In a terse, uncomfortable conversation with Linda McNaughton, I learned that Michael Reynolds was a heroin addict who died less than a year after Charlie was kidnapped from their one-bedroom apartment.
Ms. McNaughton said something chilling during my conversation with her, something that stayed with me for the rest of the day, long after our conversation had ended. “She was my daughter, may she rest in peace, and I loved her,” she said. “But she never wanted that boy. Tried to give him up a couple days after he was born, but she went back for him. Couldn’t take the guilt. And Michael, he never wanted anything but the needle. You ask me, alive or dead, the kid’s probably better off.”
Jake was staring at the computer screen as I ended my call with her.
“Anything?” he asked absently, not taking his eyes off the screen.
I told him what she’d said. He didn’t respond, just kept tapping his right finger on the mouse, scrolling through an article I couldn’t see from my place on the couch.
“Doesn’t it seem odd that all these people are dead?” I asked.
“It’s very odd,” he agreed, seeming distracted by his computer screen.
“Look at this,” he said. I walked over to him to read over his shoulder.
Marjorie Mathers, mother of Brian, age three when he disappeared from his bed in the middle of the night, was currently serving a life sentence for the murder of her husband. She’d killed him three weeks after Brian had gone missing. They’d been entrenched in a vicious custody battle over their child, and she claimed that he’d hired men to abduct him. Her lawyers claimed that she was half-mad over her missing boy and that, in combination with suffering years of abuse from her husband, was teetering on the edge of sanity. They said that she hadn’t meant to kill him but had gone to accuse him of abducting Brian to punish her for leaving him. The gun, she claimed, had accidentally discharged in the struggle. But evidence supported the prosecutors’ claim that she’d shot him in the back while he slept. She would be eligible for parole in the year 2020.
“Well, let’s see if we can find a way to talk to this woman,” I suggested.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Ridley,” said Jake, swiveling around to look at me.
“Why?”
“Because she’s obviously a nutcase.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Um, because she murdered her husband?”
I shrugged and moved back over to the couch. “Just because she killed someone doesn’t mean she doesn’t have information that might be helpful. She’s the only parent alive.”
Jake sighed. “I just think it’s irresponsible at this point to dredge up the past for this woman without more pointed questions. It’s going to be a painful conversation, if she agrees to see us at all. The woman is spending the rest of her life in prison; her son was abducted and never found. Try to imagine that. Do you really want to cause her more pain?”
He was right. And I felt like a shit, someone so selfishly in pursuit of my own answers that I’d lost compassion for someone else’s suffering.
“Then where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,” answered Jake.
Around eight o’clock, Jake went out to get us some dinner and I sat flipping though my notebook trying to figure out why it had seemed so important to me to find these people. What had I hoped to learn? Where did I expect it to lead me? I thought about what Linda McNaughton had said. I flipped through the pages of my notes, found her number, and dialed again.
“Ms. McNaughton?” I said when she picked up.
“Yes,” she said, fatigue and annoyance creeping into her tone as she recognized my voice.
“This is Ridley Jones. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I had another question about something you said.”
She sighed. I heard the click and hiss of a butane lighter and she inhaled sharply. “This is not easy for me, Miss.”
“I know and I’m sorry,” I said as gently as I could, remembering Jake’s words. “But please, just one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“You said that your daughter tried to give Charlie up after he was born.”
“That’s right,” she said, sounding defensive. “I tried to stop her. But we were all struggling financially. She thought it would be best for him.”
“So…she took him to an adoption agency?”
“No,” she said, and another sharp inhale was followed by a long pause. “You have to understand, with Michael being an addict and all, she didn’t think they’d be good parents.”
“I understand,” I said. “But where did she take Charlie?”
“She…left him at one of those places.”
“What places?” I asked. My blood was thrumming in my ears.
“One of those places that take your baby, no questions asked. You know, they don’t want people to leave their babies in a Dumpster, so you can drop them, ring a bell, and take off. You have three days or something to go back if you change your mind.”
“Ms. McNaughton,” I said, “did she take Charlie to a Project Rescue facility?”
“Yes, that was it. That’s what it was called. But like I said, she went back and got him. They were kind to her, gave her some counseling. She felt better after talking to them, like she could handle being a mother to Charlie. But you ask me, he knew she didn’t really want him. Colicky like you read about, screamed his head off night and day.”
But I barely heard the rest. All I could think about was Ace and what he had said to me that night.
I thanked her and hung up the phone. What did it mean? I had no idea. But I kept flashing on the brochures Dad had given me, seeing the images of the cold, filthy Dumpster and the warm blanketed arms of the nurse.
A thought danced through my mind, one that I immediately pushed aside as preposterous. But it kept pirouetting back and forth and I was unable to still it.
“What’s wrong?” said Jake, entering the room with aromatic bags of Chinese food from Young Chow’s. We were just out of range of their delivery service, but Jake and I both agreed they had the best garlic prawns in the East Village, well worth the walk.
“Nothing,” I lied. “I’m just zoning out. I feel pretty wiped.”
“I bet,” he answered, looking at me. I think he knew I was holding something back, but he let it go. I wasn’t ready to tell him what I was thinking. Hell, I wasn’t even ready to
“Find anything else out?” he said, nudging a little, I thought.
“No. Nothing.” I rose and walked over to the table, started unpacking the takeout containers.
He walked into the kitchen and after a few moments returned with plates, silverware, napkins, and, under his arm, a bottle of white wine.
“Let’s eat,” he said, pulling out a chair for me. “Everything seems better after a good meal and a good bottle of wine.”
I smiled at him, hoping he was right.
twenty-one
Looking back at things now, I’m amazed at myself, really. I know they say hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that, but honestly, there were so many things about my past that I just accepted on face value, never questioned, never even wondered about. It’s mind-boggling. On the other hand, doesn’t everybody accept the life they’re dealt at face value? Shouldn’t they be allowed to? There were signs, though, I think. I’d always internally slagged on my mother for her dogged denial of anything and everything that came close to disturbing her concept of herself and
