Unless Evan won’t let him.
My pulse spikes, lights dancing in front of my eyes. I’m going to pass out. Can’t pass out. Have to think, have to think, have to think.
Evan’s not responding. Why isn’t he responding? Because he doesn’t want me to find him. Because he’s Evan and he’s playing some game and he doesn’t want to bother with me just yet. He wants to do what Evan wants to do, whatever that might be.
Incentive. That’s what it comes down to when you are a parent. Evan isn’t responding, because reducing my fear/panic/insanity isn’t enough incentive for him. He needs something better.
“Snack time,” I call out, as if this is an everyday morning. Becki and I just happen to both be racing up and down the soccer field without our children in sight. “Banana muffins and strawberries! Come on, who’s hungry?”
Evan loves banana muffins. It’s some of the only baking he lets me do.
Becki takes up the chant. We both work the wooded edges. “Snack time. Muffins and strawberries. Come on, boys, it’s getting late.”
I can tell by the rising pitch of Becki’s voice that as minute passes into minute, she’s starting to panic. It’s one thing to lose your toddler for thirty seconds. Quite another to still not be able to find him after a couple of minutes of hard searching.
It’s not working. Evan isn’t budging for banana muffins. I need something better.
I return to Becki, turning her so our backs are to the neighboring woods. “Evan sometimes plays this game,” I begin, wondering if my voice sounds as thin and strained to her as it does to me. “He hides and won’t come out unless there’s good reason.”
“What?” she says, clearly preoccupied.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes.” She digs it out of her pocket and I take it from her, punching in my number.
“I’m going to run to the other end of the field,” I say. “Then I want you to press Send. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t look as if you’re making the call. Once I answer, you can hang up.”
Becki seems confused, but she nods, obedient in her fear, wanting something—anything—to return her world to right. She heads down one end of the field, still calling Ronnie’s name, while I reach the other side. I try not to fidget with my phone or appear like I’m expecting a call. Evan can be very clever.
Thirty seconds later, my phone rings. I don’t grab it right away. I give it a moment or two. Then I make a big show of taking it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. I put my phone to my ear. “Hello, darling.” My voice still doesn’t sound natural. Maybe that’s okay. I’m looking for my missing son, so of course I’m still a little stressed.
“You want to talk to Evan? I … I don’t know where he is, honey. Ummm, ummm, let me see.” I hold the phone away from my ear, then call out, “Evan, Chelsea’s on the phone. Evan. Your sister’s calling for you.”
I cross to the other side of the field. Repeat the show, alternating between having a fictional conversation with a dead phone and calling for Evan to take his sister’s call. Becki has stopped searching. She’s standing by the playground, just staring at me.
She’s starting to figure it out. That her new “friends” aren’t as normal as they appeared. That something’s wrong with us, and that something could hurt her.
“Chelsea has to go,” I call out now. “Come on, Evan. Now or never. It’s your sister.”
At the last minute, just as I’m starting to give up, a bush rustles toward the end of the soccer field. Evan appears. He stands right in front of the bush, his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. The little boy is crying soundlessly, the way kids do when they’re utterly terrified. Ronnie doesn’t try to step away from Evan, but remains in place, his shirt torn, face smeared with dirt, hair tangled with twigs.
“Chelsea?” Evan asks.
I look my son in the eye. Hold out the phone without hesitation. “Chelsea,” I say firmly.
Evan lets Ronnie go. The little boy bolts for his mother, who scoops him up immediately into her protective embrace. Evan walks to my side and takes the phone. He holds it to his ear only a second, then hands it back.
“You lied to me.”
“Why did you take Ronnie away?”
“You tricked me.”
“Why did you take Ronnie away?”
My angelic son smiles at me. “I’ll never tell.”
I slap my son across the face. Vaguely, I’m aware of screaming. Becki, I think. Only later do I realize that it’s me.
Becki doesn’t call the cops. Maybe she should. But with Ronnie still clutched against her chest, she grabs the diaper bag and bolts out of the park. My hand-drawn maps never made it into her bag. The haste of her departure scatters them across the playground. I watch them flutter about.
Directions to the life I used to live.
Beside me, Evan’s sobbing, holding his red-stained cheek. My unexpected act of violence has shocked him, transforming him into a confused eight-year-old, attacked by his own mother.
I should hate myself for what I’ve done. I should feel remorseful, guilt-stricken. But I can’t feel anything. Nothing at all.
After another moment, I cross to the park bench. I pack up the muffins, the strawberries, my travel mug of coffee. I tuck each item into my flowered bag, arranging them just so. I cross to the slide. Pick up Evan’s shoes, lay them carefully on top of the containers. Evan has stopped crying. He stands, shoulders hunched, hands cupping his thin face, hiccuping miserably.
I could leave him. I could throw the bag over my shoulder, start walking, and never look back. Someone would find him. The authorities, unable to contact me, would call his father. Michael could have him back. Evan would be happy about that.
Maybe I could walk to Mexico. Drink a pina colada. Dip my toes into the sand. I wonder how warm the water would feel this time of year.
“Mommy,” Evan whimpers. “Mommy, I want to go home.”
So we go home, where I give us both Ativan and we go to sleep.
Later, three hours, four, six? It’s hard to say. Evan sits on the couch watching SpongeBob. I hide in the kitchen, dialing a number I’m not supposed to dial anymore. We’re on a break. He needed some time. Things had grown strange in the past month. Once, he’d even scared me.
Now none of that seems to matter. Not that last episode, and the way his eyes had turned into black pools and I’d felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Not the strange, guttural way his voice had sounded when he said he needed to go away. Had some business to tend to. But he’d call me on Monday. He’d have a surprise for me on Monday.
It’s Saturday afternoon. Monday is forty-eight hours. I can’t make it that long. I need him. Dear God, I need someone.
Ringing. Once. Twice. Three times.
I almost hang up. Then:
“Hello?”
The second I hear his deep baritone, it hits me. The stress, the terror, the unrelenting fear. Not that my son will kill me, but that despite my best efforts, he will hurt someone else. He’s growing older, getting bigger, stronger, smarter. How long can I keep this up? How much longer before he wins at his own game?
The deep freeze gives way. I start to cry, and once I start, I can’t stop.
“I can’t do it,” I sob into the phone. “I just can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong enough.”
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” he soothes. “I’ll help you, Victoria. Of course I’ll help you. Now take a deep breath and tell me everything.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Andrew Lightfoot lived in Rockport, about thirty minutes north of Boston. The quaint little town was perched on the edge of the Atlantic coast and offered all the requisite tourist amenities, including hand-scooped ice cream, saltwater taffy, and pounds of homemade fudge. D.D. would love to live in Rockport, assuming she ever won the lottery.
The GPS system obediently directed them to Lightfoot’s DMV address. D.D. followed the long narrow driveway until a house suddenly burs
t out of the windswept landscape in front of her. Beside her, Alex whistled. She simply stared, craning her head to see better through the front windshield.
Andrew Lightfoot owned a mansion. A staggeringly tall, modernistic structure that rose straight up from the rocky coastline and featured towers of glass oriented toward the vast gray-green sea.
“Three to four million, easy,” Alex price-tagged the home. “How many auras do you have to cleanse to earn this kind of real estate?”
“Don’t know, but next major hurricane, whole house is a do-over.”
“I think they use a special glass now,” Alex commented.
D.D. remained dubious. “I think builders have forgotten how major the hurricanes we can get up here are.”
She parked the car next to a gurgling waterfall that flowed down a pile of decorative rocks. Next to the waterfall stood discreet piles of smaller stones, granite pavers engraved with Japanese symbols and a sparse collection of dainty flowers and ornamental grasses. Very Zen, she supposed. It put her immediately on edge.
D.D. and Alex made their way up the sinuous walkway. An oversized front door, fashioned from glass framed in maple, enabled them to see all the way through the house to the ocean on the other side. Seven-foot-high windowpanes on both sides of the door expanded the view. A small brown dog sat in the right-hand window. It spotted their approach and started yapping.
“Nice guard dog,” Alex remarked.
“Small dogs bite more people than the large breeds do. Toy dogs just have better PR.”
“It’s the pink bow in the hair.”
“Ignore the accessories, watch the teeth,” D.D. advised.
Alex slanted her a look. “Funny. I was told the same thing about you.”
She flashed her canines at him, then knocked on the door. The little dog spun in a circle, reaching new pitches of hysteria. Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, D.D. heard a male voice calling, “Thank you, Tibbie. I’m coming. Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”
A man appeared in the entryway, his frame eclipsed by the light from the windows behind him. D.D. had an impression of height, then the door swung open and he stood before them. She nearly fell back a step, catching herself at the last second and forcing herself to hold steady.
“Can I help you?” the man asked politely. He wore a thin green T-shirt stretched across rippling pecs and washboard abs. His cream linen trousers emphasized long toned legs, while a simple leather cord drew attention to his tanned neck and the shaggy ends of his sun-streaked hair.
Expensive house. Impressive man. And the smell of fresh baked bread.
“Andrew Lightfoot?” D.D. asked, her voice slightly breathless.
“Boston PD,” Alex supplied, after the man nodded. Alex shot D.D. a curious glance when she remained speechless. “Sergeant D.D. Warren, Detective Alex Wilson,” he provided. “May we come in?”
“Absolutely.” Lightfoot stepped back, gesturing for them to enter. Their presence didn’t seem to surprise him. The Harrington murders were currently front-page news. Given Lightfoot’s work with the family, maybe he’d already connected the dots and anticipated a visit from Boston’s finest.
Tibbie the dog had stopped barking, and was now running in circles around them. She stopped to sniff Alex’s ankle, then growled at D.D., then returned to Alex once more.
“Tibbie,” Lightfoot chided, not too harshly. “Forgive her. She’s a Tibetan spaniel. The breed goes back two thousand years, once serving as guard dogs for the Tibetan monasteries. Naturally, Tibbie has deeply held opinions regarding strangers.”
Lightfoot smiled at D.D., leaning forward to whisper: “She’s also a little spoiled and doesn’t care for competition from other beautiful women.” He winked, straightened, stepped away from the entranceway. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I have just baked some croissants. I will put together a tray for us. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” Alex said politely.
D.D. nodded her agreement.
Lightfoot disappeared. Tibbie stayed behind, flirting with Alex. The detective bent down, holding out his hand to the pint-sized spaniel. She sniffed his fingers carefully, then leapt into his arms and made herself at home.
“Nice doggy,” Alex said, obviously impressed with himself. He walked into the vast living space, new friend cradled in his arms. D.D. followed in his wake.
The inside of Lightfoot’s home was as impressive as the outside. The floor was covered in a gray-green slate. Lush plants softened load-bearing columns. Pale sofas and low-backed chairs formed distinct sitting areas. Mostly, however, one admired a wall of four yawning windows that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
The windows were open this morning, overhead fans circulating tangy ocean air and rustling the palm fronds. D.D. could hear seagulls in the distance and smell the salt of the sea. Nice life if you could get it, she thought. She wondered just how exactly a spiritual healer could get it.
Lightfoot reappeared, carrying a bamboo tray piled high with croissants, three mugs, and a French press filled to the brim. He placed the tray on the coffee table closest to the grand piano so D.D. and Alex moved over there. Lightfoot spotted his dog in Alex’s arms and smiled ruefully.
“You know, I’m still in the room,” he told his fickle pet. She raised her head at the sound of his voice and yawned. He chuckled. “Tibbie is an excellent judge of character,” he informed Alex. “I find canines to be much more open and perceptive of energy fields. Hence, their effectiveness as therapy dogs. If we would only open up our minds as much as they do, we would all be better helpers in the world.”
D.D. accepted a cup of coffee and a warm croissant. She took a seat next to Alex. Lightfoot positioned himself on the chair directly across from them, one leg crossed casually over the other. He still appeared relaxed, the congenial host warmly showing off his home. Interesting demeanor for a man whose client had just been brutally murdered.
“Do you know why we’re here?” D.D. asked.
Lightfoot steepled his fingers, shook his head. “I have faith, however, you will tell me when you are ready.”
This surprised D.D. She shot a glance at Alex, who appeared equally startled. Quickly, they schooled their features.
“Watch much TV?” D.D. fished.
“Don’t own a single set,” Lightfoot replied easily.
“You’re not interested in the news? Too earthly for you?”
Lightfoot smiled. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to the Internet as a source of information. And, yes, I read plenty of news. But the past few days I have been ‘off the grid,’ as they say. I just wrapped up a particularly demanding case and needed some time with just the sound of the wind and the waves.”
“Case?” Alex asked, still petting the dog.
“Ever hear of Jo Rhodes?” Lightfoot queried.
D.D. and Alex shook their heads.
“She was a famous burlesque dancer who was brutally murdered in the twenties. Her body was found mutilated and hanged in a hotel room, the killer never caught. I happened to encounter her soul on the spiritual interplanes. Angry, angry presence. No tolerance for men, as you might imagine. Originally, I blocked her out. But then I began to wonder. It seemed such a tragedy, first murdered, now trapped by her own hate. I decided to offer my help.”
“You interviewed a ghost to identify her killer?” D.D. asked in confusion.
Lightfoot smiled at her. “No, I helped Jo let go of her rage. Her killer died twenty years ago. It was her own negativity that was holding her back. It took a few sessions, but she rediscovered the light inside of herself. Then she journeyed on. A satisfying experience, but a very draining one.”
D.D. didn’t know what to say. She set down her coffee. “Mr. Lightfoot—”
“Andrew.”
“Mr. Lightfoot,” she repeated. “What exactly do you do?”
“In colloquial terms, I am an expert in woo-woo.”
“‘Woo-woo’?”
“Woo-woo. You know, sixth sense, spiritu
al powers, other planes of being. It’s been my experience that cops are also adept at woo-woo—you just don’t call it such. Detective’s instinct, gut feel. It’s that little extra that helps get the job done.”
D.D. regarded him skeptically. “So you sell … woo-woo, and”—she gestured around the airy living room—”that earns you all this?”
“Before woo-woo,” Lightfoot provided easily, “I was an investment banker. A very good investment banker. I drove a Porsche, fucked women based on their cup size, and screwed over my rivals. I amassed tens of millions of dollars in materialistic wealth. And achieved total spiritual depletion. Money is not happiness, though I’ll be the first to say it was fun trying for a bit.”
“So you just walked away?”
“One day on my way to work, I passed a fortune-teller. She grabbed my arm and demanded to know why I was wasting my talents. I should be healing lost souls, not working Wall Street, she said. Naturally, I shook her off. Crazy old bat. But a week later, I had dinner with a college buddy who’d just been diagnosed with skin cancer. On a lark, I reached across the table and grabbed his hand. I felt searing heat. Like my hand was on fire, then my arm, my chest, my face, my hair. By the time I managed to let go, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I staggered out of the restaurant, drank eight glasses of water, and went to bed.
“Next day, my friend called. He’d gone to his doctor to discuss treatment options, and the growth on his back was gone. They tested four other places on his body. No cancer cells. All gone. I quit my job the next day.”
D.D. arched a brow. “So you traded in your crass, materialistic life in order to selflessly share your gift with mankind. All right. How does mankind find you?”
“Word of mouth. The Internet.”
“You have a website?”
He smiled. “AndrewLightfoot.com. You might enjoy signing up for the online meditation. I link together thousands of consciousnesses via the Internet and channel all of their energies toward a common goal. Powerful, powerful stuff.”