Taken

  Matthew took back the pad of paper. “Shannon’s looked at the names and drawn a blank.”

  “Well, that’s . . . disappointing,” Paul finally said. “We’ll keep digging.”

  “Appreciate it. I’ll call you again this evening once we’ve settled for the night.”

  “It’s a plan. Talk to you later.”

  Matthew clicked off the phone.

  “Who are they?” Shannon asked, tipping her glass of orange juice toward the list of names.

  “Lawyers connected either directly or tangentially to your parents and extended family eleven years ago.”

  “You think someone on that list helped put in motion what happened to me?”

  “If the pattern holds, it’s probable. It’s also possible what happened back then is why they started doing only child custody disputes from then on. You might have been the last of some other kind of general business.”

  “I was definitely the first case where they couldn’t make a delivery as planned. They were furious I was still with them. And the custody disputes were lucrative enough they might have decided to specialize after that.”

  Matthew got up to pour himself more coffee from the small coffee maker in the room. “Paul’s right, you know. The address where you were to be dropped off is a very big deal. With that address we can get a name of who was there eleven years ago, develop a bio, find out who we’re dealing with. That can be done quietly. They won’t even know we’re looking. The person who was expecting you to arrive that day is the one person who can answer the most questions about what happened to you and why.”

  “I’m not prepared to give you that address. Not yet.”

  “Would you tell me the reason?”

  She shook her head. “I can be ready to be on the road in about an hour if that suits you.”

  “That will be fine. No one is expecting us in Chicago on a particular day. If you’d find it helpful just to stay put, take some extra time to rest, we can do that.”

  “I’m kind of enjoying sleeping in the car.”

  Matthew laughed. “I don’t mind the quiet company.”

  Matthew thought about that “quiet company” remark more than once over the next few hours. Shannon was asleep in the front passenger seat, turned slightly toward him, one hand slid under the shoulder strap of the seat belt, the other resting in her lap. She didn’t always sleep easily—he noticed the frequent dreams—but she did sleep, and that was something he was pleased to see. There would be a point where depression would trigger her to sleep too much, but this looked more like a body too long under stress trying to heal.

  She eventually began to stir, and he mentally reviewed upcoming towns and where to stop for lunch. Rest, food, conversation when she wanted to talk—the basic equation he’d figured out with his daughter that had to undergird everything else he hoped might occur. He glanced over as she stretched, caught her yawn, shared a smile. “You look better for the sleep.”

  “Feeling a bit better too.”

  “How are the dreams?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Becky didn’t want to deal with the details of what happened, so her mind suppressed most of them. But they came back first in her dreams, then in random clips of memory, then as something which wouldn’t fade from her thoughts until she talked about it. Eleven years is a long time. Are you dealing with something similar?”

  “Yes and no. And no, I don’t want to explain that answer just yet.”

  He nodded acceptance of the closed door.

  She studied exit signs and noted, “There’s a town south of Columbus called Seymour. If you can find it, there’s a stop we should make.”

  She’d mentioned she knew where a stolen item was. If they were going to pick it up, that raised all kinds of interesting questions about who should search the place—Indiana State Police, FBI, cops in the town of Seymour? And how did he explain matters to the appropriate agency without complicating this further? Matthew found an Indiana State map in the driver’s side pocket, handed it to her. “Search out Seymour.”

  She unfolded the map and studied the area. “It looks to be only about twenty minutes off our route,” she said. She put her finger on the map, and he glanced over at it a couple of times, nodded that he had it. She folded the map to center Seymour on the page. “Can you not wonder too much about what it is until I first see if it’s even still there?”

  She had a point. “I’ll try,” he said. “Tell me about the place we’re going, if not the item we’re hoping to find.”

  “It’s an old apple orchard and roadside fruit stand. Nothing much to look at now, other than the apples being still pretty good on the trees that haven’t gone wild or died. The property probably was no longer a well-maintained business a few years after I was taken.”

  “You’ve been here?”

  “I’ve been through this area several times, stopped at this particular place just once. But it was memorable enough I should be able to find it again.”

  They found the apple orchard forty minutes later. Matthew pulled off and parked beside a lean-to structure that, from its faded sign, once served as the roadside store. The roof was still attached, but one wall had collapsed and was simply waiting for the next good windstorm to flatten the last of it.

  They got out of the car and looked around. Not a soul was in sight. Birds were singing, the sun was hot, and some of the trees looked like they could give some good apples. Shannon walked back into the center of the roadway and lifted her hand to shade her vision as she scanned the area. “I think we go that way.” She pointed toward the orchard.

  Matthew picked up the bottles of cold drinks from their last stop and handed her one, locked the car. “What are we looking to find?” He fell in step beside her as they set out.

  “A tree.”

  “In a sea of trees,” he quipped.

  “It’s not an apple tree.”

  “That will help.”

  They walked ten minutes through the orchard and reached its northern boundary. A plowed and planted field to the right, a fairly steep ravine on the left going down to a trickle of a stream that likely gushed after a big rain. More trees, oaks and elms and a few hickories, he thought, unsure about his leaf identifications.

  “That one.” Shannon pointed out an oak tree at the point where the orchard met the field. An old building with stacked packing crates around it and what might have once been a tree sprayer and a conveyor belt, its engine now rusted, rested forlornly nearby.

  “You’re sure?”

  She walked over to the tree and looked up. “It’s grown.”

  He laughed. “Was it not supposed to?”

  “Give me a boost.”

  “You mean to climb that tree.”

  “Not very far, but yeah. I’d rather trust you than that wooden ladder that’s probably sun-rotted years ago.”

  “How are you going to get down?”

  “Matthew—I climb trees. It’s an odd hobby, but I’ll be fine. Now give me a boost.”

  He put his hands together, and she put her foot in the cradle. He helped her reach the lowest limb of the oak tree, its circumference as big as a good-sized tree itself. She hoisted herself up to straddle it, then moved back to the trunk and stood up. She reached the next branch above her, picked her toeholds, and climbed up one more level. She looked into a hollow in the trunk where an owl might sit and nest. “It’s still here,” she called down. “What’s it worth to you?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “An ice-cream cone.”

  “Deal.”

  She reached into the hole and pulled out a small box covered with leaves and twigs. She shook it clean. “Catch!”

  He moved swiftly and caught it. It was a bit fatter and stockier than a cigar box, carefully wrapped in white butcher paper. He placed it on the ground and moved to where he could watch as she came down a level and straddled the lowest limb.

  “I’m not jumping for you to catch me. Move out
of the way. I’m going to drop and roll.”

  “You’ll break an ankle.”

  “Trust me, this isn’t even high enough to be a challenge. I break a bone, you can say ‘I told you so,’ and I’ll even answer twenty questions without saying ‘no comment.’”

  It was a confident wager. “Just be careful,” he insisted. “You break something, I’ll never live it down with my daughter.”

  She laughed, and a moment later hit the ground and rolled. She rose to her feet and dusted herself off. “Down, safe and sound.”

  He walked over and picked up what she had risked life and limb to retrieve. “What’s in the box you just rescued?”

  “Someone’s dowry, I think. A woman named Ashimera Tai. It’s engraved on the top of the jewelry box. From what I overheard, you’re holding three hundred thousand in jewelry. They wanted it to cool off for a very long time before they did anything with it, hence the tree.”

  “I would have expected a safe-deposit box.”

  “Depends who was in charge of the hiding. Some of them didn’t like banks and guards and cameras and having to get permission to claim their stuff.”

  “How did they find this place and decide to put it here?”

  “Flynn and I used to do a lot of geocaching—you know, that game using GPS where you locate metal tins or plastic containers holding a logbook to record you were there, and sometimes small trinkets to exchange. It’s how we would kill time on a cross-country trip. There was a find box near the roadside fruit stand. Flynn thought this place was interesting, so we walked around, and he found this tree. I watched Flynn put the package up there.” She looked at the wrapped package. “So . . . do you call the cops and report you found a box, or do we get to take it with us to Chicago to deal with there?”

  “Is there anything else hidden around here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He made a decision that getting to Chicago rather than explaining matters to local authorities was the better part of wisdom. “Put it in one of your gym bags, and I’ll ask Paul what he wants me to do with it.”

  “You’re killing me here, Matthew. You’re a robbery cop. You don’t want to open it, search the database of stolen goods, find the owner, learn how it was originally taken, talk with the insurance company that probably paid out on the claim, be the one to return the stolen property to its rightful owner, see her face light up when you return her jewelry?”

  He would enjoy every bit of doing just that, but his shrug belied it. “Retired cop.”

  “Un-retire. You’re dying to get back on the job with something interesting, and you’re holding interesting.”

  He was more intrigued by what this item told him about her. “How many more stolen items are stashed somewhere you might be able to find?”

  “Okay, fine. A few. But I’m not climbing any more trees for you if you’re going to be a stick-in-the-mud about it,” she muttered as she headed back to the road.

  He laughed, jogged after her, dropped his arm casually around her shoulders, and was pleased when she didn’t flinch or shift away. “I haven’t heard that phrase in decades.”

  “Can we talk some about Chicago?” Matthew asked after they had eaten in Seymour and were back on the road. She was quiet but not brooding, and they shared a comfortable silence listening to music on the radio. He took a calculated risk that he could push a little.

  “Depends on what you ask me.”

  “You need to see a doctor, Shannon, and it’s a time-sensitive concern. I’d like to arrange for you to see a woman doctor who can give you a complete medical checkup, and for you also to meet with a woman counselor—someone who can give you some pointers regarding what kind of help would be useful to you over the next year.”

  “No.”

  He wasn’t as surprised by the answer as he was by the speed of it. “It’s in your own best interest to have these people in your life. It’s strictly private. No one has a conversation with either of them without your permission. I’ll even promise never to speak with them outside your presence if that would help.”

  “Matthew—”

  “It’s not a stigma to seek help, Shannon, and Becky proved to me the value of these early appointments. It’s useful to have help from professionals who don’t have the emotional ties of family and friends. At least let me arrange the medical work-up. ”

  “It’s not that. I know why you’re asking. I’m not discussing my medical situation with you, but I’ve had that medical review. I went to someone I trusted. The blood work was extensive. I know every bone that broke and how it healed, every injury that’s going to give me problems as I age. At some point I’ll see a counselor to help me process what happened, but it’s not an immediate concern. I’m processing it on my own terms in a way that is working for me right now. I don’t need another voice in my head directing what to work on next.”

  Questions circled in his mind—who it was she had seen and where, how many bones had broken, what physical injuries were going to linger—but he didn’t ask them. He pushed the questions to the side and forced himself to simply nod. “That was smart, going to someone early on. Did she recommend follow-up with another physician?”

  “I asked for the facts and she provided those. She then offered her advice. I’m taking most of it.”

  “Good.”

  Shannon smiled. “Shift your thinking just a bit, Matthew. I’m an adult, able to make unpleasant decisions and do what needs done. I hate having to see a doctor; I thought that when I was ten and I still think that. I did so anyway. I don’t mind you asking if something is on my list, questioning its priority compared to another item on the list, but I have a pretty good sense of what needs to happen.”

  He felt intensely wrong-footed and finally said, “Let me apologize for my assumptions behind the question, that you would be inclined to avoid medical care and wouldn’t have done anything about it on your own. It’s not that I thought you were immature—like my daughter, and needing direction . . . well, maybe I was feeling that at the edges. I’m not used to a victim handling her own needs, not when it’s this close to the trauma’s end. You’re responding in ways I would expect in six months, Shannon, not in the first weeks after freedom. I clearly haven’t adapted yet to where you are—physically, mentally, emotionally—and for that too, I apologize.”

  “Apologies accepted.” She reached over and briefly touched his arm. “I didn’t know the day freedom would come, Matthew, but I’ve been preparing for this for a few years, and I’ve a working to-do list. I tried to anticipate what I could. I knew once I reappeared, matters were going to unfold quickly with a lot of pieces moving around. That’s why I sought out your help, not because I couldn’t handle this, but because I didn’t want to deal with all these different events on my own. But the details themselves—most of them I’ve thought through.”

  “That’s helpful to me, Shannon.” He would figure out how to get on the same page with her. “Very helpful.” Her reply told him she thought she was ready for this. That actually gave him a good clue for where the first emotional crack would appear. She was braced and ready for what she had anticipated, but she had little margin right now for the blindside surprise. Protecting her from one, buffering her against such a thing when he couldn’t prevent it—that would be a good outcome if he could pull it off. “I like that about you. The fact you planned this, are facing head-on the difficult items like finding a doctor. I don’t know how best to say this . . . but I’d like to be your backup when you have more of those hard things on your list to do, if you’ll allow me to do so.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Good. Now, let me ask a different question.”

  “Sure.”

  “You meet with your brother. Then you meet family members as you choose to do so after that. Talk to me about the broader picture. Do you want to see a particular friend from high school? A best friend? Would it be helpful for you to have a conversation with someone from your church
?”

  “Friends from high school will have gone on with their lives. Catching up with them can wait until the news has died down. There are some I’d like to call in the first day or two after this goes public, say hi in person. But friendships have a natural life-span, and a best friend will have to reappear to fit my present situation.”

  She shifted in the seat to face him. “I’ll enjoy being back at church, but which congregation I settle in with depends on where I’m living, and I doubt I decide that question for some months. While I’m still unknown, I wouldn’t mind going to services to sit in the balcony with you if we can avoid the church my family attends. Jeffery is a known face right now, and I’m not interested in calling attention to myself. But that wasn’t the substance of the second question you asked. You want to know if I would find it helpful to have a conversation with someone from my home church—have someone to talk with about the tough questions my experience has raised.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your daughter struggled with her faith because of what happened.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll let my daughter talk to you about that one day. I won’t try to characterize her concerns. But it was a topic which did prompt a lot of conversations.”

  “Thank you for that—for respecting Becky’s confidences. You gave an interview when your daughter was still missing. You were asked the question: ‘What has this done to your faith?’ You answered along the lines of, ‘God is good, and I love Him. Right now, God is permitting a very hard thing. Why, I don’t know, but I still trust Him. God will help me find my daughter.’ That interview and statement stuck with me. That’s one of the reasons I tracked you down. Do you still think that way, now that Becky is home and you know her story?”

  “I do. I struggled with trusting God in the first years after she was home, knowing what Becky had gone through. But I still believe God is good and I do love Him. It came back to what I knew to be true. My faith today is firm in that.”

  “I’m glad. To your question, no, I don’t require a conversation with someone from my church, someone to help me with what this did—or did not do—to my faith.”