“Well, it’s real nebulous, since the man is swearing he had nothing to do with the kidnapping, but what I’m gathering is that if we give him clemency, he might tell us where they are. But remember, all of this is being conveyed through hints—he still claims to be innocent. The DA says he’s going to go for the death penalty, and the judge has done everything but torture him to make him talk. Still nothing.”
She groaned.
“Where’s Sharon?” he asked.
“Upstairs in Christy’s room. She’s a wreck. They all are.”
“I’ll go talk to her before I get back to the hunt,” he whispered.
He went up the stairs quietly, since the house seemed so still. It felt strange disturbing it. He saw the pink walls in the room down the hall, and assumed that was Christy’s room. Quietly, he went to the door.
There were Sharon, Jenny, Ben, and Anne, huddled on the bed with their arms around each other and their heads bowed, praying out loud for God’s help in delivering those kids.
Something about the scene touched his heart . . . broke his heart. They were enemies . . . adversaries . . . Their pasts had shipwrecked their futures. Yet here they were, bound by their love for those little girls, acting as a family under the eyes of God.
Tears came to his eyes, and he stumbled backward, quietly, because he didn’t want them to hear him. What if they looked up and invited him to join them? He hadn’t really prayed since his “Now I lay me down to sleep” days as a boy . . . and he wasn’t ready to do it now.
He rushed back down the stairs, feeling like a coward—the big, bad cop who could put the fear into everyone but Nelson Chamberlain, the one who was afraid of nothing—running from the idea of getting caught in a prayer.
He slipped out the door before Lynda could see him and got quickly into his car. He’d cranked the engine and pulled out of the driveway before the first tears stung his eyes.
He had never felt more helpless in his life. Two children were out there who he was powerless to help, and a man sat in jail who wasn’t afraid enough of him to talk. Always before, there had been some way of working toward a solution. This time, however, everything seemed out of his hands.
Was Sharon right? Was God really in control? Was there even a God at all?
He drove until it began to get dark, and the stars began to appear, revealing the majesty of the Creator who was artist, astronomer, and physicist. To Sharon, he was a comforter. He was in control. He knew where those children were.
He pulled his car off the road, looked up at the dark sky, and asked himself for the first time in a very long time if he really believed. He wasn’t sure. But Sharon’s faith, her graciousness with her ex-husband and his wife, sure seemed real. And she was an intelligent woman, not some superstitious soul who would fall for anything. She’d been through fires and come out of them still believing.
His eyes were full of tears as he looked up through his dirty windshield. “If you’re up there, God, I don’t know why you’d waste any time on me,” he whispered. “I’m not exactly what they call worthy. And I haven’t given you more than a passing thought in about the last ten years, except when Larry has hassled me about you. You know Larry—yeah, what am I saying, of course you do.”
He didn’t know why he was crying. It was crazy. None of this made any sense, but as he spoke, a sense of tremendous waste, monumental loss, overtook him. “I can’t believe you can even hear me, if you’re there, but I figure it’s worth a try, anyway. There’s probably nothing that could have made me come to you, God, except maybe two little girls out there alone . . . and their grieving mother who believes in you.”
He rubbed his eyes, angry at himself for losing control like this. “God, you’ve gotta help us. You’ve gotta help them. Not for me . . . not because of anything I’ve done . . . but do it for them. Those helpless little—”
He sobbed into his hand, then tried to pull himself together again. “I’ll make a deal with you, God. If you bring them back safely to their parents . . . I’m yours. I’ll be the best believer you’ve ever seen. I’ll do anything you say . . . I’ll even pray and read the Bible, even though what I’ve seen of it I’ve never understood. But I’ll take classes and learn. I’ll do all the stuff Larry does, and more. I’ll even start being one of those people who gives money to poor people, and visits prisoners, and God, that’s a big promise, because I don’t have much compassion for the people I lock up . . .”
He sighed and wiped his face. “I think if you could work enough miracles to get Sharon and Ben and Anne praying together, then you can give me that kind of compassion. And you can help us find those kids.”
He didn’t quite know how to sign off. “Amen” seemed so trite, but “Bye” sounded too silly. So he let it hang there . . . wondering if anyone had heard.
Peace gradually washed over him as he pulled back out onto the street and started searching for the children again.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Emily wasn’t acting right. Since the afternoon, all she had wanted to do was sleep. Her lips were cracked and bloody from thirst, and her eyes were sunken deeper into her face, casting dark circles under them. Christy had tried to wake her up, mostly from fear since darkness was beginning to close in again, but she barely stirred.
She had to get help, Christy thought, looking at the window again. She had to make her way out.
She got up and steadied herself as a wave of dizziness washed over her. After a moment, she recovered her equilibrium, and she stepped up on the rim of the commode and climbed to the broken lid. She looked up and found the plant where the cat had first jumped on its way out. The spider had repaired its web, but she shoved that thought out of her mind.
“Help me climb like a cat, God,” she whispered. “Help me climb like a cat.”
She was a good climber, she reminded herself. It was her favorite thing to do. She could do this, even if it was hard.
She judged the distance between where she stood and the plant, and reached out her foot. It reached, but just barely, and she pressed one hand against the wall and reached for the grimy macramé with the other. She tested her weight on it, felt the stake in the wall give slightly, but she didn’t let it stop her. Quickly, she pulled her other foot up. The plant swung from its hanger, creaking with her weight, so she quickly stepped up to the next one.
Her hands throbbed and bled as she clawed at the wall for a hold, measuring her next step. When she’d gotten both feet on the next hanging pot, she began to get dizzy again.
Hold on, she told herself. Just wait a minute.
She waited, swinging slightly, until the dizziness passed, then looked up the wall for the next foothold.
She pulled her body up, and looked up at the window again. It was still so far up there, but she could make it, she thought. She just had to take it easy, go slowly, be careful.
Her arms were getting tired, something that never happened, and she told herself it was weakness since she hadn’t eaten. She would only get weaker if she didn’t find help. She had to get out somehow.
She clawed at the bricks with each foothold, and winced at the pain in her fingers.
She was hot, but she wasn’t sweating, and her throat felt as if it was on fire. If she only had some water, she thought. Just a drop . . .
She looked down, and saw her sister lying limply on the floor. She was burning with fever, and looked so weak. What if she died?
She couldn’t give up now. She had to make it up.
The next plant was too high, so she grabbed its pot with her hands and tried to climb the bricks, toe hitting grout, one brick at a time, until she was able to step up to the next plant. She grabbed on to the bricks with one aching, infected hand, and held the macramé for dear life with the other.
Just above her was a wooden planter bolted to the wall, and she reached up and grabbed it. She pushed up until she was able to get her weight over it. Once she got her feet on it, she rested and looked up. The window was only a few
feet away. She could make it.
She took a deep breath and calculated that three more plants would get her to the window, and she stretched her leg with all her might to reach the next one, then the next one, until finally she could reach the windowsill.
With all her strength, she pulled herself up, but the window wasn’t open. The cat had come in through a broken hole in the glass. But she was too big to fit through it.
She tried to plant her feet on the windowsill, and held on to the top casing with one hand while she struggled to raise the window with the other. It was stuck.
She looked down at her sister still lying on the floor. The room was growing darker, but outside it was only dusk. She could see the big tree beside the window, the tree the cat must have climbed to get in. The branches reaching to the window were small, but she could make it, she told herself, if she could just get the window open.
Holding the casing as tightly as she could with her infected hands, she kicked at the glass. Shards fell out and crashed to the dirt outside. She looked down to see if the noise had disturbed Emily, but her sister still lay there, deep in sleep.
The hole looked big enough to get through, so she ducked through it, kicked the broken glass off of the ledge, and carefully sat down to get her bearings. The cool air against her face made her feel stronger. She tried to find a branch big enough to hold her. None of them looked secure. She grabbed the closest one and straddled it with both arms and legs, sliding toward the center.
It swayed downward as if it might break with her weight, but she grabbed the bigger one beneath her, and climbed down to it. It was stronger, and she slid in toward the trunk, then found another, stronger one, and another, until she felt secure.
It was a massive tree, a perfect climbing tree, but it didn’t give her the pleasure that climbing usually did. Her hands were bleeding and sore, and she was shaking. She made her way down, one branch at a time.
When she’d made it to the bottom branch, she looked down. It was at least a six-foot jump to the ground from here, and she wasn’t sure if she could manage it. But she had no choice. Emily was still in there, all alone, and she had to hurry.
She judged the distance, as the cat had done, then held her breath and leapt. She made a perfect landing.
Now what? she asked, looking around. There were no buildings, no houses, anywhere in sight. Only this lonely road with a ditch on either side, and thick woods.
She went to the road, looked up and down it, but saw nothing. No cars, no people, no houses.
She would have to get Emily out, she thought, and then they could run away as far as they needed to find help. And she had to hurry, in case the man came back.
She ran back to the front door of the dilapidated structure and pushed it open.
The building was getting dark, full of monstrous shadows and scratching noises and creaks that terrified her. But she couldn’t be afraid, she told herself. Emily needed her.
She ran up the stairs, careful to avoid the holes in them, and found the bathroom. The man had slid a huge bench against the door and piled a steel drum and other pieces of rusted machinery on it to weigh it down. She tried to slide it back, but it wouldn’t budge.
Christy climbed on top of it, and turned backward, pushing her back against the wall and using the force of her legs to try to slide the bench away. But she just wasn’t strong enough. It was jammed tightly against the door, and there was no way she would ever get it open.
She thought of calling out to Emily, trying to wake her again, but then she realized that her sister probably needed the blessing of sleep. If she woke to find herself alone, she would fall apart. Until Christy got her help, she didn’t want to wake her.
She was trembling now, both from fear and courage, both from despair and hope.
“God, you can help us,” she whispered weakly. “You helped me climb like a cat. Please send somebody now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Doris Stevens had been dead-set on winning that $25,000 reward money when she’d set out to look for the kidnapped children that day, but after an all-day search, she was getting discouraged. St. Clair was no huge metropolis, but it was bigger than Slapout, Texas. If she had looked for two lost children in Slapout, she could have turned the whole town upside down in two hours flat, and she would have found what she was looking for.
Now she had less than an hour to shower and change for her shift at the diner where she worked, and she wound her Porsche through the backstreets on the outskirts of St. Clair, heading for her trailer, which was parked on the only piece of land she could afford on her salary. It was far out, yes, but it was home. She’d been urged to sell the Porsche and buy a house or a condo, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She loved that car. It was the only thing of any value she’d ever had.
It was getting dark, so she turned on her headlights and wove around the curves, ignoring the speed limit, since she rarely encountered other cars this far out. Maybe, if she was lucky, the kids wouldn’t be found today, and she’d still have a shot at the grand prize tomorrow.
She turned up the radio on her favorite cry-in-your-beer country tune, something about being cheated on in the worst kind of way, something she could relate to many times over. She began to sing along in her nasal, twangy voice, as loud as the speakers blaring in her car. She had always thought she could have made it as a country singer.
A cat dashed across the road in front of her, and she barely missed hitting it, swerving only slightly to avoid losing control. Suddenly alert, she cursed and reached for her cigarette box, shook one out, pressed in the lighter, and stuck the cigarette in her mouth. She waited until the lighter was ready, then reached to get it out to light her cigarette.
From the corner of her eye, she saw something up ahead, and she dropped the lighter on the floor and looked up.
A child stood in the middle of the road, waving her down.
She swerved, slammed on brakes, lost control. The car skidded to the right, into the ditch, kept sliding several hundred feet further, then slammed full force against a tree.
She sat still for a moment, trying to decide if anything was broken. Nothing but the car, she thought in misery. Then she screamed a curse, and slammed her hand against the steering wheel.
She saw movement outside her window and looked up, and saw that child again. Furious, she flung open the door. “You almost got me killed! What in the world were you doin’ standin’ out in the middle of the street? Where’s your mama? I’m gonna march you right home to her and tell her what you did!” She got out and looked at her crumpled Porsche, and stamped one high-heeled foot. “Look what you did! It’s ruined! The only thing decent I ever had, and you ruined it!”
The little girl looked like she’d just lost a fight, and she was shivering. “I’m sorry,” she said in a hoarse, raspy voice. “But I . . . I need help. My sister’s locked in that old building up the road, and I have to get her out ’‘cause she’s sick. Please. Will you help us?”
Doris looked down at the little girl and could tell that she wasn’t doing so hot herself. She had a nasty cut on her forehead, and dried blood matted her bangs. The child looked familiar, except for the dark circles beneath her eyes, the ghost-like pallor to her skin, the blistered lips. “Honey, what’s your name?”
“Christy Robinson,” the child said.
Doris caught her breath. “Oh, my word! You’re the kidnapped kid! You’re the one we’ve been lookin’ for!”
“You have?” Christy asked.
“Yes!” Doris shouted. “And I found you! Twenty-five grand is mine! I’m goin’ to Atlantic City, that’s what I’m gonna do! I’m gonna get me a fancy dress and stay in some fancy room with a hot tub—”
The little girl seemed to be dizzy, and she leaned against the car to steady herself. Doris instantly shut up. “Okay, kiddo. First things first. If only I had a car phone. I mean, there’s one in the car, but I couldn’t afford to pay for it, so I disconnected it. Heck, I can b
arely afford to put gas in it, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s gone. Well, at least it does have insurance. That’s somethin’.” She saw the half-bottle of Coke sitting in the drink holder, undisturbed even though the front of the car was smashed in. “Honey, you look thirsty. You want this?”
Christy’s eyes widened and she took the Coke and finished most of it off in one gulp. She probably hadn’t had anything to drink in a while, Doris assumed.
She stopped when there was about two inches left in the bottle. “My sister needs the rest of this,” she said. “We have to hurry. The man might come back, and if he finds me gone, he might hurt Emily.”
“The man?” Doris asked. “That Nelson Chamberlain fella? Oh, no. He’s not comin’ back. He’s in jail.”
Christy looked up at her with those dull, lethargic eyes. “Really?”
“That’s right, and honey, your parents are sick with worry over you. They’ve been lookin’ everywhere. Come on, let’s go get your little sister.”
“Do you have a flashlight?” Christy asked. “We might need it. She has one, but she’s not awake. And she’s locked in a bathroom, and there’s all this stuff shoved in front of it, only it’s too heavy and I can’t move it. I climbed out the window, but Emily’s not as good a climber, and she won’t wake up.”
“Oh, blazes,” Doris said, realizing the urgency of the situation. She went to her trunk, opened it, and found the flashlight and hydraulic jack that Jake had put there. She took them both out, thinking that she might need the jack if the door was barricaded as thoroughly as Christy said.
Christy led her back up the road to the building that was encased in darkness now. It was the old country store that she passed every day. Why she hadn’t thought to look there earlier, she didn’t know. But the front door was always open, and windows were broken out, and she had just assumed that if anyone were hidden there, the door wouldn’t be open.
She shivered at the thought of going in there, and turned on the flashlight. It lit up the downstairs. “I gotta tell you, kiddo. I ain’t much of one for bravery. This ain’t the kind of place I like to go.”