Missing Since Monday Read online

  It was just as Martha was walking past our mailbox that I spotted the figure in the trees. Across the street from us, at the corner of the Babbitts’ front yard, is a little stand of fir and ash trees. Our whole neighborhood was woods not too many years ago. In fact, it was still pretty woodsy when Dad and Mike and I moved from Herrontown Road after the divorce. As the neighborhood grew, the only trees cut down were those needed to clear space for the homes, so there are a lot of trees around. The street is shady, the houses almost secluded.

  I jumped when I realized that the figure was Brad de Christopher. What was he doing? Was he just another curious onlooker? As I stared out the window at him, he casually shoved his hands in his pockets and strode out from among the trees and down the sidewalk.

  I shivered as fear ran its chilly fingers up my back.

  9

  Wednesday

  COURTENAY HAD BEEN MISSING for two days. The police and searchers were turning up so few clues and having so little luck with people calling in about the case that they began to drag the lakes and rivers in the area. Then Lamberton told us about a child, a four-year-old boy, who was thought to have been kidnapped by his father after a messy divorce. Three days later, the boy’s body was found in a refrigerator someone had left on the sidewalk for a secondhand store to cart away.

  When Leigh heard that, she absolutely fell apart. Lamberton should have kept his mouth shut. Leigh wouldn’t talk to anyone anyway, except sometimes Dad, and she wouldn’t eat and she cried all the time.

  Three interesting things happened on Wednesday, though. Mike and I had stayed home from school again, so we were in on everything. The first thing was that Lamberton and Becker, even with the river-dragging and stuff going on, sat Dad down after breakfast and brought up the remote possibility that Courtie had been kidnapped—not by Mom or even by someone who just wanted a kid, but by someone who wanted ransom money, like in the movies, or in that funny O. Henry story, “The Ransom of Red Chief.” We hadn’t received a ransom note or call, but Lamberton wanted to consider the possibility anyway.

  “But I’m not that wealthy,” said Dad. “I mean, we’ve got plenty of money, but I’m no millionaire.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily matter,” replied Lamberton. “Somebody might kidnap a child if he thought he’d get some money out of it. Would you pay, say, ten thousand dollars to have your daughter returned safely?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, there you are. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. It’s not a million dollars, but it’s a lot. Most people can get together some amount of money for the return of a child.”

  “How about offering a reward?” asked Dad. “Instead of waiting for the kidnapper to come to us, we’ll go to him. I’d even pay Jessica to give us Courtenay back.” I rolled my eyes, but Dad went on, “How about a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  I gasped. That sounded like a fortune.

  “It would certainly help,” replied Becker, looking a bit surprised. “I’ll let the papers know today. Or perhaps you’d like to have a news conference, Mr. Ellis. That might be more effective.”

  “All right,” replied Dad quietly.

  “What I’d also like to do,” Lamberton went on, “is tell you—all of you—a few things about handling a phone call when someone says he or she has kidnapped Courtenay and wants the money in exchange for her return, which is bound to start happening after the reward is announced.” Dad and Mike and I nodded. “There are a few dos and don’ts. We’d like to be able to weed out the people who have nothing to do with the case but simply want the money, so that we can pinpoint the actual kidnapper—if there is one, and if he or she should call.”

  We all nodded again.

  “All right,” said Lamberton. “If someone does say he or she has Courtenay, keep the person on the line for a while. We’ll try to trace the call with this.” He held up a small instrument, which he carefully attached to the phone in the kitchen. “If we can do that, then there’s the chance—but it’s a small chance—that we could find Courtenay before you have to meet anyone to hand over money. While you’re talking, Detective Becker or I will use the other line upstairs to call the phone company. They’ll be able to tell where the call is coming from.”

  “Okay,” said Dad.

  “It’s not unreasonable to ask the caller for some sort of proof that he or she actually has Courtenay. It may indicate that the caller is a phony. The real kidnapper will expect you to want proof and will be eager to give it to you. Ask to speak to Courtenay or ask about … Does Courtenay have any birthmarks or scars that the media hasn’t mentioned but that the kidnapper would notice?”

  Dad frowned.

  “We mentioned her birthmark,” I spoke up, “but Dad, remember when she fell on the patio last year?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Dad. “She had two stitches taken just over her right eyebrow. It’s a tiny little scar, but you can still see where the stitches were.”

  “Okay,” said Lamberton. “Ask the caller to describe the scar on Courtenay’s face. Don’t give any more clues than that. If he can’t do it, he doesn’t really have her.”

  Lamberton talked until I couldn’t follow him anymore. All I could think of was Courtie. I saw her waving from the bus window, crying about the red mitten, grinning with a mouthful of pizza. I tried to picture her with Mom, but that was too depressing. When Lamberton was finished, I went to my room and cried.

  Late that afternoon, David came over. The kids who’d been searching for Courtenay had to return to school the next day. Most of them were exhausted and had already knocked off. I’d never been so glad to see someone.

  When I answered the doorbell, David strode into the hall, wrapped his arms around me in one of his bear hugs, and held me, rocking me back and forth like a baby. Of course I began to cry again. Everyone who was around suddenly became busy with other things so that David and I could feel as if we were alone. After a few minutes, we sneaked into the den.

  “I saw you on TV last night,” David said.

  I blushed. “What did you think?”

  “That Robert Ford is a jerk. But you did a good job. You looked as if all you cared about is getting Courtenay back. You looked really pretty, too.” David was holding one of my hands between both of his and stroking it with his thumb.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “What are the police turning up? Anything important since the last time I talked to you?”

  I shook my head. “So far they’ve been questioning people, a lot of people. The state police are trying to get hold of Leigh’s first husband, but they haven’t been able to reach him. Courtie’s teacher has been questioned but she doesn’t know anything. Birdie’s been questioned, too. I think they’re a little suspicious of her.”

  “How well do you know Birdie?” asked David.

  “I see her pretty often,” I replied. “She was Courtie’s favorite driver—I mean, is her favorite driver—and I used to like her a lot, too, but … ”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I just don’t know what to think. I’ve been going over this, and now all sorts of things seem funny to me, like the fact that Birdie was going to have her hair dyed. If she were planning to kidnap Courtie, she’d need a disguise for later—but then why would she tell me about her hair? Also, she’s always said she wished she could have had a child. Maybe she wanted one so badly, she took one. Courtie was one of her favorite kids.”

  David looked thoughtful. “It could be important, it could be nothing.”

  “I know.” I laid my head on his shoulder, and he turned to kiss my forehead.

  The phone rang. I jumped a mile.

  “Hey,” said David softly, “it’s okay.”

  “I want to see who’s on the phone. Maybe it’s the kidnapper.”

  We got to the kitchen just as Mike was putting the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Who was it?” I asked. “Was it about Courtenay?”

  Mike shoo
k his head. “Wrong number, I guess. The person hung up as soon as I said hello.”

  “Oh.”

  Dad came into the kitchen with Leigh clutching his arm and sort of leaning against him. She looked terrible. She was still in her bathrobe. Her eyes were red from crying, and there were dark circles under them. Her face was as pale as a sheet. Without makeup, she looked positively ghoulish.

  Dad guided her to the table and sat her down.

  “Want some coffee, Leigh?” I asked her.

  She shook her head and pressed her fingertips against her brow.

  “Something to eat? I could make scrambled eggs … ”

  Leigh shook her head again.

  “ … or a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Maggie, no. I don’t want anything. Just Courtenay. All I want is to have my baby back.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t provide that,” I snapped, and stalked out of the kitchen.

  David followed me. “Maggie?”

  “I’m all right,” I said. “Maybe you should go, though. Leigh’s in an awful mood. But could Mike and I come over tonight?”

  “Sure. That’d be fine.”

  “Good. See if Jane and Andrew—but not Brad—can come, too. I want to discuss something with everyone.”

  “All right. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  He grinned. “I didn’t think so, but I’ve got an idea about it. You know I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  Of course he would. David Jacobssen couldn’t not help someone who needed him.

  “Listen, I’ll call before we come over, but don’t you call here,” I said. “The fewer phone calls, the better.”

  David nodded. He pulled me into the den, closed the door, and kissed my lips softly—again and again. We pulled apart for a few seconds, and I drew in my breath sharply. He’d kissed me before, but never like that. Then we kissed tenderly once more, and without another word, David left the house.

  10

  Wednesday Night

  BECKER QUESTIONED JACK TIERNO. She gave Dad and Mike and me the news shortly after David left. “The state police had staked out his house,” she said. “As soon as he got back from his trip, I went over there to question him. He has an airtight alibi. He’s been at some sort of bicycle convention in Minneapolis since Saturday. I’ve already checked him out. Dozens of people vouch for him. On Monday he attended meetings, a breakfast, and a lunch. There’s no way he was even near Princeton.”

  So Jack Tierno was clean—but not out of the picture. He called our house twice wanting to talk to Leigh, telling her how sorry he was. I got the distinct impression that Jack wasn’t the one who’d wanted that marriage to end, that he was still in love with Leigh, and that he was truly sorry she was hurting so. I felt bad for him. It was clear that despite whatever had happened, Leigh remained important to him.

  “Any leads on Mom?” David asked Becker carefully.

  “David,” I said warningly.

  “I have to know,” he replied crossly. “Lay off, Maggie.

  “Unfortunately, none,” said Becker. “The FBI are trying to track her down, but they have nothing to go on aside from the postmark on her recent card to Maggie.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “I think that right now you should concentrate your efforts on publicizing Courtenay’s disappearance,” Becker said.

  “Haven’t we been doing that?” asked Mike.

  “Yes, and the reward is a big help, but the more you can do, the better. The public has a short memory.”

  “I have a question,” I spoke up. “On TV, when a kid is missing, the family and neighbors make up posters with a photo of the child on them and put them up all over the place—in stores, on phone poles, in bus stations and restaurants, anywhere a lot of people will see them. Search for the Children will do this sort of thing, but the photos won’t be distributed for a while. Shouldn’t we be putting up our own notices about Courtenay?”

  “Of course. Everything helps. In fact, a group of your neighbors are already working on fliers to hand out. Posters would be terrific. But they must be distributed widely.”

  “Are you saying we shouldn’t bother?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Becker replied. “I’m saying that the more widely you can distribute the posters, the better. Get them all across the country, if possible.”

  Dad noticed the stricken look on my face. “Maggie?” he said gently. “What is it?”

  “I was going to get all our friends together tonight so we could figure out how to print the posters, but we’ll barely be able to get them up around Princeton, let alone the whole country.”

  “Oh, Maggie.” Dad reached over and patted my knee. I pulled away from him and he sighed.

  Instead of eating dinner that evening, I took a nap. When I woke up, I felt better. I wandered into Mike’s room. He was sitting in the dark again, and scared me to death by calling out my name like some disembodied ghoul. “Mike!” I cried with a gasp. “Don’t do that!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Want to go over to David and Martha’s?” I asked. “I decided that we should make up posters anyway, even if we can only make enough for our street. Every little bit helps.”

  There was a long pause. Courtenay was weighing heavily on all of us. “I thought I’d try to catch up on some of the work I’ve missed,” he said.

  “Oh, come on. You know you won’t do any homework tonight. Besides, you were the one who said we have to conduct a regular search if we want to find out who took Courtenay. Wouldn’t you just love to be able to present Dad with some weirdo, and say, ‘Here’s the person who took Courtie. Does he look like Mom to you?’ Anyway, I already told David to ask Jane and Andrew over tonight. I’m going to call David now.”

  Silence.

  “Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I backed out of Mike’s room, feeling slightly afraid.

  I made the call as short as possible. “David? It’s me. Is it okay if we come over now? … Great. See you in a few minutes.” I hung up the phone and went downstairs to find Becker. “Mike and I are going to go over to the Jacobssens’ to see about printing up posters.”

  “Okay, hon,” replied Becker. “Here.” She handed me a poster with the picture of a young girl printed on it. “It’s a typical poster. This girl is currently missing from Brooklyn, New York, and it contains all the information you should include on your poster. Okay?”

  I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, looking at the photo of the girl. Lacey Meigs was her name. She had jet-black hair and dark, laughing eyes. She had been missing for—I checked the poster again—fourteen months. “Over a year!” I exclaimed. “Gone for more than a year?”

  Becker nodded. “I’m afraid that in the world of missing children, a year isn’t very long. Lots of children have been missing for more than five years. Most of them will never be found. Not after that much time has passed.”

  “Lots of children?” I repeated. “Just how many children are missing?”

  “In the United States—thousands.”

  “Thousands? But that’s impossible! How could so many children be missing? Why don’t we know about them? Where are they? Don’t people talk about them? When an adult is kidnapped it makes national news, doesn’t it? Why don’t we hear about all these children?”

  “Well,” Becker began to explain, “about ninety percent of them are teenage runaways. The rest—”

  The phone rang. I snatched it up.

  “Hello?” I said harshly.

  There was a pause. Then, “Are you there alone?” asked the familiar voice. “You’re not, are you?” I hadn’t heard from the voice since the day Courtie disappeared. I was about to answer when I realized Becker was watching me intently. Slowly I lowered the receiver into the cradle. “Wrong number,” I said.

  “Do you get a lot of those?” she asked.

  “Our number’s almost the same as Chan’s.” Th
at was true. Chan’s is a Chinese restaurant in town that has good take-out food, and our phone number is the same as Chan’s except for one digit. We really do get a lot of calls from people wanting to place orders.

  I wondered if it was wrong of me not to tell the police about the calls I’d been getting, but I couldn’t bring myself to. If Leigh found out, she’d cream me. It was bad enough that she knew about Courtenay sitting naked at the table. She’d say that if she’d known about the calls, she and Dad would never have left for Saint Bart’s. Which was exactly the point. They needed that vacation, and I needed to prove to Leigh that I was responsible. Besides, the caller only wanted to talk to me. The calls didn’t have anything to do with Courtie.

  Or maybe they did.

  Everything was so confusing.

  I ran back upstairs to Mike. “Come on. Let’s go,” I said urgently.

  Mike emerged from the bathroom looking fairly presentable. “Okay, I’m ready.” He gave his hair a last swipe with his brush.

  We walked to the Jacobssens’ house, glad to be outdoors for a while. Although the rain had stopped, the night air was still misty and damp. Was Courtenay out in it somewhere? I shivered.

  Mike rang the Jacobssens’ bell, and Martha let us in. “Hi, you guys,” she said, and hugged each of us fiercely, which was not at all like Martha. “Here, let me hang up your coats.”

  While Martha was getting out coat hangers, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobssen came into the front hall. “Maggie, Mike,” said Mrs. Jacobssen warmly. “How are you doing? Courtenay is in our prayers.”

  I felt embarrassed, since we’re not a religious family. I looked at the floor. “Thanks,” I said.

  Mike managed a smile.

  “Come into the living room for a minute before we go downstairs,” said Martha.

  Mike and I followed her and found ourselves standing before a group of about thirty of Dad and Leigh’s friends. They were busily stacking fliers about Courtenay and holding intense conversations in small groups. Five people were clustered around a big map of Princeton and the surrounding towns. It was covered with pushpins indicating where fliers had been handed out and where they were still needed. A few people looked up and greeted us, some with concern, others distractedly, but most just continued working.