ABOUT MIDNIGHT MAGGIE GOT OUT OF BED AND STOOD A long time in the shower. Long after the hot water ran cold, she turned off the stream and stood dripping, eyes closed, leaning against the post that held the showerhead and shaking her head.
I watched from the loft and saw only what one eye and one slit allowed. Maggie's lips were trembling, goose bumps traveled up and down her arms, and her shoulders were tilted at an angle. I climbed down out of the loft and handed her a towel.
She wrapped it around herself, tucking it beneath her arms but not bothering to dry with it.
"You hungry? I could fix some-"
She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. I turned to cross the yard and find something in the kitchen when she called, "D.S." It'd been a long time since she called me by that name.
Maybe it was time. Maybe I could come clean and tell her the stories I'd been hiding. I stepped closer, into the single bulb above the shower. "Maggie, I know how you-"
She stood straight, her back rigid, and pointed her finger at me. `Don't tell me you know how I feel!"
"Honey, I was just saying-11
"You don't know anything! You can't possibly!" She dropped her towel and stood clutching her stomach as if she'd been shot. "You don't know what it's like." She held out her fingers. "Three of your own!"
She clutched her stomach again, and I walked closer.
She held me off. "What kind of a woman am I!? What good is-" She pounded her stomach and chest and squeezed the taut skin. "Why!?"
She fell to her knees and beat the pallet that served as the shower floor. I picked up the towel and draped it over her shoulders. Blue hung his eyes over the loft, afraid to come down but troubled by the sound. Her crying quieted Pinky, who had started to complain about her lack of a midnight snack.
I turned around, kicked the stall, and told her to hush.
Maggie collected her towel, climbed naked up to the loft, and shut the door behind her.
I walked to the house and into the kitchen, where I percolated some coffee, threw some ice in a ziplock, and then walked back to the barn and nursed both my eye and my caffeine need at the base of the loft. I looked across the yard at our house, draped in a blue tarp, smelling like smoke, and by most definitions sitting in shambles. I looked up at the closed door, thought about Maggie tossing tearfully inside, and then considered the state of our lives, which was by most definitions much like our house.
I shook my head, spat, poured out the cold coffee, and wiped my eyes-loss is a painful thing.
AROUND 3:00 AM-SOME THREE HOURS AND FOUR cups of coffee later, I sat leaning against the barn door, downwind from Pinky, when Amos's voice crackled over the scanner. It took a second to recognize him because he was out of breath and nearly screaming.
"114 to 110, 114 to 110! "
"110 to 114, go ahead, 114."
"207 in progress. Suspect is 962. I've got a 998 and 999, NOW! "
"114, what's your 20?"
"Parking garage southeast of the hospital."
"10-4, 114. Do you know the name of the person who's been kidnapped?"
There was a pause, then a click from Amos's radio. His whisper was barely audible. "Amanda ... 'Manda Carter."
I jumped off the steps, climbed the stairs, and burst through the door. The sound woke Maggie, who jumped up angry and cross. I grabbed the shotgun and jumped into my boots.
"Come on," I managed. "It's Amos. They took Amanda."
Maggie moved quickly, and we met at the van about the same time. I placed the shotgun in the backseat and made room for Blue while I dropped the gearshift into drive and dug a trench spinning dirt out to the road.
Ten minutes later I slid to a stop in front of Pastor John's house, which was lit up like a runway. Police cars and flashing lights were everywhere. Standing on the front porch, Li'l Dylan was crying and could not be consoled. Maggie jumped out of the van, ran barefooted across the grass, and picked him up.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled a pacifier out of her pocket. She smiled at him and put the handle end of the pacifier in her mouth, and he bit. He laid his head on her shoulder, his crying quieted, and they disappeared inside.
Several deputies had gathered around the trunk of one car as a SWAT truck pulled up and several men jumped out. Amos stood in the middle, spouting orders like a man possessed. He ripped the microphone off his shoulder and screamed, "And tell the judge I need that warrant now!"
The dispatcher responded, and Amos swore. "I don't care what his aide says; you get him out of bed now!"
Pastor John stood nearby in a white T-shirt, slacks, and slippers.
I eased up next to him and asked, "What happened?"
He swallowed. "Amanda was on call. Her beeper went off about two o'clock. Amos drove her to the hospital and dropped her off. When she walked in the door, a truck pulled up, blocking Amos, and two men jumped out. They wrestled her into the truck." He crossed his arms and walked back inside the house.
I edged closer to the circle of law enforcement men huddled in the street. I heard them say that the highways and streets leading out of town were covered, but the expression on their faces told me they were looking for a needle in a haystack. I wanted to help but knew I'd do well to stay out of their way.
I walked inside and helped Mrs. Lovett make coffee, then I found Maggie in the den. The lights were off, and L.D. was asleep in her arms. When I walked in, she held a finger to her lips. I offered coffee and she shook her head, pointing outside and waving me off.
I walked back outside just as the men loaded up and squealed off down the street. Jumping into the van, I followed them across town to what looked like a duplex. Three men in black with POLICE written across their backs in reflective white letters, carrying shotguns and pistols, ran to the door on the right, while three more ran around back. They waited five seconds, then kicked the door in and stormed inside the house. I sat in the front seat of the van a block down the road.
Within seconds, fifteen more police cars and a dozen undercover cars had parked in front and lit the house with both spotlights and headlights. Amos ran into the house, followed quickly by a team of thick-muscled men.
I stepped out of the van, leaned against a fence, and noticed a small boy looking out the window of a house next door. He waved at me, and I waved back. Five minutes later, he crawled out through a hole in his fence wearing Spider-Man pajamas and carrying a plastic squirt gun. He was a goodlooking kid, might have been ten, and his eyes were as big as half-dollars. He started to wave the gun at me, and I quickly said, "Hey, let's not get confused with the bad guys."
He looked at his gun, then at the swarm of law enforcement a block away, and nodded. He sat down on the curb and said, "They ain't there no more."
"Who's not?" I said, sitting down next to him.
"The fishermen."
"Who?"
He pointed at the house. "Two guys. Lots of tattoos. Said they liked to fish."
"They say what they were fishing for?"
He shook his head. "Nope. But they had a canoe."
I stood and started to walk away when the kid offered, "But I don't think they really liked to fish."
"Why's that?"
"'Cause," he said, "they didn't have no fishing poles."
I asked permission of one of Amos's deputies, and he escorted me inside the house where Amos and his men were huddled around a big table, poring over maps of the Salk and a printout of times-almost like a TV guide but without the stations or programs. Amos saw me, and his eyes returned to the printout. He studied it another minute, turned his attention to the map, then back to the printout. Finally his head tilted back and he sat down in the chair behind him.
I stepped up alongside, and he laid the printout on the table. "It's Amanda's on-call schedule," he whispered.
DAYLIGHT FOUND US AT THE POLICE STATION, WHICH HAD been transformed into a multi-agencied communications center. Law enforcement of all colors, sizes, and uniforms were busily manning phones and r
adios, hovering over maps, and bumping into one another.
Around 9:00 AM Amos disappeared into an office and shut the door. I followed. The room did not have windows, and the lights were off. Amos was kneeling on the floor, his head in his hands.
I sat next to him and said nothing.
After a minute he looked up, wiped his eyes, and shook his head. "They just released Whittaker. Made bail. Can't hold him." He wiped his eyes. "We've got most every agent in the state out looking for her. If they're in a car, on a road, at a rest area, or within a city limit, we've got a chance of finding them. The first forty-eight hours are the most critical."
About then the lightbulb clicked on. "What if they're not traveling by car?"
Amos looked at me suspiciously.
"I talked to a kid a block down from the house your team stormed. He said two guys with tattoos had a canoe, said they liked to fish but didn't have any fishing rods."
Amos scanned the floor, then jumped onto his feet and walked back out into the command center.
BY EVENING, THINGS HAD COOLED DOWN. ALL THINGS except Amos. I called the Lovetts' house, and Maggie picked up.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she whispered, as though someone was sleeping.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, you?"
I shut the door of the office I was in and sat in the chair. "Yeah, just standing around trying to figure out how to help. How's L.D.?"
"He misses his momma."
Just then an undercover officer ran into the room and tapped a superior on the shoulder.
"Hey, something's happening. I'll call you later."
"Be careful."
I walked out into the room where the superior was handing Amos a sheet of paper. He read the dispatch, and his face turned nearly white. He looked down at the ground, steadied himself with both hands, and said, "I'll go." He spoke to a man sitting behind a desk. "You're in charge. I'll be back in a few hours."
Amos walked to a water dispenser, filled a cup, and swigged it down. Half the water dribbled down his chest.
"Wherever you're going, I'm going."
He looked at me, his eyes a road map of red. He nodded, swallowed hard, and managed, "Thank you."
We loaded into his truck, and Amos drove through town and onto 1-95 south toward Savannah. He flashed his lights, increased our speed, and drove without saying anything until we reached the outskirts of town. The AC was on high, and he was sweating. He spoke above the noise.
"Amanda has a birthmark about the size of a quarter on her left hip. You wouldn't ever see it unless you were married to her." He tried to laugh. "I kid her sometimes that it looks like a set of Mickey Mouse ears."
He fell silent then as we pulled into town and parked in front of the city morgue. Amos steadied himself on the front of the truck and took a deep breath. We walked through the swinging front doors and were met by a man in a white coat who looked like a doctor but did not smell like one.
"Sergeant Carter?"
Amos nodded.
"Follow me."
Another man in uniform stepped aside as Amos passed and then stepped in front of me and put his hand on my chest.
I looked at him and didn't blink. "I'm with him."
We walked down a long hall and into a sterile room where three black bags lay zipped up across three stainless steel tables. Two lay together on one side of the room; the third lay alone against the far wall. The white-coated man led Amos to the single bag and cleared his throat.
"She was found in an area of woods outside of town. We know that she's twentysomething, was wearing medical scrubs when we found her, in her third trimester, and-was decapitated after death." He looked from Amos to me and back to Amos. "We haven't found her head yet."
Amos steadied himself on the table, gritted his teeth, and placed his hand on the zipper. His hand trembled, he sucked in a deep breath, and one knee buckled. Finally he placed both hands on the table and shook his head.
I put a hand on his shoulder and looked at the bag. "Which hip?" I whispered.
Amos squinted and managed, "Right."
I stepped between Amos and the bag, grabbed the zipper, and pulled it toward the feet of the person. I pulled back on the bag, and at my nod, the doctor slid on a pair of gloves and rolled the body on its side. I studied the hip, turned toward Amos, and shook my head. "It's not her."
Amos turned and walked down the hall and out the front door. He turned into the grass along the front walk, fell to his knees, and vomited. His sobs and groans pierced the quiet Georgia night. It was the most painful sound I'd ever heard in my life, and I did not try to stop him.
We returned to the command center about daylight. I was pretty sure Amos had not eaten in thirty-six hours and was running on fumes. I asked a deputy to bring him some breakfast. An hour later, color-swatch Ira-wearing orange from head to toe-appeared carrying bags of steaming hot food. I helped her clear off the conference table and lay out the spread out for anyone who wanted it.
She saw Amos sitting alone in an office to one side, walked in, kissed him on his bald head, and walked out. I followed her to her car and tried to give her some money. She folded it, stuffed it into my shirt pocket, and drove off.
By the second evening the media had picked up the story, and most of South Carolina and the surrounding states were looking for Amanda Carter. I watched the news reports, the interviews with Pastor John, with Maggie, with other nurses, and the shots of L.D. playing in the front yard, asking, "When is my mommy coming home?" And finally the interview with me.
Deputies had set up cots in two of the offices where men and women could nap for an hour or so. By nighttime I was dead on my feet, so I slept for thirty minutes, then splashed my face and drank three more cups of coffee. My hands were shaking.
I found Amos sitting at a desk, listening to the radio reports. His eyes were heavy. "Hey," I whispered, "why don't you lie down for a few minutes. You're no good to us if you can't keep your head up."
He shook his head and kept listening, waiting.
At daylight, some fifty-five hours after Amanda had been taken, I stepped out of the command center and looked around. The sky was a brilliant blue, not a cloud anywhere. I loaded into the van and drove to the Lovetts' house, where I found Maggie asleep on the couch. L.D. lay on her chest, a pacifier in his mouth. Drool had spilled out the side of his mouth and trickled along her chest. Her eyes opened, and she reached out to grab my hand. I knelt by the sofa and watched L.D. nuzzle his nose against Maggie's bosom.
She kissed my fingers, and I brushed her cheek and said, "You're good at this."
She smiled and pulled the blanket above his shoulders.
"I'm going to take Blue for a while. I'll be back." I walked out the back door, grabbing Amanda's sweater-the one she often wore to work-off a hook and tucking it under my arm as I went.
Blue and I drove down roads with no names and no lines. Some had been paved with asphalt; most had not. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I couldn't sit in that station any longer. I thought about Felix and Antonio and what that kid had said about the canoe.
Blue and I drove to Mr. Carter's house, where he was looking every bit as helpless as I felt. I pointed at Badger and Gus and held Amanda's sweater out the window. I didn't have to say a word.
Mr. Carter, seventy-two years young, jumped off the porch and flipped the gates on the dogs' kennels, and we hopped in his truck. Blue sat up front with us, smelling the sweater and pointing his nose everywhere Mr. Carter turned.
We drove every road that crossed the Salk, and at every bridge or entry into the water, we stopped to let out the dogs. We waited, but the bark never came. Throughout the day, we kept up with reports on the scanner, but we could tell by the tone that the men had disappeared-completely. In midafternoon we heard a report that Whittaker had walked into a movie theater in Walterboro and shaken the tail that had been following him since he walked out of the courthouse. For some time after that, the radio was relat
ively quiet.
By dark we had scoured the south end of the swamp, but the Salk was huge, and we knew it was useless. Around midnight we drove back to the command center. Seventy hours had passed.
I found Amos leaning over the conference table, eyeing the map of the Salk. He was in a bad way. I knew he hadn't slept or eaten, but I also knew better than to say anything. His dad walked to the map and explained what we'd done.
While Amos thought, a commotion erupted just outside the doors. I heard somebody scream, "He's got a gun," and then a loud crash. I ran to the door and looked through the glass.
Bryce stood in the middle of the room, four agents piled at his feet on the floor. Three other agents knelt behind a desk, pointing their Glocks at him.
I shoved open the door and walked into the room.
One of the deputies screamed at me, "Get down! He's got a gun!"
Bryce's .45 lay untouched in his shoulder holster, but I knew if he so much as twitched a finger, he'd never clear the leather before thirty shots cleared his center mass. He was covered in mud from the waist down. His feet were bare, and he was chewing a wad of gum the size of a boiled egg. The room smelled of pungent swamp decay and spearmint. He was a picture of calm.
Bryce looked at me and at Amos, who stood, hand on his SIG. He spoke slowly, his eyes level and steady. "The girl's not with them."
Amos's eyes narrowed. Two of the agents on the floor moved slowly, both holding their heads.
Bryce looked at me, then at Amos. "You'd better come with me.
Three minutes later, eighteen police or federal vehicles followed Bryce and me to Willard's store, where Mr. Carter and his coon-hunting brigade had assembled en masse. It looked like a bad marriage between a coal miner convention and a SWAT exercise.
Mr. Carter stood in the bed of his truck and conferred with Bryce, who nodded and pointed at the map, lit by Mr. Carter's headlamp. Amos listened and spoke into the microphone on his shoulder, then addressed the sixty-some-odd men around him.