Clair raised her hand. “It’s not a child.”
Hushed murmurs of relief swept the crowd. Gray Sweater gave the others an I got this look and turned back to Clair. “Who, then?” Apparently she was Queen of the Mothers, because the group yielded to her. Even the crying of the children began to peter out.
Clair loaded the photo she had received from Kloz onto her phone’s screen and held it out to the woman. “Her name is Emory Connors. She’s fifteen years old. We believe she came to the park last night around six for a run and was abducted. Do you recognize her?”
The woman reached for the phone. “May I?”
Clair nodded and handed it to her.
Her forehead crinkled as she squinted at the display. Her eyes narrowed and she turned back to the crowd. “Martin?”
The two men were standing at the back of the crowd. The one on the right, wearing khaki pants and a light-blue dress shirt, pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose and walked over. The woman handed him the phone. “That’s her, right?”
He bobbed his head. “God, I told you something was wrong. We should have called the police.”
Clair retrieved her phone and clipped it to her belt, then pulled a small notepad and pen from her back pocket. “Martin? What’s your last name, Martin?”
“Ortner. Martin R. Ortner.” He began to spell it, but she waved him off.
“And you?” she asked, returning her gaze to the woman.
“Tina Delaine,” she said. “Most of us are here a few times a week. This time of year, though, I try to get out daily. You know, while it’s still warm. Better for these kids to burn off the energy here than at home.”
Clair took inventory of the children. Aside from the few clinging to their parents, they were huddled around the swing set. All but Teeter-Totter Boy, who was busy wiping the snot from his face with his sweater. Where were his parents? She turned back to Tina Delaine. “What did you see?”
Tina took the lead. “She runs here almost every day. Yesterday, when she circled that back corner, I lost her in the trees. She usually pops out the other side a few seconds later, but she didn’t. I told Martin, and we decided to check on her. We got about halfway there and this guy came out of the trees, cradling her in his arms. He said he saw her twist her ankle and fall, banging her head on the way down. He said he knew her and he’d take her to the hospital, said that would be faster than calling an ambulance. Before either of us could respond, he rushed away, loaded her into the passenger seat of his car, and took off.”
“And you didn’t call the police?” Clair asked, frowning.
“He said he knew her,” Martin replied, his voice soft.
“What kind of car was he driving?”
Tina pursed her lips. “A white Toyota.”
Martin shook his head. “His car wasn’t white. It was beige.”
“No, he had a white Toyota. I’m sure of it.”
“It definitely wasn’t white. It was beige, or possibly silver. He wasn’t driving a Toyota, though. I think it was a Ford, a Focus or a Fiesta.”
“Where was he parked?”
Martin pointed to a small row of parking spaces at the end of Erie. “Right over there, under that lamppost.”
Clair glanced over; she didn’t see any security cameras. “Okay, all of you stay here for a minute. I’ll send one of the officers back to take your statements.”
“Will we get to do one of those things with a sketch artist?” Tina asked. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”
“How about a lineup?” Martin chimed in.
“Please, just wait here,” Clair told them, before turning and stomping toward the group of officers.
Lieutenant Belkin recognized her and waved her over. “I’ve got officers canvassing up and down Erie and Kingsbury. What’s the story here?”
Clair tilted her head back toward the mother brigade. “Those two standing out in front said they’ve seen her running in the park regularly. Yesterday she followed the path back behind those trees, disappeared for far too long, and then some guy carried her out. She may have been unconscious. He told them she fell and sustained a head injury, and he was taking her to the hospital. Told them he knew her.”
Belkin pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his thinning blond hair. “Christ, so he snatched her like that? Did they get a good look at him?”
“They saw him load her into a white, beige, or possibly silver Toyota or Ford,” Clair said. “If their recall is that bad on the vehicle, good luck getting a physical description. I only talked to the two out in front. We need to speak to all those people over at the dog park too. Get someone over there to make sure nobody tries to sneak out of here.”
He pointed to two of the officers huddled in front of the CSI van and issued instructions to his team.
Clair nodded a thanks to him, then turned away to call Porter and fill him in. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
21
Diary
Father was nearly downstairs before I mustered the courage to follow him. He frowned, his eyes first telling me to retreat to the kitchen, then rolling as he realized I would do no such thing.
As Father reached the bottom of the staircase, there was another moan—this one more urgent than the others. Father froze at the base of the steps, staring at something in the far corner of the basement. “Oh my. Mother? What have you done?”
Upstairs, Mother now sang rather than hummed, dishes clattering. Was she getting a second helping of stew? She did not respond to Father, although I was sure she had heard him as clearly as I heard her.
I came down the last of the steps and followed Father’s gaze to the pile of a man huddled in the corner. He was handcuffed to a thick water pipe. A cloth stuck out of the corners of his mouth from under two long pieces of duct tape, which wrapped all the way around his head.
His hair will come out with those when they’re finally pulled off, I thought. Yanked from his scalp, roots and all.
Mr. Carter’s eyes were pleading. His white dress shirt had been torn open, the buttons no doubt lost among the dust bunnies and dirt littering the floor. His chest was riddled with long cuts, some starting as high as his shoulder and stretching all the way to his belly button. One appeared to go much lower, and I tried not to think about that one. It hurt to think about that one.
His tattered shirt and pants were dark with blood. It pooled under him so thick, the sweet scent of copper hung in the air. Both eyes were bruised, well on their way to black, and his nose was surely broken.
Father stared down at him. “This is not how we treat our neighbors. He appears to be in quite a pickle.”
I tried to respond, but my dry throat only let out a weak grunt.