“No.” Detective McCafferty kneels next to Allison, studying her face as if examining a corpse. Allison is a beautiful, strong woman, and something about the way this chick in her gray zoot suit is sizing her up makes me feel like I want to punch a hole through every wall in this house. “I’ll call the schools and see if there’s a student who goes by that name. It might have been a misunderstanding. We should work well together as long as there are no secrets between us. Every little detail could help bring home your daughter.”
“I agree.” Ally nods. “The girl’s name—it isn’t Ota,” she says it slow like the vital information it’s panning out to be, and that knot in the pit of my stomach gets a little tighter. “It was Otatay or something like that. I remember thinking it sounded like pig Latin. But she mentioned everyone called her Ota.”
Allison and I give them a detailed description of the girl, along with the odd detail of what Allison calls her affinity for Easter dresses.
I strip a few frames of Reagan’s pictures and give one each to Rich and Detective McCafferty. “She’s a sweet kid.” My voice breaks as I swallow down the painful knife in my throat. “So now what do we do?”
Rich looks over his shoulder at a couple of patrol cars that have pulled up to the front of the house. “I’ll have my guys comb the woods. McCafferty will call the schools like she said, and I’ll run a scan on that name. It’s unique, so if she’s ever been in a talent show, science fair, Girl Scout troop—we’ll know about it soon.”
McCafferty steps in, only a little more than half his height as she sheds a crimson-lipped smile. Her skin is pale, pulled back too tight, and there’s something corpse-like about her in general. “Why don’t you comfort your wife? I should have information to you in about an hour or so.” She scowls over at Allison as if she didn’t harbor one good thought about my wife. “Maybe get her a glass of water. She looks like she needs it.”
She fucking needs vodka, but I don’t say a word. Instead, I do as I’m told and Allison nearly knocks the glass out of my hand.
“Are you kidding? Our daughter is out there somewhere. She could be wandering the hills freezing, hungry, and afraid.” Her voice hikes to terrible heights on its way to the stratosphere. “We can’t just sit around all night and hope for the best. Nobody is going to look for her the way we will.”
She snaps the keys off the table before pulling the heavy flashlight from the hall closet. “Are you coming with me or what?”
Both Rich and McCafferty give a subtle shake of the head as if advising against it.
“I’m coming with you.”
Reagan is out there.
I’ll be damned if I’m not looking for her.
* * *
All night and well into the morning, Allison and I scour the back hills beyond our property, scaring off coyotes and raccoons alike, looking into the startled eyes of a small mountain lion, but there’s not a single sign of human life.
At about five thirty, while the sun is busy flirting with the horizon, I drive us home and Allison does a thorough room search in the event Reagan has decided to turn this into a game.
“That little demon she’s with probably talked her into playing some twisted version of hide-and-seek.” She drops her head into her hands and sobs convulsively.
“Come here.” I pull her in and carefully stagger us over to the bedroom. “Lie down. I’ll make some coffee and call Rich. He said I could reach him anytime.”
“Good.” Her tired eyes look up at me with hope for the first time in hours. “The detective said she’d call the schools. Call her, too. Tell them to screw the red tape. We’ll head over to where this Ota girl lives ourselves. I don’t want anything to get bogged down in some shitty police protocol. Reagan is scared and she needs us.”
“Will do.” I plant a wet kiss over her forehead and help her lie onto the mattress before heading downstairs. In the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee hits my senses, and for a brief moment I expect to find Reagan playing the part of barista. She’s been known to whip up a cup of cocoa on the Keurig. She knows how it works. I’ve seen her make a cup of tea for Allison on occasion. But it’s not Reagan whipping up anything spectacular. It’s my father dressed in an unremarkable sweater vest, his corduroy pants a little too baggy. It’s fair to say he’s dropped a little weight since Mom passed, and if my lack of appetite is any indication of what happens when you’ve lost your mind, then I suppose I’m not too far behind on wasting away to skin and bone.
“What’s going on?” He whistles out a quick tune and I stop short. My father has been an impenetrable bastard when it comes to dealing with death, with unimaginable situations in general. The day my sister died he whistled long into the night while my mother screamed as if her flesh were on fire. That whistling of his unnerved my brothers and me to no end, but that was simply who he was, the whistling bastard. He did it the night Wilson died as well. In all fairness, my father is prone to whistle on most days, but the fact he chose those occasions and this one above all of them offends me.
“I’m making coffee.” I blow past him and retrieve a mug for Ally.
“I beat you to it.” There’s a rise in his inflection that grates on me.
“Why are you so damn happy?” I pluck the creamer from the fridge and the sight of Reagan’s thermos stops me cold.
“I’m not happy, son. You know that. I’m trying to help you out. I thought I could—”
“Well, you can’t.” I shut the fridge with a slap. “Look, Reagan is missing. If Allison hears you down here dancing around, whistling fucking Dixie, she’s bound to run after you with a hatchet. She’s losing her mind and so am I.”
His forehead erupts with thick lines, but it’s my agitation, not Reagan’s disappearance that’s sponsored them, and it pisses me off. “You’ll find her. Reagan is probably off having the time of her life.”
“She’s six for God’s sake!” My voice riots throughout the cavernous space. “She’s not sixteen.” I tone it down a notch as I make a quick cup for Ally. “Reagan is a little girl. She’s scared is what she is. She’s in a new state, with a girl she’s only known for five minutes.”
“Then why in God’s name did the two of you let her run off like that?” His voice comes at me hungry with accusation. “Any fool knows you don’t let your kid head to some stranger’s house for the night. I don’t care how comfortable you felt with the little demon she was playing with.”
Little demon. That’s exactly what Ally called her upstairs. “Look, nobody is accusing the little girl of anything. As far as we know, she’s a victim in all this just like Reagan. They probably went off for a little adventure and got lost.” Who am I kidding. My mind skipped to the worst-case scenario as soon as Allison staggered out the door last night—a band of hippies, an evil man with nefarious intentions.
“But who is this little girl? Where did she come from?” His voice peaks in an odd manner as if those were lines from a play and we were starring in some bad summer stock. Nobody grates on me like my father. I have never understood why. Yes, he was oppressive as hell to live with, but you’d think I’d be over it by now.
It’s best I leave him before my coffee finds its way to his face.
I tread lightly upstairs, only to find Ally fast asleep. I head back down and plant myself on the couch next to my father, putting in a call to both Rich and McCafferty. About an hour later, they both show up on my doorstep looking like shit and I offer them a cup of coffee.
“No, thanks.” Rich bows his head at my father as we make our way to the sofa.
“I’m fine, too.” McCafferty pulls out a paper and pen, old school, and something about that technological setback makes me wonder about the care my daughter’s case is getting. Case. My blood runs cold at the thought of Reagan’s picture plastered on telephone poles, on milk cartons for God’s sake.
McCafferty looks up at me with those stone-cold eyes, her features unmovable like a death mask. “I contacted every school district in the state.”
“The state?” A fist builds in my throat because instinctively I know this isn’t going to end well.