A Walk Across the Sun (5 page)

He regretted making the trip from D.C. It wasn't his idea. His best friend from law school had heard about Priya and invited him to spend Christmas on the island. Thomas appreciated Jeremy's desire to keep him company, but the diversion had had the opposite effect. It had been years since he had felt so lonely.

He crossed the dunes to the beach. The scene before him was picturesque—sky uncluttered and blushing pink, whitecaps on gunmetal surf kicked up by a blustery wind, and wide swaths of unbroken sand. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat, he trudged toward the waterline and headed east, against the wind. At six foot two and a trim 180 pounds, he was built for exercise. In other circumstances, he would have gone for a long run. Today he was preoccupied. He set a steady pace and played mental games with himself, shuffling his thoughts like a deck of cards and searching for a safer subject. But eventually his mind rebelled and he saw his wife, standing beside the taxi, saying goodbye.

Her name was Priya, meaning “beloved.” He remembered saying it to himself over and over again when they first met. The innocence of those days seemed surreal now. So much had happened. So much had changed. The blows when they came had been crushing, and the wreckage they left behind had been complete. The look in her eyes when she left him said it all. Beyond bitterness, anger, and despair, beyond emotion itself, was a place of unfeeling. She hadn't looked at him as much as looked through him.

Their story had many parts, many stages. Some were comprehensible. The rest was a confused mess of fault and pain. There were tragedy and betrayal, divided loyalties and unspoken needs, and a gulf of culture never quite bridged. But that was how life so often went. Solid ground could turn into quicksand without warning. The rational world yielded to madness, and good people lost their minds.

Thomas reached the westernmost fairway of the Ocean Course and turned around. The empty beach on Vanderhorst Plantation was chilly in the winter air, but the rising sun shimmered on the water and gave the appearance of warmth. Heading back to the beach house, Thomas increased his pace. He had been raised by a championship athlete and ex-Marine who now served as chief judge of the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia. The Honorable Randolph Truman Clarke, steely-eyed jurist and master of the Rocket Docket, was a glutton for early-morning punishment and raised Thomas and his younger brother, Ted, to crave the thrill of cool wind upon their faces and the sight of a distant sunrise.

When he reached the boardwalk that led across the dunes, Thomas paused for a moment and allowed the cadence of the ocean to steady his mind. He had a long day ahead of him. The thought of it made him cringe, but he couldn't put it off any longer.

For as long as he and Priya had lived in the city, they had spent Christmas Eve with his family in Alexandria. It was a tradition he had broken this year without explanation. His father had expressed his displeasure in few words, as was his way, but his mother had been crestfallen. She had asked about their plans, and he had given her no detail. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that Priya was gone.

In the end, however, they had boxed him in. His mother had insisted—
insisted
—that they come over for dinner—before or after the holiday, it didn't matter. He had pushed back, blaming his caseload at the firm, but the Judge had picked up the phone and intervened.

“The day after Christmas is a Sunday,” he had said. “Nobody is going to be at the office that day. I'm sure you can take a break.”

“The firm party is that night,” Thomas had rejoined.

The gambit had worked until the Judge asked when the party started.

“Eight thirty,” he had admitted.

“You can stop by beforehand,” the Judge had said.

He returned to the beach house and packed his bag. Most of his companions were still asleep, and the house was a disaster. Dirty plates and shot glasses were strewn about, and the air still carried the faint scent of liquor. He didn't envy Jeremy the task of cleanup.

His friend met him in the foyer, dressed in a gray T-shirt and boxer shorts.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked. “I'm making pancakes later. Fuel for the road.”

Thomas ran a hand through his dark hair. “It's tempting, but I have to get back. Clayton's party is tonight, and I have to stop by my parents' house for dinner.”

“Sometimes it seems like the holidays never end,” Jeremy replied with a grin.

“Thanks so much for thinking of me,” Thomas said.

Jeremy clasped his shoulder. “I know this wasn't the same as sharing Christmas with Priya, but it was good to see you again. If there's anything I can do …”

“Thanks.” Thomas gave his friend a thin smile, collected his bag, and took his leave.

He drove toward the gate in a daze. He was not looking forward to the ten-hour drive to the District. He left the resort property and headed in the direction of Charleston. Traffic was light, and he reached the city in forty minutes. He wasn't really in a hurry, but the absence of highway patrol officers encouraged his lead foot. He tried his best not to think about the empty brownstone waiting for him in Georgetown or the jasmine and lilac scent of Priya's perfume still clinging to the bedsheets.

Merging onto I-95, Thomas found a classical music station on the radio and ignored the speed limit. The Audi was as quiet at eighty-five miles an hour as it was at fifty-five. Around noon, he stopped for gas and remembered he hadn't eaten breakfast. At the recommendation of the station attendant, he bought a pulled pork sandwich from a local greasy spoon and drove half a mile to the Cape Fear Botanical Gardens. By midday, the air had warmed sufficiently to allow for alfresco dining.

He parked in the visitors' lot and entered the gardens on foot. The place was idyllic—lush with foliage. A few couples were out walking, an elderly man was throwing rice to a family of pigeons, and a blond woman in a hat was snapping pictures of a man in sunglasses beneath an oak tree. Not far away, a young mother and a girl about ten years old were heading down a path toward the Children's Garden. Thomas watched the girl run ahead of her mother and felt a familiar ache inside. When Priya was pregnant, he had a dream of Mohini taking her first steps at Rock Creek Park. It was one of so many hopes dashed by the little girl's death.

He walked to a gazebo in the middle of a grassy field and took a seat on the steps. He watched as mother and daughter disappeared into a stand of evergreen trees. Soon the woman with the camera lost interest in photographing her companion and turned her attention to the flora. Shutter clicking, lens tracing random arcs across the scene, she meandered toward the path to the Children's Garden, her male friend trailing after her.

Thomas took out his sandwich and began to eat. He watched the clouds drifting lazily in the jet stream and relished the tranquility of the place. After a while, he looked out across the grass and saw that the elderly man had taken a seat on a bench at the edge of the trees. Everyone else had disappeared. For a moment, all was serene. The air was still, the forest unperturbed, and the December sun hung like a lantern from the sky.

Then, in an instant, the silence was shattered by a scream.

Thomas put down his meal and stood up. The scream came again. It was a woman's voice, coming from the direction of the Children's Garden. His decision was instinctive. In seconds he was running down the path toward the trees. There was no doubt in his mind. The scream had something to do with the girl.

He entered the forest at top speed. The path was lonely and dark beneath the evergreen boughs. He emerged from the trees to see the young mother doubled over in the midst of an empty meadow. She was clutching her stomach with one hand and her face with the other, repeating a name over and over again—Abby.

Thomas looked around.

The girl was gone.

He ran to the woman and knelt down. Her cheek was livid with the beginnings of a nasty bruise. She looked at him with wild eyes.

“Please!”
she rasped. “They took her! They took my Abby!
Help me!
”

Thomas's heart lurched. “
Who
did?” he demanded, scanning the trees again.

“A woman with a camera,” she gasped, trying to stand up. “And two men. One of them came up behind me.” She motioned toward the trees separating them from the parking lot. “They went that way!
Do
something!
Please!
”

At that moment, an engine gunned and Thomas heard the sound of tires churning upon gravel. He hesitated only a second before leaping to his feet and running into the forest. Branches stung his face, and he stumbled on a fallen limb, but he didn't break his stride. He could think of only one thing—the girl.

Thomas emerged from the trees just in time to see a black sportutility vehicle tear out of the parking lot to the north. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed 911. The dispatcher connected immediately.

“There's been a kidnapping,” he said, breathless, finding his keys with his other hand. “It happened at the Botanical Gardens. They took a girl about ten years old. Her mother's still here and she's hurt. I saw a black SUV, but I didn't get the plate.”

He hung up before the dispatcher could reply. He threw open the car door and slid into the driver's seat. Mashing the clutch, he made a tight turn onto the entrance road. He swerved onto Eastern Boulevard with a squeal of rubber, heading in the direction of the Middle River Loop. He drove a mile along the highway at twice the speed limit, hoping to catch a glimpse of the SUV before it turned onto a secondary road. Traffic was light, but he saw no sign of it.

He drove another mile toward I-95 without sighting the SUV. He pulled to the side of the highway, looking around in desperation. Every second that passed decreased his chances of success. The land north of the Middle River Loop was dominated by forest and rolling fields. He scoured the scenery on both sides of the road, looking for a flash of black against the background of green. A few cars passed on the highway, but he saw no sign of the SUV.

Thomas gripped the steering wheel. The brazenness of the crime enraged him. The SUV had at best a minute headstart. Simple physics said it couldn't be far away. But he didn't know the area, and the kidnappers surely did.

After a while, he turned around and drove back the way he had come. During his absence, the entrance to the gardens had been besieged by four squad cars and an ambulance, all with lights ablaze. Two police officers stood behind the ambulance, watching an EMT nurse tend to the child's mother. Another officer was speaking into a radio and a fourth was taking photographs some distance away.

Thomas approached the officer on the radio and waited. The man was long-winded and seemed not to notice him. Before Thomas could introduce himself, a hand gripped his arm. He turned and saw the girl's mother. Her brown eyes were clear and imploring.

“Please tell me you saw them again,” she pleaded, pushing away the nurse who was trying to take her back to the ambulance. “Please tell me you know where they took her.”

He shook his head, his failure weighing on him.

“Oh God!” the woman cried. “Oh dear God.” The pain poured out of her in words. “She turned eleven today. I was taking her to a movie, but she wanted to stop at the gardens.” Without warning, she thrust herself at Thomas and pounded on his chest.
“I should have said no!”
she shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably.
“How did this happen?”

Thomas had no idea what to do. He traded a look with one of the police officers who tried to intervene, but the officer's entreaties were half-hearted and ineffectual.

Eventually the woman collected herself enough to let go of him. “I'm sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I just …” She hugged herself. “Abby's all I've got. I can't lose her. I don't know what I'd do.”

Sensing an opportunity, the EMT nurse took the woman's hand. “Come along, Ms. Davis. The police are doing everything they can. Let's get you fixed up.”

This time the woman complied without objection.

Thomas stood stiffly, at once moved and disturbed by the exchange. The officer holding the radio began to ask him questions about the incident, and he answered, but his mind drifted to a different time and place—to a small hillock at Glenwood Cemetery, placing flowers on his daughter's grave.

It took him fifteen minutes to deliver his statement. Toward the end, an unmarked squad car pulled into the lot and a tall man in plainclothes emerged. After talking to one of the officers by the ambulance, the man approached Thomas.

“I'm Detective Morgan with the Fayetteville PD. I understand you made the 911 call.”

“I did,” Thomas confirmed.

“May I ask why you tried to follow the vehicle?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don't know. I wanted to help.”

“Officer Velasquez here says you saw the perpetrators.”