Nine
Jenna got off duty and stopped at the Bar-Bill Tavern to grab an order of Sicilian Wings. The place was packed, which was the norm. While she waited for the wings, she drank a Guinness. Sicilian-style were Rachel’s favorite, although Jenna preferred the hottest of wings. But to keep her better half happy, she went with the Sicilian.
The bartender set the box of wings on the bar. She paid him and finished off her beer. Drove to their Cape Cod and parked. Rachel’s Lexus was in the driveway and Jenna was glad to have her home. Rachel had been pulling long hours as the director at the art museum downtown. Their annual gala was coming up and she’d come home exhausted every day after planning the event for weeks.
Jenna found Rachel emptying the dishwasher.
“Sicilian?” Rachel said.
“You got it.”
“You read my mind.”
Jenna went over and kissed Rachel hello. “You win this time.”
“Any luck with the case?”
“Nothing. We had SWAT guys try and breach the tunnel. Didn’t budge. How’s the gala coming?”
“The Hyatt messed up and shorted us tables. Good thing I caught it. We would have had two hundred guests standing and eating. They’re going to fix it.”
“Let’s dig into the wings. I’ll help you with those after dinner,” Jenna said.
“Don’t have to ask me twice.”
Jenna grabbed two beers from the fridge and they plopped down on the couch. They were halfway through watching House Hunters when Jenna polished off her first beer. “Ready for another?”
“You trying to get me drunk and take advantage?”
“Maybe,” Jenna said.
“It might work. I’ll take another.”
As Jenna went to the fridge, she heard a loud thump outside. It was followed by a crash that sounded like garbage cans being tipped over.
“What the hell was that?” Rachel said.
2003 – Meyers
Detective Bill Meyers was downing his sixth chicken wing when his cell phone jangled in his pocket. He grabbed a fresh napkin, wiped sauce from his mouth, and took out the cell.
Dammit. Work. The wings, which had tasted good going down, started to churn. He hoped to hell another kid wasn’t missing.
“Meyers,” he said.
“I interrupt your lunch?”
It was the Lieutenant.
“Hey Lieutenant. And yes, you did.”
“Head over to 1637 Marigold.”
Meyers let out a big sigh. “Tell me we don’t have another missing kid.”
“Wish I had better news. Couple of twelve-year-olds didn’t come home for lunch. Mom’s getting nervous.”
“I’m on my way,” Meyers said.
He ended the call and pocketed the phone. Wiped his mouth and hands. Then he took out his wallet, removed a twenty, and threw it on the table. He got up and waved to the bartender, who nodded.
Outside, the fall air had set in. The leaves were beginning to turn. He always hated fall, if only because winter was soon to follow. Moving to the Carolinas looked more and more appealing with each passing year. Slogging through another Western New York winter didn’t exactly set his heart on fire.
This had been the third family he’d had to check on in the past two weeks. Each case had involved a disappearance. Eleven-year-old Sara Kincade was still missing. She’d ridden her bike to the 7-11 and hadn’t come home. Her father had called the cops when she hadn’t been back in an hour. They’d found her Schwinn mountain bike leaning against the wall outside 7-11, but there’d been no sign of the girl.
The second had been seventeen-year-old Jake Tapper. The boy had been overdue to come home from football practice. He was a star running back. There was talk of him playing Division One after high school. Right now he was a statistic.
To Meyers’ relief, the third had been a false alarm; nine-year-old Haley Ann McGrath had been found hiding in her grandparents’ garage. Apparently she was facing grounding from Mom and Dad. She’d hid out in the garage until her grandfather had spotted her tucked behind his Craftsman tool chest.
Meyers hoped this was another false alarm. There had been emergency meetings, press conferences, and constant news coverage of the disappearances. They’d caught one group of self-proclaimed vigilantes skulking around the woods with shotguns and hunting rifles. He guessed they hoped to find the kidnappers. They’d been cited and sent home.
He pulled into the mustard yellow ranch’s driveway. A woman in capris and a purple hoodie stood on the porch. She had short, bleach-blonde hair and a nose ring. She seemed ready to hop off the porch and come barreling at Meyers.
As he approached the porch, he said, “Detective Meyers.”
“Tanya Hart. Can you help. Please?”
“Let’s see what we have. It’s your kids?”
“My twins, Eric and Cole.”
Meyer said, “Where were they headed?”
“To the creek, and then to their friend Jason’s house.”
“Cross Creek?” Meyers said. “How long ago?”
“Yes. They left at nine. I told them to come home at noon. Texted them. Called their cells. Called Jason’s house. They never made it there.”
Those wings began to churn in his stomach. Nerves. This wasn’t sounding good; call it instinct. He was a glass nearly empty kind of guy. Screw half empty. He’d seen enough to warrant the pessimistic outlook. “What part of the creek?”
“They like to hang by the footbridge. Sometimes they catch crawfish and salamanders.”
“I know right where that is. Any other favorite hangouts?”
“The mall sometimes. GameStop. The comic book shop on Allen Street.”
“I’ll send officers to check those out. I’m going to personally check out the creek,” Meyers said. “Do you have a picture handy?”
“Do you think they’re okay?”
He had no answer for that. “That’s what we’re going to find out. The picture?”
She took her cell from her pocket and showed her the picture that served as her wallpaper. Two sandy-haired kids with lopsided grins. Jesus, he hoped he found them in
