“Mr. Gregory, Mrs. Clark has noticed a child’s footprints, along with an adult male’s shoe prints. They could have been there for quite some time. As you know, it hasn’t rained for a few weeks. We’re concerned because it appears, from the impressions in the dirt, that there was a struggle between the adult and the child. We are investigating this. We will also be checking more thoroughly around your home, as well. At this point, however, there appears to be only one set of child’s footprints.” Agent Fitzgerald pauses, letting this information soak into me, then continues. “We’ve called in a crime scene unit from Des Moines. They’ll be here shortly. The crime lab will be doing a thorough search of this yard and of your yard, as well, to see if any other footprints or evidence can be found.
“The media has arrived,” Fitzgerald announces. “This is a good thing for you and Mrs. Clark, although it makes things somewhat more difficult for us logistically. We don’t want anyone getting in the way of us doing our job.”
“I need to go tell Fielda what is going on. What should I say to her?” I ask.
“Tell her the truth. You can’t hide anything from her during this. You two need to stick together and be strong. But I have to insist that you stay away from your home.” To Antonia he says, “Mrs. Clark, we need you to also stay away from your home. This is now a crime scene. Do you have anyone with whom you can stay?”
Toni looks dazed. “I think…I suppose Mrs. Norland’s house—over there.” She motions weakly toward our neighbor’s home.
“Good. If the reporters ask you questions, tell them you will be speaking with them in about…” Fitzgerald checks his watch “…one hour. Will that give you enough time to gather your thoughts and speak with Mrs. Gregory?”
I nod, though, in fact, I have no idea if I will be ready or not.
“You and Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Clark will speak first. Then I will give the press a brief overview of the status of the investigation and answer any questions that may be asked. Okay?”
I nod again and stand. “I’ll go and get Fielda,” I say resignedly.
All at once there is a commotion outside, a series of shouts, not in anger. The press, perhaps. Agent Fitzgerald moves quickly to the front of the house.
“Mr. Gregory, you better get out here,” he instructs. “Damn press,” he mutters.
I rush to his side and see what concerned him so. I see Fielda emerging from her mother’s car, walking dazedly down the Clarks’ lane. A lone reporter and cameraman begin to press in around her, and she looks so confused. Her eyes dart anxiously around for help and I fly out of the house and run to her side.
“Are you related to one of the missing girls?” the reporter asks. “What do you know about the evidence that was found in the backyard?”
Fielda looks at me desperately. Her flowered sundress is wrinkled, her hair is flattened on one side, disheveled, her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes and one cheek bears a slight imprint left behind from the bed linens.
“We have reports that the mother of Jenna McIntire is in town. Have you met with Mary Ellen McIntire? Has she given you any advice on how to handle this?” The reporter, a serious woman in a red suit, thrusts a Channel Four microphone under her chin.
Fielda goes rigid and she gapes up at me. For one horrible moment I think she will faint. Her eyes briefly roll back in her head, but I wrap my arms firmly around her shoulders and hold her close to me. She steadies and I lead her away from Antonia’s house. Antonia follows close behind us. Agent Fitzgerald steps forward and introduces himself to the reporter.
Fielda takes several deep breaths. “I’m fine, Martin. Tell me what’s going on. I can handle this.”
I must look doubtful, because she gives me a steely glare. “Martin, I am fine. I promise. I need to be fine if I am going to be any help to Petra. Tell me what is going on so we can figure out what to do next.”
BEN
Calli, remember the time I slept in a tree? The huge climbing tree just past Willow Wallow? I was nine and so you must have been four, not talking anymore. I was just so sick of everyone trying to get you to talk. That’s all Mom cared about anymore, getting you to say something, anything.
She’d sit you at the kitchen table and say things like, “Do you want some ice cream, Calli?”
You’d nod your head. I mean, what kid wouldn’t want ice cream at nine-thirty on a Tuesday morning?
“Say please, Calli,” Mom would tell you, “and you can have some yummy ice cream!” She’d talk in this high, annoying voice, like she was talking to a baby, trying to feed it crappy mashed up sweet potatoes or something.
‘Course, you never said anything back to her. But Mom would try forever. The ice cream would get all soupy and warm, and she’d still be sitting at the table, trying to get you to eat it, when all you really wanted to do was go watch
In the end, you wouldn’t say anything and Mom would give you a fresh bowl of ice cream to eat in front of the TV anyway. So it wasn’t much of an incentive, if you ask me. After one or two times of that, even a four-year-old is smart enough to figure out that if you wait long enough you’ll get the ice cream.
One day I just had enough. I was sick of sitting there watching Mom trying to bribe you into talking, when even I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. Mom pulled the ice cream out of the fridge and reached up into a cupboard for the sugar cones.
Oooh, I thought, she’s pulling out the sugar cones, big-time bribes today. Mom started as she usually did. “Do you want some ice cream, Calli? Hmm, what do we have here? Tin Roof Sundae! Your favorite, Calli!”
“How do you know?” I asked. I couldn’t help it.
“What?” Mom asked. She was digging into the ice cream container with the ice cream scoop.
“How do you know her favorite is still Tin Roof Sundae?” I asked, and Mom looked at me kind of confused- like.
“I just know,” she answered. “Look, Calli, sugar cones!”
“She doesn’t like the peanuts in it anymore. She always eats around them,” I said.
“Ben, go play,” Mom said, kind of snotty-like, I thought.
“No, this is stupid,” I said loudly, surprising myself.
“Ben, go play,” Mom said again, like she meant business.
“No. Calli can’t talk, she can’t do it! No matter how much ice cream you give her, or candy or pop, she isn’t gonna say anything. She can’t talk!” I shouted.
“You be quiet, Ben,” Mom said real soft.
“No!” I said, looking her in the eye, just daring her to make me. “You wanna know why she can’t talk, I’d go talk to Dad.” I remember looking around me to see if maybe he could hear, even though I knew he was traveling.
“Ben, stop it!” Mom shouted back, her chin trembling.
“No!” I grabbed the ice cream scoop out of her hand and walked to the back door, opened it and flung it out into the yard. I don’t know why, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
The whole time, Calli, you just sat there, with your big eyes, all scared. Then, when the yelling started, you put your hands over your ears and closed your eyes.
For a minute, I thought Mom was going to hit me. She had that same look in her eyes that Dad gets.
I yelled, “Go ahead, hit me! You’re turning into Dad anyway. A big bully, trying to make people do what you want them to do, no matter what!”
I ran and ran and ran. Kinda like what I did today. Not so brave, huh? I spent the night in that old tree down by Willow Wallow. You and Mom came looking for me and I sat on my branch all quiet, looking down at you two, thinking that you didn’t see me. But I caught you looking up at me, you gave me a little wave and I waved back. Mom must have figured out where I was because later on she came back with a paper sack full of sandwiches and some pop.
She set it at the bottom of the tree and said to you, “I’ll just set this here for Ben, Calli, so if he gets hungry
