The Weight of Silence

Most missing child cases are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the child. The most humiliating thing is for parents to know they are persons of interest, when in fact they would die, they would open their wrists, bleed slowly and painfully, do anything to bring their child home safely.

Jenna McIntire was found six days later, in a wooded area two miles from her home. There was plenty of evidence collected. Each horrible, unspeakable act on Jenna was chronicled, but still no resolution. We don’t know who did this. Why? Yeah, some sick son of a bitch. Not even sick, evil is a better word.

So now, sitting before me is Mary Ellen McIntire, daughterless. If the gossip is accurate, she and her husband are separated. She has an older boy, fourteen, I think. I ask after him.

“Jacob is doing fine, I guess,” she says. “You know teenage boys, though. Always somewhere to be, something to do. I’ll be happy when school starts. Then at least I’ll know where he’s at.”

I hear voices and the shuffle of many feet near the front door and I crane my neck to see what is going on. I see two reservists escorting a dazed, disheveled-looking man into the building. “Excuse me, Mrs. McIntire,” I say, standing. The man being brought in is tall and thin. He towers over the other officers, but looks fragile, like a brittle stick. His hair is white and he looks as if he might cry. Mary Ellen McIntire is staring at me, a look of impatience spreading across her face. She is tired of being put off, tired of having to fight for her dead daughter. I pull my eyes away from the man, sit down and return my attention to Mary Ellen.

“What brings you here to Willow Creek, Mrs. McIntire?”

“I heard,” she begins. “I heard about the missing girls. And I thought maybe I could, you know, help.”

Carefully weighing my next words, I say, “Do you think that it’s a good idea to be a part of this kind of…kind of situation, so soon?”

Mrs. McIntire swallows hard. “I think that this is just where I need to be right now. I know how they feel, the families. I know what they are going through.”

“There is really no proof, you know, that Petra’s and Calli’s disappearance has anything to do with Jenna’s.”

“I know that,” she says shortly. “I’m not here to ask about Jenna’s case. I could do that by phone, and do, and will keep on doing. I…I just keep thinking of those poor mothers, not knowing where their daughters are. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling.”

“The girls could just be off playing,” I say, though I feel certain that is not true. “They could come strolling home at any moment. You know that, don’t you? We are still very much in the initial stages of this investigation.”

“I know,” she says tiredly. “Please, please just tell them I’m available, if they would like me to sit with them, pass out fliers, call people. Anything. Please, will you tell them?”

“I will,” I promise. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

She shakes her head no. “I have my cell phone. Do you still have my number?”

“Yes, I’ll call you. Either way, Mrs. McIntire.”

She stands and holds her hand out to me. This is her first offering to me since the whole bad business with Jenna. I take it and shake it, gratefully, and pray that these two cases are not related in any way.

CALLI

Calli pounded up the narrow, steep trail. The path was covered with jagged rocks, like makeshift stairs, her damaged feet numb with pain. She wanted to go off the trail, but forced herself not to. It would be too easy to get hopelessly lost if she were to veer away. What had caused her to retreat upward again? She wasn’t sure. She had been strolling, almost in a carefree manner, down the trail when she heard it. Just a rustle really, just a murmur of movement, but it caused her to pause. Below her, just off the path, she saw the silhouette, an indeterminate figure, too tall for an animal, maybe too tall for a human, or could it just be the lengthening of late-afternoon shadows? A spasm of fear thumped in her chest. She didn’t wait to find out, but tore back the way she had come. Up, up, but instead of taking the trail that meandered off to the right, she chose the left, a scrubby, overgrown path. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, frightened of what she might see. She clambered upward, using her hands to pull her up the steep track, dirt and small bits of rock wedged under her ragged nails.

She figured she was almost to the top of the bluff. She pushed away the low-hanging branches that whipped her face, leaving thin, raised welts. Dusk was nearing and the terror of being in the forest at night kept her moving; she could only hear the sound of her breathing, harsh and gasping, and she prayed that he could not hear her, as well. Her steps slowed as the trail leveled out and she doubled over, hands on her knees, trying to gulp in the cooled air, the heat of the day finally beginning to falter. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she pulled her snarled hair from her face. As her breath steadied, the early-evening sounds of the forest swirled about her head—the insects droning, birds calling to each other, the scampering and chock, chock of a chipmunk chattering.

She stared in front of her and glimpsed a tiny glint of silver on the ground about ten feet away. Its shiny luster looked out of place here, too garish, just a wink among the mottled brown leaves. Still hunched over, Calli hobbled over to the spot where the shining item lay nestled and inspected it.With her pointing finger she poked at it, brushed aside the moldy-smelling leaves to reveal a delicate silver chain. She pinched the chain between two fingers and slowly began to lift it. When she had raised the length of the chain a small charm slithered off the end and landed noiselessly among the leaves. Calli dug into the pile, and retrieved the charm, a diminutive musical note; she blew away the speckles of dirt clinging to it and carefully threaded the charm back onto the broken chain.

What she saw, what she heard, and what happened next caused Calli’s chest to seize in fright. She scuttled backward into the brush and hid. Petra, Petra, Petra. She silently moaned as she closed her eyes and covered her ears and rocked back and forth on her haunches. She pictured the deer she had encountered earlier that day, in what seemed ages ago. She focused on its bright eyes and velvety ears and rocked back and forth; she imagined their silent dance until once again she was back in her own quiet room, alone.

MARTIN

Upon leaving Mrs. Norland’s home, Fielda and I stand outside our cars. I cannot believe the gall of Mrs. Clark, accusing me of harming our children when it is her husband who is the troubled one.

Fielda complains bitterly to the deputy who has the unfortunate luck of walking us to our cars.

“Why aren’t you looking into where Griff Clark is?” she asks the young officer, who must have been in his early twenties.

“Ma’am, I know the department is looking into everyone involved in this case.”

“Yes, yes,” she says impatiently. “But why haven’t you found Griff? How hard can it be to find him if he really is fishing with this Roger person?”

“I really am not able to discuss any details with you, ma’am. I’m sorry,” he says uncomfortably.

“You can’t discuss the details with me? I’m her mother, for God’s sake.” I rest my hand on Fielda’s shoulder. She brushes my hand away with irritation. “Where is Deputy Louis?” she asks. I wonder the same thing. “He, at least, has tried to keep us informed of what has been going on.”

“I think he’s meeting with someone at this time.” The officer opens the car door for Fielda.

Fielda turns to face me. “Who do you think Louis is meeting with? Do you think maybe they found Griff?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer her.

“Maybe he has a suspect. Maybe they’ve found the girls. Do you think they’ve found the girls?” Hope radiates on her face for a moment.

“I think we would have heard the moment they found Petra and Calli. I think they would have called us.” We both climb into our cars and drive back to my mother-in-law’s house. She is standing on her front step and talking to