I jump in the backseat and Leah says, “Yvonne’s.”
I say, “What?”
“It’s gotta be your sister. Frankie wasn’t in the park this time; he was home in bed. That’s not a stranger.”
“Yvonne’s,” I say, and Leah barks the directions at Tim.
“Yvonne, when was the last time you saw Sheila?”
“Couple of days ago, I guess.” Yvonne is cross-legged on her couch, smoking a joint—candles lit all over the place, low music floating in from another room. No wonder she wasn’t startled when Leah and I found the door unlocked and stormed in.
“What was she like, I mean, her attitude? Did she say anything crazy?”
Yvonne shakes her head slowly. “Said she was done. Had enough. No more.”
“Enough of what?” Leah asks. “Did she say what she was going to do?”
“Nope. Just done, is all. She told me I was a ‘weak, worthless bitch’ an’ she was done with me, too. I think she was on something, but I also think she meant it.”
I say, “Nothing about Frankie, or where she was going?”
“Nope. Think she has a new girlfriend, though. How do you like that? I do everything to steer her away from all the assholes, and she picks another chick.”
“A girlfriend? That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, some bitch named . . . Susan or something.”
Shit! I push Leah out the door, where Tim waits on the porch. “Do you know Badger Lake?”
Tim says, “I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s where we swam open water practicing for the Sandpoint swim,” Leah tells him. “Out past Turnbull.”
Tim says, “Right.”
I say, “We gotta get there fast.”
We’re in the car, shooting through neighborhood streets like Tim’s a NASCAR driver; we hit Ash, cross the Maple Street bridge, and shoot west onto the freeway in what has to be record time.
Leah says, “Who’s this Susan? The new girlfriend?”
“Susan isn’t a real person . . . at least not real to Sheila,” I say. “She was talking about Susan Smith.”
“The woman that . . .”
“Yup.”
Leah punches Tim’s arm. “Hurry, baby. Hurry!”
I tell Siri to call Wiz; I can barely think. He’ll know what else to do and maybe he’ll calm me down.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Annie.”
“I think Sheila’s got him, and I think we’re in trouble. I’m with Leah. We just talked to Yvonne, and I think Sheila’s headed out to Badger Lake.”
“Where is Badger Lake?”
“Out past the Turnbull wildlife refuge,” I say. “Sheila said something to Yvonne about Susan Smith.”
“Susan Smith?” he says. “The woman who . . .”
“. . . drowned her kids,” I say. “She’s mentioned her before; Sheila and I were out at Badger once, right after the first time she thought you guys were going to take Frankie. There’s a little resort, and we were sunbathing on the dock next to the boat launch. Sheila said if you guys ever tried to take Frankie, she’d do a Susan Smith. We fought over it; she finally said she wasn’t serious, but now . . . I don’t know. For some reason that boat launch reminded her . . .”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, listen,” I say, “can you call nine-one-one in Cheney? We’re close, but they can probably get there faster. I mean, she could be going to some other lake, but she’s pretty literal, it’s all I can think of.”
“If she’s got him,” Wiz says, “she took him from here and we’re close to a huge lake with hundreds of private boat launches. You call Cheney nine-one-one and I’ll get them on Amber Alert. You cover Badger; I’ll alert the Coeur d’Alene police.”
I click off and hit 911.
A quicker way to get the Cheney police on the move is to drive down an almost deserted Main Street at seventy miles per hour, which is exactly what Tim does. The Cheney cop comes after us and Tim puts the pedal to the floor, while I’m talking to 911 telling them why we’re breaking the law and all speeding records. The dispatcher tells me to stay on the line while she alerts the officer on our tail, and gets up with the state police. On one hand I think this is a long shot, and on another I think I have to be right. Please let there be some hand in the universe that cares more about Frankie than Santa Claus.
As Tim turns onto the Badger Lake road we start into a skid, but he pulls it out and actually speeds up.
The park on the lake is nearly empty; summer is long past. Dim lights glow from the windows of the few trailers inhabited by folks who live here year-round, but the grounds are mostly dark. We jump out, frantically searching for the public launch as the Cheney policeman rolls in behind us, but for the life of me I can’t get my bearings.
“The public launch!” Tim yells. “Where is it?”
I whirl in a three-sixty, but nothing looks familiar. It was summer when we were here, daylight. There were boats. . . .
Leah sprints to an oversized camper, pounds on the door, and begs for directions. She comes running, pointing and yelling, “Behind the blue camper!”
And there they are, two taillights glowing beneath the surface, not deep, but fully submerged. Bubbles rise to the surface.
Tim kicks off his shoes as he sheds his coat and outer shirt and hits the water on the shotgun side, Leah seconds behind him on the other. Tim surfaces, yelling, “Air pocket! A rock! Anything hard! Quick!”
I scramble, picking up and discarding possible weapons, till I find a rusty tire iron next to a boat trailer and run into the water to Tim. Leah goes under on the other side with a rock, while I bang on the trunk lock with a too-small piece of concrete I found lying next to the dock.
The Cheney cop is shouting directions into his radio while Tim and Leah bash in windows, and my hunk of concrete disintegrates in my hands.
“Got him!” Tim yells, and pulls a drenched five-year-old up the
