they’re packing up. School’s out soon. The NCMEC folks told me last time that people running with stolen kids don’t usually stay in one spot longer than a school year. I asked Hackett once why his daughter wasn’t in school with her brothers. He said at least three times in the space of a minute that she’s only four. She looks older to me.”
“When’s school out?”
“Two weeks.”
THE NEXT DAY Julian felt even more pressure to turn up something useful on Lee Hackett. Both of his brothers and their wives had expressed their concern about his father’s meddling at dinner the previous evening. Tag and Raine had declared Sam was nuts. Josh and Dawn asked Julian to put a stop to what they were sure spelled disaster. And the four of them were dead certain he was way off base.
Julian ended his deliveries at the Hacketts’. They had a package with their bundle of mail, a box addressed to Toby Roberts. The return address was a Mrs. Leland Carter of Macks Creek, Missouri. Toby, Julian recalled, had been friendly, the boy who said Lee Hackett wasn’t his and Gavin’s real dad.
Julian could’ve squished the package into the mailbox, but decided to take the opportunity to knock on the door. This afternoon it was evident there were children playing in the backyard. Julian heard a ball bounce on cement. He rang the doorbell and caught a glimpse of the blond girl as she swept back the curtain, then scampered out of sight.
A few seconds passed. Suddenly Gavin opened the door. He snatched the package and slammed the door in Julian’s face just as Lee Hackett turned in to the driveway. The man parked in the garage, leaped from his van and eyed Julian warily. “Whatcha want?”
“Just delivering a package that was too big for your mailbox.” Julian walked down the steps, repeating the lie about his dad’s twisted knee.
Hackett’s dark eyes flashed to Julian’s bike. “Great Ducati Monster,” he exclaimed.
Happy his strategy was working, Julian rattled off its stats. Hackett followed Julian to the street and knelt beside the bike, running a work-worn hand over the chrome exhaust. The man knew his motorcycles, Julian decided by the time Hackett excused himself to return to his house.
Julian was fastening his helmet strap when the side door of the house flew open and the blond girl launched herself into Hackett’s arms. Caught off guard, Julian fumbled for his phone. He managed to snap a few shots, hoping that at least one would be good. He took one last picture as Hackett picked up the girl and swung her up and around like an airplane. Hackett grinned at his daughter and tossed Julian a quick wave before going into the house. He looked like any dad happy to be home with his kids after a hard day’s work.
Julian could barely contain his excitement as he rode to his folks’ house to download his pictures. When he finally made it, Julian wanted to rip them out of the printer. “Pop, come here,” he called, setting the first photo on the desk. “Does this girl look like she’s being held against her will?” There was pure joy in the child’s wide smile and in the way she clasped her dad’s face between her hands.
Sam came in from the living room, and had to agree with his son’s assessment. “Yeah. But wouldn’t that be the case if he’s a noncustodial parent? And it doesn’t make him less guilty of a crime. Son, I swear I’d rip this card up if I could be sure that girl isn’t Sophie Patton. Imagine if you were her mom. Hell, what if your mother and I had divorced and the court gave you to her, but I waltzed in and whisked you away? Wouldn’t she be sick about it?”
Julian slid the pictures into a file folder he’d started on Hackett. “Mom would go after you with a shotgun.” They shared a chuckle before Julian sobered. “My inquiry on Sophie’s custodial parent came in from Doug, my P. I. contact. Her mother, Garnet, teaches English at an Anchorage high school. Has for more than five years.”
“Doesn’t prove anything. Maybe she can’t afford to chase after her girl.”
“Hmm. You know, I met a cop from Anchorage a few years back at a domestic violence seminar. Larry Adams. We hit it off,’ cause we’re both outdoor types. He said Alaska has great fishing. Maybe I’ll phone him…see what he can tell me about the old case.”
Beth Cavenaugh walked in on the men and heard her son’s last comment. “Won’t another police officer wonder why you’re asking questions, Julian? Perhaps you ought to fly up there to fish, and poke around by yourself.”
“It’s way out of my jurisdiction. But I’ll see what I can do. Pop, would you promise to let this go until I get back?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll pay for your flight if your mom can find a reasonable fare.”
THE NEXT DAY, Julian flew over some incredible terrain he wished he could explore on his bike. The landscape was dotted with sparkling lakes and rivers. When the plane landed, Julian picked up a few brochures at the airport, almost forgetting this was more than a fishing trip.
He rented a Jeep and loaded his duffel and a case with his rod and reel. Before he’d left Georgia, he’d phoned Larry Adams, who offered his spare bedroom, but also said he was working odd hours undercover. Julian didn’t mind at all—it gave him reason to find a motel near Garnet Patton’s school. Being on his own also meant he had freedom to snoop. The men had agreed to meet whenever Larry found time to hoist a beer and shoot a little pool.
Julian had done some checking before leaving Georgia and had learned that the school where Ms. Patton taught was in session from August to mid-May. He’d have to work fast. He had no idea how the woman spent her summers. Maybe she taught summer school. But there was every possibility she’d leave Anchorage. He would if his kid had been stolen. He’d be combing the country every chance he got.
As a detective, Julian had played many roles. One of the more effective was posing as a reporter. He checked in to his motel, dug out a battered black notebook and drove to the school. The motel clerk had told him school let out at three.
He got there a little after and found a mass exodus of kids and cars leaving the fenced lot. “Hey,” he called to several young men horsing around outside the front gate. “If a guy wanted to write an article on some of the more interesting teachers in your school, who might you suggest?”
“Whaddya mean by interesting?” asked the boy closest to Julian.
Julian opened his notebook. “I’m thinking along the lines of a human-interest story. Any of your teachers have stuff going on in their lives that would play to reader sympathy?”
The boys bandied about names, then settled on two—Mrs. Morrison and Ms. Patton. Bingo!
“You could go to the office and see one of the school secretaries if you want to talk to them. Mrs. Morrison, our science teacher, her husband got mauled real bad by a bear. It’s been all over the paper for weeks. Haven’t you seen it? He’s probably gonna die. Mrs. Morrison’s got a leave of absence.”
Julian whistled sympathetically. “I agree, her story’s probably been done enough. What’s with… Ms. Patton, isn’t that the other name you gave me?”
The boy, clearly the leader of the group, pointed behind Julian. “There she goes now to her car. And there’s Ms. Cox, one of the secretaries. You can probably catch her. Ms. Patton’s real sad because her stupid ex-husband snatched their kid a year or so ago. Their pictures were plastered all over town. Cops questioned everybody, but poof…the kid and her dad were gone.”
Julian’s gaze tracked the woman to an old Toyota. She was a surprise. Model-thin, she wore a conservative navy suit. Her longer-than-shoulder-length blond hair was combed back from a pale, oval face and clipped smoothly at her nape.
She stopped and checked all around before unlocking her car. Apparently satisfied no danger lurked nearby, she tossed her purse and bulging briefcase onto the passenger seat, then slid in the driver’s side.
Murmuring his thanks to the helpful teens, Julian went in search of the secretary, Ms. Cox, even as Ms. Patton started her engine