The trooper was about to speak, offer assurances most likely, when the radio latched to her belt crackled to life.
Natalie couldn’t make out all the words, but she heard: “OSHP, respond to I-70. Gratiot. Multi-vehicle accident. Injured parties.”
Having thought so much about places to stop en route, Natalie had a good portion of the Ohio map stored in her brain. Gratiot was a village not far from their current location. The trooper’s face went slack. She took off her glasses, revealing brown eyes that held more than a modicum of compassion.
“I’m going to put a call into the agency, let them know you’re fine. Since I found you, you’re technically no longer missing. I laid eyes on you, spoke to you, you seem fine to me, not suicidal, not a danger to yourself or others, so no reason to keep you detained. Closest patrol car to that accident is twenty miles away, so I’m going to have to hurry. I suggest you call your husband. Tell him you’re alive and well. Then, get to where you’re going safely.”
With those parting words the trooper raced back to her patrol car, turned on the lights, gunned the engine, and was gone in a flash, her siren blaring. Natalie felt the pressure leave her body like an air leak.
The word “safe” flashed through her thoughts, but she knew better.
Safe was nothing. Safe didn’t exist.
Just like that bed in the Fairfield Inn and the rest that was finally within her reach, safe was a mirage.
CHAPTER 26
MICHAEL
There was a four o’clock direct flight from Boston to Ohio with two available seats. From his home, Michael paid for the tickets while Kennett made a call to the hotel. He confirmed that there was not a Natalie Hart registered at the Fairfield Inn in Zanesville. Getting an employee to identify a family of three would be better done in person, so to Ohio they’d go.
“She could be registered under a different name and sleeping soundly,” said Kennett, offering up an encouraging note.
“I agree she could be there,” Michael replied, “but I highly doubt she’s sleeping.”
The flight itself proved uneventful. Kennett spent most of the time in the air reading a Michael Connelly novel he’d bought in the airport bookstore.
“Cops read about fictional cops?” Michael asked.
“Connelly gets it right,” Kennett replied matter-of-factly.
“He does, eh? So tell me, would Harry Bosch get on a plane with a virtual stranger to help him track down his missing wife and kids?”
Kennett chuckled at that.
“Everyone counts or nobody does,” he answered wryly, reciting a familiar Bosch refrain.
“Hmmm,” said Michael, sounding doubtful. “Can’t help but think I might be counting a little too much. You have so many cases, why are you paying so much attention to mine?”
“What is it that they say about gift horses?” asked Kennett.
“I believe that expression is about gratitude, not trust.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me, Mike?” A deceitful twinkle slipped into Kennett’s eyes—good cop or bad cop, it was hard to say.
“Not really,” said Michael, jostling as the plane hit a bump of turbulence.
“Well, what if I told you that a long, long time ago my wife disappeared, ran off like yours did, and I’ve been looking for her ever since? In my own fractured mind, you’re a chance at some kind of redemption.”
Michael sent Kennett a sideways glance.
“I don’t think I’d believe you,” he said.
Kennett smiled fully and broadly.
“You keep that skepticism of yours, Mike,” he said. “It’ll serve you well down the line.”
Kennett went back to reading and didn’t talk much until the plane landed.
The drive from John Glenn Columbus International Airport to Zanesville took over an hour in a rented gray Ford Focus. For much of the drive Kennett was on his phone, didn’t engage in conversation, which gave Michael the distinct impression he was being tested somehow. All Michael knew for certain was that Audrey Adler’s name had come up in conversation, once to be exact, which was one too many times for his comfort.
They pulled into the parking lot of the Fairfield Inn sometime after eight o’clock in the evening. Michael’s stomach felt tighter than a face full of Botox. They caught the sunset, a wash of pale orange and yellows that cloaked the darkening sky. The leaves of the red buckeye trees planted out front of the hotel swayed in a gentle breeze.
Kennett had his car door open before Michael came to a full stop. They made their way to the entrance together. Michael watched Kennett do up a button on his blazer as if he were performing some ritual that helped him get into character. Whatever he did, it worked. Kennett seemed to have upped his tough guy New York City detective air by several degrees.
“Let me do the talking, Mike,” Kennett said gruffly.
When they reached the front desk, Kennett flashed his badge to the clerk, a young man with hair the color of the towering hay bales they’d seen dotting farmers’ fields on the drive here.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Amos Kennett. This is Michael Hart.”
The clerk gave Kennett’s shiny badge a quick once-over, and if he saw New York City on the ID it didn’t occur to him to ask why he was in Ohio.
“Around one o’clock this afternoon a woman and her two children may have checked into your hotel,” Kennett said. As he slipped his badge back into the inner pocket of his blazer, Michael caught a flash of the holster and concealed weapon Kennett carried. Once again he got a reminder of the serious nature of his business. From a different pocket, Kennett produced his phone. He showed the clerk the display screen, holding the device so that Michael caught a glimpse of the same picture used in his mother-in-law’s Facebook post. “Her name is Natalie Hart,” Kennett said, “but she could be here under a different name. Do you recognize her? Did she check in to this hotel, and if so, is she still here?”
The clerk shook his head. “I didn’t see her,” he said, “but I just came in a few hours ago.” He began tapping away at his keypad. “And we don’t have a guest here by that name.”
“Yeah, I know, we called earlier,” said Kennett. “Got that answer. Like I said, they may have checked in under a different name, changed their appearance somehow. Different clothes, different hair, a hat perhaps.”
Michael’s heart sank, but not too deeply. He knew Natalie wouldn’t be here, but even so, getting confirmation stung hard. Knowing his wife as he did, Michael figured she took off the moment she realized her mistake. Kennett didn’t appear particularly flustered.
“Who was working at lunchtime?” Kennett asked.
The clerk seemed rattled.
“Let’s try it another way,” said Kennett, a bit edgier. “Do you have a work schedule handy? I’m assuming you do. If you want to switch shifts, you’ve got to know who to call, right?”
The clerk, acting nervous now, nodded several times in quick succession.
“Yeah,” he said. “But maybe I should get my manager.”