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Apparently he shared the same image with Marcus Pratt. The kid gave a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muttered, staring at Abby in a way no kid should be allowed to.
Leering should be reserved for dirty old men, Sam decided. Like himself.
“I’m Sergeant Cross,” Abby said coolly, flashing her ID in Marcus’s face. Her shield was clipped to the waistband of her jeans, and she made sure the kid saw it. “I’m a detective with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating the disappearances of two little girls.”
“So? What do you expect us to do about it? Pin a medal on you or something?” He glanced at his grinning brother.
“The girls’ names are Emily Campbell and Sara Beth Brodie. Maybe you heard about the disappearances on the news?” When he merely stared at her sullenly, Abby’s mouth tightened. “We have reason to believe you two boys were in the vicinity at the time Sara Beth Brodie went missing.”
Marcus flicked back a long strand of hair from his face. “What do we look like, kidnappers?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything. But we’ve got a witness who can place you on Mimosa Street near Holyoke Cemetery at around 3:30 yesterday afternoon.”
“You ain’t got squat,” the kid said with practiced aplomb. “We were home all afternoon. Right, Mitch?”
The younger boy swallowed and nodded, his gaze darting first to Sam and then back to his brother. “Uh, yeah.”
“That’s not exactly what your mother told us,” Sam said.
Marcus’s face turned beet red. “You already talked to our old lady about this? Hell, man. What’d you have to go and do that for?”
At last, a chink in the kid’s armor, Sam thought.
“Let’s try this again,” Abby said, pushing her dark hair behind her ears. “Were you and your brother on Mimosa Street yesterday or not?”
Another glance passed between the two boys. “What if we were?”
“Were you almost hit by a car?”
His gaze narrowed. “How’d you know—” He clammed up, realizing he’d given himself away.
“About that car,” Abby said firmly. “Do you remember what color it was?”
“Maybe white. Maybe not.”
“Was it white or wasn’t it?” Sam demanded.
Marcus slanted him a surly glance, almost daring Sam to get violent with him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Sam took the kid’s arm, not applying enough pressure to hurt him, but making sure the boy knew he meant business. “Now you listen to me, kid. Two little girls are missing. Their lives are at stake. I don’t have the time or the patience for your attitude. You’re a bad ass. Okay. We got it. Now answer Sergeant Cross’s questions.” He didn’t say “or else.” He didn’t have to.
Something that might have been respect glimmered in the boy’s eyes before he replaced it with a scowl. He rubbed his arm. “The car was white.”
“Did you recognize the make or model?” Abby asked, flashing Sam a look he couldn’t quite fathom.
Marcus shrugged. “How should I know? I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.” But he eased away from Sam as he said it.
“It was a Chevy,” Mitchell said, speaking up for the first time. “Maybe a ’91 or ’92 Caprice. Something like that.”
Sam gazed down at the boy. “You sure about that, son?”
“Don’t call him son,” Marcus snapped. “You’re not his old man.”
“I know cars,” Mitchell said shyly. “My dad’s got a ’67 Camaro we aim to fix up.”
“Yeah, right. When hell freezes over,” Marcus muttered.
“Mitchell.” Sam walked over and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was thin and bony, making him seem younger than his age and vulnerable somehow.
For a moment, Sam’s heart seemed to stop. It had been a long time since he’d been around kids. After their son had died, he and Norah had cut themselves off from friends and acquaintances with children. Eventually, they’d cut themselves off from each other. Norah had found solace in her own way, and Sam had immersed himself in work, in cases so sordid and gruesome he had no time to think of his own misery. To wonder what might have been.
But as he gazed down at Mitchell Pratt, he suddenly saw another boy’s eyes staring up at him. He suddenly wondered if he would have been the kind of father a son would be proud of. The kind of father a boy could count on.
He wondered if he would have been a better father than he had been a husband.
Not that it mattered. He’d lost Jonathan to cancer, Norah to neglect, and Sam didn’t plan to ever remarry. And now he was too old to start a family, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Jonathan could never be replaced, and besides, if he’d learned anything in his twenty-year journey into darkness, it was that too damned much of this world was not a nice place for children.
Even a town called Eden.
He glanced at Abby and found that she was gazing back at him. Her expression was puzzled, as if she’d glimpsed something in him that she hadn’t expected to see. That he might not want her to see.
His grasp on Mitchell’s shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. “You’re certain about everything you told us?” he asked again.
Mitchell nodded solemnly.
“He knows a lot about cars,” Marcus said grudgingly. “He hangs around garages every chance he gets. If Mitchell says it was a Caprice, then that’s what it was.”
“What about a license-plate number?” Sam asked hopefully.
They both shook their heads.
“Either of you get a look at the driver?”
Marcus shrugged. “Other than the fact that the guy was a lousy driver, I didn’t pay much attention to him.”
“Was anyone else in the car?” Abby asked.
“Didn’t see anyone else.”
“Not even in the back seat? A child maybe?”
“Look, I said I didn’t see anyone else, okay?”
“What about you, Mitchell?” Sam asked softly. “You see anyone else in the car?”
“Naw.” The boy shook his head. “But I didn’t really look.”
“Then how can you be certain the driver was male?”
“He had on a baseball cap,” Marcus said. “And sunglasses. I guess it could have been a chick. But not like Agent Scully here. Her, I would’ve remembered.”
Abby gave him a cool smile and a card. “You boys think of anything else that might help us out, give me a call at this number.”
She handed Mitchell a card, too, and he gazed at it for a moment, then stuffed it in his pocket. To Sam he said shyly, “Could I have one of your cards, too?”
Sam fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. It had the FBI seal on the front and a number at Quantico. “Cool,” Mitchell said. “I never met an FBI agent before.”
“Yeah,” Marcus agreed dryly. “It’s been a real thrill.”
Chapter Four
“One more stop before we go back to the station,” Abby told Sam as they headed toward downtown.
“Dinner?” he suggested, taking his eyes off the road long enough to give her a hopeful glance.
“We can stop at a convenience store and grab a hot dog and some chips if you’re hungry.”
Sam winced. “I can wait.”
Abby was hungry, too, but she was used to eating on the run or skipping meals altogether, and her schedule had been even more chaotic since the abductions. There’d been so much to do, so many people to interview, leads, such as they were, to follow, that her appetite had been the least of her worries. The rumbling of her stomach now, however, reminded her that she was human. That she couldn’t function on adrenaline and sheer determination forever.
But if they stopped for dinner, they’d have to make small talk. They’d have to reveal parts of themselves—no matter how innocuous—to one another as a matter of courtesy. And Abby didn’t want that. She didn’t want to know anything about Sam Burke’s life, and she didn’t want him knowing about hers. She didn’t want to invite an intimacy that seemed to be hovering just beneath the surface with every spoken word, with every glance.
The attraction she felt for Sam Burke was unwanted, unwelcome and very unwise. She knew better than anyone what such an explosive chemistry could do to one’s scruples and inhibitions. All she had to do was look at her own family.
“So where to?” he asked, drumming his thumb on the steering wheel.
“Vickie Wilder’s apartment.” She gave him directions. “You said you wanted to talk to her, right? I figured the sooner, the better.”
He glanced at her as he signaled for a right turn. “Are you always this…focused?”
Abby shrugged. “I try to be. Anything wrong with that?”
“No.” But he hesitated before he said so, making Abby wonder what he was thinking. She couldn’t shake the notion that he disapproved of her for some reason. Because she was a woman? Because she was a local? Because he was attracted to her, too?
“Look, about what I said earlier, after the interview with Fayetta Gibbons—” he began tentatively, but Abby cut him off.
“You mean when you accused me of incompetence?” He scowled at the road. “I never said that.”
“But that was the implication, wasn’t it? That I’d somehow bungled the initial interview?” Abby glared at him then glanced away. It was hard to meet his gaze. Hard to look him in the eye and not give herself away. Hard, even in anger, not to acknowledge in some small way the awareness tingling through her.
“I was out of line and I apologize,” he said quietly.
His words left Abby momentarily speechless because they were so unexpected. In a male-dominated environment, apologies were few and far between. “I—don’t need an apology,” she said a bit defensively. “I just want you to realize how hard everyone in my department is working to find those little girls. All we want is to bring them home safely.”
“That’s what we all want.” He stopped at a traffic light and turned to face her. His gaze was deep and very intense, and Abby couldn’t help but wonder at the shadows in his eyes.
Be careful of a man with secrets, her grandmother would have cautioned her, but Abby didn’t need the warning. There was no way she would ever get involved with a man like Sam Burke, a man who would be here today and gone tomorrow.
That mercurial quality in the opposite sex had always been a magnet for the women in her family, but Abby was determined to break the pattern. She wouldn’t travel down the same road to heartbreak that her grandmother, mother and sister had all taken. She had a different set of priorities, but somehow, in the space of a few hours, Sam Burke had managed to threaten those convictions.
She could feel his curious gaze on her, but Abby turned to stare out the window. If she didn’t look into his eyes, she’d be okay, she decided.
The light changed, and the car pulled forward. Neither of them said anything else until Abby directed him into the parking lot of a small apartment complex in downtown Eden.
The entire complex consisted of four units—each containing four apartments, two up and two down—built in a semicircle around a central courtyard that had once featured a three-tiered clay fountain ringed with flower beds. The terra-cotta bowls were dry now and filled with dead leaves and pinecones, and all that remained in the flower beds were a few droopy petunias.
Abby led the way up the stairs of the second building and knocked on Vickie Wilder’s door. Several moments later, the door opened a crack, and a young woman peeped out.
“Yes?” When she saw Abby, she drew back the door, her hand flying to her heart. “Sergeant Cross. Oh, my, God. Have you found Emily? And Sara Beth?” She spoke the second name hesitantly, as if she’d momentarily forgotten there’d been another abduction.
Abby said, “No, I’m afraid we haven’t found either child. This is Special Agent Sam Burke with the FBI. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Vickie Wilder’s gaze flicked from Abby to Sam, then back to Abby. Her hand crept to the neckline of the black T-shirt she wore over jeans. “But…I’ve already spoken with the police on several occasions. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“You may be surprised,” Sam said cryptically. “Things often come to light after the first or second interview. May we come in?” His voice was courteous, but firm, brooking no argument.
“Of course.” She stepped back to allow them to enter. Abby glanced around as they walked into the small apartment. She’d interviewed Vickie twice after Emily’s disappearance, once at the sheriff’s station and once at school. And after Sara Beth’s disappearance, she and Dave Conyers had conducted a group interview of all the teachers and school personnel in the cafeteria at Fairhaven, going over a list of routine questions. In the one-on-one interviews, Abby had been struck by the young woman’s eagerness to cooperate and by her obvious devotion to her students. She’d barely been able to finish a sentence without tearing up.
Tonight, however, there was something different about her. She appeared more nervous than distraught, her hands flitting from her lap to her hair, then back again to her lap. She couldn’t seem to remain still, and her gaze kept darting about the room, as if she were worried she’d left a pair of underwear lying in the middle of the floor.
Or something far more incriminating, Abby thought.
As Sam began the interview, Abby tried to study the young teacher with a fresh perspective. Had she been wrong about Vickie? Had the affection for her students been nothing more than an act?
Abby didn’t think so. She was trained to spot inconsistencies, and unless Vickie was an exceptionally gifted actress, her distress following Emily’s abduction had been genuine.
But why was she so nervous now?
Abby watched her carefully during the interview, looking for other telltale signs of agitation. She was a small woman, no more than five-three or five-four, and slightly built. Her hair was cut in a short, boyish style that flattered her gamin features, and her green eyes, behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, looked soft and earnest.
Abby had learned from her interviews with the parents of some of Vickie’s students that she was a much-beloved teacher. Kind, sweet and very concerned with each child’s welfare. “Even a bit meddlesome at times,” one parent had confided. “But she means well. And the kids adore her.”
“Both Sara Beth Brodie and Emily Campbell are in your kindergarten class at Fairhaven, is that right?” Sam was asking.
Vickie nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Are they friends?”
“It’s a small class. All the children are friends.”
“Let me clarify,” he said. “Did they play together at recess? Have sleepovers? Things like that?”
Vickie hesitated. “They weren’t best friends, if that’s what you mean. They didn’t play together exclusively.”
“Were they on a sports team together? Soccer, for instance?”
“Not that I know of.”
