Two Weeks Later

The weeks pass in another sad haze, but at least we have hope now.

I’ve been trying to call the babysitter, Gretchen, for the better part of an hour—no answer. I called her mom, Carrie, on her cell and at the police department—she’s in an all-day training session, so she’s not answering her phone. Kathi and Griff have gone to Bristol, so they’re no help.

I look at my watch again, then up at the ladder extended high above the fire truck, and at the high-pressure hose the guys are spraying into a plume of black smoke billowing out of the roof of this old building we believe is mostly abandoned. It’s not a serious fire. It’ll be under control shortly, but I’m here until we pack up and go back to the station.

The bus is going to drop the kids off in fifteen minutes. Unless a miracle happens, no one will be there to meet them.

I wish I’d gotten Jordan a cell phone. He’s been asking for one, but everyone says they’re a distraction at school. I didn’t see the need and thought it would be better to keep his head in books instead of focused on a screen. Now I’m regretting that decision.

My last ditch, hail Mary attempt at saving this is calling the school. It’s the last thing I want to do. Child Protective Services has the administration and all the teachers on high alert for any indication I’m beyond my depth with the kids. It’ll be just my luck if someone reports this instance of ‘neglect,’ and that’ll be the last straw.

“Dillon, you take two guys and go in!” my captain calls out. “Make sure it hasn’t spread.”

I hit the speed dial number for the school while heading to the truck for my mask, tank, and tools.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Manning,” the office secretary says. “The busses are loaded. Half of them have already left. The bell rang fifteen minutes ago. You should have called earlier.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I say, feeling a pit form in my gut.

Jordan has a key. They’ll let themselves in and they’ll be okay. They’re smart kids. I’m just being paranoid.

An hour later I’m on my way home, swearing at the only two stoplights between the fire station and my house, driving too fast through downtown, cautiously running stop signs on the way through my neighborhood.

When I pull in to the driveway, there’s no sign of anything amiss. I expect the kids are inside watching television or playing Xbox.

Approaching the porch however, something causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. A flower pot, one of two that Jack planted with winter blooming camellias, is overturned. Its dirt is spilled out across the stoop. The terra cotta clay pot is broken with shards scattered along the walkway. In the spray of dirt, I spot a familiar imprint; the sole of Jordan’s Converse tennis shoe.

My heart skips a beat, then pounds like a timpani drum, spinning my head.

The front door is still locked. I slip my key in, turning the deadbolt, swinging the door open, hoping for the sound of car chases or exploding Death Stars. Instead, I’m greeted by the stunning sound of silence.

“Jordan!” I call out. “Chrissy! Joey!”

Nothing. The house is as still as a tomb.

I bound up the stairs, checking their rooms. They haven’t been home. Downstairs, there’s no sign of them either.

Where could they be?

Maybe Jordan called Kathi when I didn’t show up? Maybe Gretchen got my message and has taken them out. Maybe Carrie got out of her training and heard about the fire, put two and two together… Maybe the secretary at the school was able to keep them from getting on the bus after all…

I go through my entire contacts list, calling anyone who might have a clue. No one has seen the kids. The school said they got on the bus as usual. The bus driver said he let them out at home, as usual.

Okay. Maybe they went to a neighbor’s house.

I start knocking on doors, going from house to house. The only one who answers is Mrs. Jennings, an elderly widow who lives across the street.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I saw the school bus come by. I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Did you see anyone else?” I ask, starting to panic. “Any unusual cars on the street or passing by?”

Mrs. Jennings shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she says. “Oh, there was the man around the block earlier. He looked like he was having car trouble. The hood was up on his truck. But he must have gotten it fixed because he’s gone now.”

“What kind of truck?” I ask.

“It was an old blue pick-up truck,” she says. “It looked like it had seen better days.”

Oh no.

“The man?” I ask. “Mid-fifties, gray beard? Longish gray hair. Wiry build?”

Her eyes brighten. “Yes!” she says. “He must live nearby. I’ve seen him driving around from time to time.”

“Thanks,” I say, backing away, my panic sliding into terror.

Fucking Henry Schmidt has got my kids. He’s taken them. And God only knows what he intends.

I lift my phone, dialing 911.

“Emergency services. What is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asks, answering in what feels like an inappropriately chirpy tone.

“I need to report an abduction,” I say, hearing my voice shake. “Henry Schmidt has taken my kids. He’s their grandfather, but he’s said he was going to take them, and now he has. He kidnapped them after they were dropped off from the school bus. I have no idea where they are.”