trusting, how their defenses crumble like sand when they believe they're talking to a friend. And oh how they want to believe that you are a friend . . .

  Why, if wild animals were as trusting as human beings they'd have gone extinct ages ago.

  Aaron Matthews, no longer portraying the stony-voiced FBI agent, protector of children, hung up the phone after speaking with Tate Collier. He almost felt guilty--it had been so easy to draw information out of the man.

  And what information it was! Oh, Matthews was angry. His mood teetered precariously. All his preparation--such care, such finesse, everything constructed to paralyze Collier and his wife with sorrow and send them home to brood about their lost daughter . . . and what were they doing but playin
g amateur detectives?

  Their talking to Hanson could be a real problem. Megan might have said something about loving her parents and never even considering running away. Or, even worse, they might become suspicious of Matthews's whole plan and have the police go through Hanson's office. He'd been careful there but hadn't worn gloves all the time. There were fingerprints--and the window latch in the bathroom where Matthews had snuck in was still broken. Then there was Amy Walker, Megan's friend. With a book bag that probably didn't have anything compromising but might--maybe a diary or those notes teenage girls are always passing around in school. And this Eckhard, the teacher and coach. What did he know?

  Reports of a car following her . . .

  Much of Matthews's reconnaissance had been conducted around the school. If the teacher had walked up to the car he might easily have gotten the license number of the Mercedes; Matthews hadn't changed the license plates to the stolen ones until yesterday. And even if Eckhard didn't think he'd seen much, there were probably some prickly little facts locked away in the teacher's subconscious; Matthews had done much hypnosis work and knew how many memories and observations were retained in the cobwebby recesses of the mind.

  Why the hell was Collier doing this? Why hadn't the letters fooled him? He was a fucking lawyer! He was supposed to be logical, he was supposed to be cold. Why didn't he believe the bald facts in front of him?

  A dark mood began to settle on Matthews but he struggled to throw it off.

  No, I have no time for this now! Fight it, fight it, fight it . . .

  (He thought of how many patients he'd wanted to grab by the lapels and shake as he shouted, Oh, quit your fucking complaining! You don't like her, leave. She left you? Find somebody else. You're a drunk, stop drinking.) And closing his eyes fiercely, clenching his fists until a nail broke through the flesh of his palm, he struggled to remain emotionally buoyant. After a few minutes he forced the mood away. He returned to the phone and called three Walkers in Fairfax before he got the household that included a teenage Amy.

  "Yes, Amy's my daughter," the woman's cautious voice said. "Who's this?"

  "I'm William McComb, with the county. I've gotten a call from Child Protective Services."

  "My God, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing to be alarmed at, Mrs. Walker. This doesn't involve your daughter. We're investigating a case involving Megan McCall."

  "Oh, no! Is Megan all right? She spent the night here!"

  "That's what we understand. It seems she's missing and we've been looking into some allegations about her father."

  There was a moment's pause.

  "Tate Collier," Matthews prompted.

  "Oh, right. I don't know him. You think he's involved? You think he did something?"

  "We're just looking into a few things now. But I'd appreciate it if you'd tell your daughter she shouldn't have any contact with him."

  "Why would she have any contact with him?" the edgy voice asked. How easily she'll cry, Matthews predicted.

  "We don't think there'd be any reason for him to hurt or touch her . . ."

  "Oh, God. You don't think?"

  "We just want to make sure Amy stays safe until we get to the bottom of what happened to Megan."

  " 'Happened to Megan'? Please tell me what's going on."

  "I can't really say any more at this time. Tell me, where's your daughter now?"

  "Upstairs."

  "Would you mind if I spoke to her?"

  "No, of course not."

  A moment later a girl's lazy voice: "Hello?"

  "Hi, Amy. This is Mr. McComb. I'm with the county. How are you?"

  "Okay, I guess. Like, is Megan okay?"

  "I'm sure she's fine. Tell me, has Megan's father talked to you recently?"

  "Um," the girl began.

  "You answer," the mother said sternly from a second phone.

  "Yeah, like, he said she's missing and asked me about her. He was going to come by and get her book bag."

  "So he's interested in what's in her bag? Did you get the impression he was concerned with what might be inside?"

  "Like, maybe."

  The mother: "You were going to let him in here? And not tell me?"

  The girl snapped, "Mom, just, like, cut it out, okay? It's Megan's dad."

  Matthews said sternly, "Amy, don't talk to him. And whatever you do, don't go anywhere with him."

  "I--"

  "If he suggests going away, getting into his car, going into his barn . . ."

  "God, his barn?" her mother gasped. Yep, Matthews could hear soft weeping.

  He continued, "Amy, if he offers you something to drink . . ."

  Another gasp.

  Oh my, this was fun. Matthews continued calmly, ". . . whatever he says tell him no. If he comes over don't answer the door. Make sure it's locked."

  "Like, why?"

  "You don't ask why, young lady. You do what the man says."

  "Mom, like, come on . . . What about her book bag?"

  "You just hold on to it until you hear from me or someone at Child Protective Services. Okay?"

  "I guess."

  "Should we call the police?" Mrs. Walker asked.

  "No, it's not a criminal charge yet."

  "Oh, God," said Amy's mother, the woman of the limited epithets. Then: "Amy, tell me. Did Megan's father ever touch you? Now, tell the truth."

  "Who? Megan's father? Mom, you're such a loser. I never even met him."

  "Mrs. Walker?"

  "Yes. I'm here." Her voice cracked.

  "I really don't want to alarm you unnecessarily."

  "No, no. We appreciate your calling. What's your number, Mr. McComb?"

  "I'm going to be in the field for a while. Let me call you later, when I'm back at the office."

  "All right."

  Matthews felt a cheerful little twinge as he heard her crying. Though Amy's silence on the other extension was louder.

  He couldn't resist. "Mrs. Walker?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you have a gun?"

  A choked sob. "No, we don't. I don't. I've never . . . I wouldn't know how to use one. I guess I could go to Sports Authority. I mean--"

  "That's all right," Matthews said soothingly. "I'm sure it's not going to come to anything like that."

  "What if Megan's mother, like, calls?" the girl asked.

  "Yes," Mrs. Walker echoed, "what if her mother calls?"

  A concerned pause. "I'd be careful. We're investigating her too . . . It was a very troubled household, it seems."

  "God," Mrs. Walker muttered.

  Matthews hung up.

  What a mess this could become. The kidnapping had been so simple in theory. But, in practice, it was growing so complicated. Just like the art of psychiatry itself, he reflected.

  Well, there were other things to do to protect himself. But first things first. He had to get Megan to her new home--with his son, Peter--deep in the mountains.

  Matthews returned to the Mercedes. He pulled back onto the highway, noting that the white car was still sticking with him like a lamprey to a fish.

  Chapter Nine

  Amy wasn't home.

  Oh, brother. Tate sighed. Looked through a window, saw nothing. Walked back to the front door. Pressed the bell again. Standing on the concrete stoop of the split-level house in suburban Burke, Tate kept his hand on the doorbell for a full minute but neither the girl nor her mother came to the door.

  Where'd she gone? Bett had said that they'd stop by soon. Why hadn't Amy stayed home? Or at least put the book bag out on the front stoop?

  Didn't she care about Megan? Was this adolescent friendship nowadays?

  "Maybe the bell's broken," Bett called from the car.

  But Tate pounded on the door with his open palm. There was no response. "Amy!" he called. No answer.

  "Go 'round back," Bett suggested.

  Tate pushed through two scratchy holly bushes and rapped on the back door.

  Still no answer. He decided to s
lip inside and find the bag; a missing teenager took precedence over a technical charge of trespass (thinking: I could make a good argument for an implied license to enter the premises). But as he reached for the doorknob he believed he heard a click. When he tried to open the latch he found the door was locked.

  He peered through the window and thought he saw some motion. But he couldn't be sure.

  Tate returned to the car.

  "Not there." He sighed. "We'll call later."

  "Leesburg?" Bett asked.

  "Let's try that teacher first. Eckhard."

  It was only a five-minute drive to the school. The rain had stopped and youngsters were gathering on the school yard--boys for baseball, girls for volleyball, both sexes for soccer. Hacky Sacks, Frisbees, skateboards abounded. After speaking with several parents and students they learned that Robert Eckhard, the volleyball coach, had put together a practice for three that afternoon. It was now a quarter to two.

  Tate flopped down into the passenger seat of the Lexus. He stretched. "This police work . . . I don't see how Konnie does it."

  Bett kicked her shoes off and massaged her feet. "Wish I'd worn comfy boots, like you." Then she glanced toward the school. "Look," she said.

  When they'd been married Bett assumed that he knew exactly what she was thinking or talking about. She'd often communicate with a cryptic phrase, a gesture of her finger, an eyebrow raised like a witch casting a spell. And Tate would have no clue as to her meaning. Today, though, he turned his head toward where she was looking and saw the two blue-uniformed security guards, standing in one of the back doorways of the school.

  "Good idea," he said. And they drove around to the door.

  By the time they got there the guards had gone inside. Bett and Tate parked and walked inside the school. The halls had that smell of all high schools--sweat, lab gas, disinfectant, paste.

  Tate laughed to himself at the instinctive uneasiness he felt being here. Classwork had come easily to him but he'd spent his hours and effort on Debate Club and the teachers were forever booting him into detention hall for skipped classes or missing homework. That he would pause at the door on the way out of class and resonantly quote Cicero or John Calhoun to his teacher didn't help his academic record any, of course.

  The security offices in Megan's school were small cubicles of carpeted partitions near the gym.

  One guard, a crew-cut boy with half-mast eyelids, wearing a perfectly pressed uniform, listened unemotionally to Tate's story. He adjusted his glistening black billy club.

  "Don't know your daughter." He turned, called out, "Henry, you know a Megan McCall?"