“I’m sorry I’m late.” Mr. Wilson looked concernedly down at his watch. “I was stuck in a meeting. Let’s go on up to my office.” Calli stood and looked fearfully at Mrs. Hample. “I’ll bring her back in about twenty minutes, right before lunch.” He addressed his last comments to Mrs. Hample.
“She should be in a special classroom. She doesn’t talk, you know,” she said as if Calli could not hear her. “Or maybe in a behavior disorder class. She’s being obstinate, not talking like that.”
“All our students are special here, and Calli is right where she belongs. You won’t be needed for the rest of the day, Mrs. Hample. You may sign out at the office. Thank you.”
When Calli finished using the restroom, he sent her outside to play with her classmates for recess. She and Petra played hopscotch with some other children. Mrs. Hample left and never returned and Mr. Wilson was their substitute teacher for the rest of the afternoon. When she arrived home from school that day, her backpack held a note for her mother from Mr. Wilson. Calli watched carefully as her mother read the note, her face drooping more and more at each line she read. Finally, she set the letter aside and beckoned Calli to her.
“Petra’s a nice girl,” her mother whispered to her as she gathered her on her lap. Calli nodded and played with the collar on her mother’s shirt. “We have to do something nice for her, don’t you think?” Again Calli nodded. “Cookies, you think?” Antonia asked her. Calli slipped off her lap, opened the refrigerator and began pulling eggs and butter from inside.
“You remember what a good friend she’s been to you, Calli. Don’t ever forget it. Petra will need you to be just as good a friend someday, okay?”
Calli and Antonia delivered the cookies, still warm and soft, later that evening to the Gregory house. Petra’s mother and father had smiled proudly at their daughter’s kind actions on Calli’s behalf. Calli and Petra had run off into the porch to sit and eat the chocolaty cookies.
Now, in the meadow, her stomach growled in remembrance of those chocolate chip cookies as she wove a crown of flowers for her best friend. Calli felt her nose begin to burn from the harsh sun, and she headed back into the woods and its dim calm.
ANTONIA
Martin, Fielda and I huddle together. We sit on Mrs. Norland’s sofa, trying to decide what to do next. We need to talk to the press, that much is certain, but don’t know where to begin. Don’t know quite what to say. I mean, how does a parent get up in front of a camera and say to the whole world, “I’ve lost my child, please help me get her back.” How does one do that?
But it needs to be done. I hold in my hand a collection of pictures of Calli. Calli in her first-grade picture, a hesitant smile on her face, her two front teeth missing, her hair brushed and curled, staring right into the camera. Calli wearing her yellow bathing suit earlier this summer, her skin slightly pink from the sun, her hair in pigtails. Calli and Petra, just last week, sitting at the kitchen table, arms thrown around each other, heads touching.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing.
Startled, Martin and Fielda look up at me.
“We’ll figure it out as we go,” I assure them. “Come on.”
I hold on to Fielda’s hand as we approach the front door, and she holds on to Martin’s hand. We make an odd little train as we leave the house. We walk down the long lane to Timber Ridge Road to where the reporter is waiting for us. I shield my eyes from the glare of the sun and the reporter looks expectantly at us. Quiet greets us for a moment and the woman in the red suit addresses us.
“I’m sorry to hear about your daughters. My name is Katie Glass. I’m a reporter for KLRS. Could you answer a few questions for me?”
“My name is Antonia Clark,” I begin, “and this is Martin and Fielda Gregory. Our daughters, Calli and Petra, are…missing.” I hold up the photo of Calli and Petra together at the kitchen table. My hand is shaking.
Fielda squeezes my hand and says in a quiet voice, “Please help us find our girls. Please help us find our girls,” she repeats. “They are seven years old. They are best friends. They are good girls. Please, if anyone knows where they are, please tell someone.”
I look over to Martin. His eyes are closed and his chin is tucked into his chest.
“What time did you report the girls missing?” the reporter asks.
Agent Fitzgerald steps forward. “Petra Gregory was reported missing at approximately four-thirty this morning. Calli Clark, soon after. Both girls are seven years old. Petra Gregory was last seen wearing short blue pajamas. Calli Clark was last seen wearing a pink nightgown. The girls were last seen in their own homes, in their own beds.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“We have no suspects, no persons of interest at this time,” Agent Fitzgerald explains. “However, we are trying to contact Calli’s father, Griff Clark, and his friend Roger Hogan. They left early this morning for a fishing trip and we need to let these gentlemen know of this situation. Anyone who knows where these two men are should have them contact the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Are the two men suspects?” Katie Glass asks.
I gasp and the Gregorys look at me in surprise.
“Griff Clark and Roger Hogan are not suspects in any manner. We just want to let Mr. Clark know that his daughter and Petra Gregory are missing.”
“Where did they go fishing?”
“Somewhere along the Mississippi, over near Julien.”
“Do you have photos of the two men?”
“We do not. They are not suspects. I repeat, they are not suspects, but they need to return to Willow Creek.”
“Is there any relationship between the missing girls and the Jenna McIntire case?” the reporter inquires. My stomach flips with dread. I hadn’t heard this connection before.
“We cannot comment on any connection between the two cases at this point,” Fitzgerald says crisply.
“Is it true that Mary Ellen McIntire, Jenna McIntire’s mother, is here in Willow Creek to give assistance to the families?”
“I am not aware of the arrival of Mrs. McIntire. That is all for now. When we have more information regarding Petra Gregory and Calli Clark, we will pass that information to you. As for now, the Gregory and Clark families, along with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, would appreciate anyone with any information regarding the whereabouts of Petra Gregory and Calli Clark to please contact local authorities.”
With that, Agent Fitzgerald steps away from the microphones and heads back toward Mrs. Norland’s house. We follow behind him. Fielda had dropped my hand at the mention of Griff, though she still holds tightly to Martin’s hand.
Once we are in the privacy of the Norland home, Fielda turns on me. “What’s this about your husband leaving early this morning? Could he know something about Petra and Calli? Why isn’t he here?”
“Hold on,” I stop her, holding my hand up. “Griff knows nothing about the girls. He and Roger went fishing early this morning. They’ve been planning it for weeks.” I try to keep the anger from my voice, but fail.
“He had been drinking,” Martin says.
“What?” I ask.
“Griff had been drinking. This morning there were beer cans everywhere.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, shrugging it off. “So he had a few beers. So what?” I notice Agent Fitzgerald out of the corner of my eye. He is watching us carefully.
“I’ve seen him drunk,” Martin says. “He is not exactly nice when he has been drinking.”
“That is none of your business,” I sputter.
“My daughter is missing!” Fielda yells. “My daughter is missing and you think that your husband’s drinking has nothing to do with it? Maybe, maybe not. And while we’re talking about it, what about your son? Where is he right now? He sure spent a lot of time with the girls. Kind of odd, if you ask me. A teenager hanging out with a bunch of first graders.”
