Bad Connection (11 page)

“Want to pick up a DVD?” Olivia asks as I get in the car. “I heard that movie just came out, the one you wanted to see with Reese Witherspoon.”

“Okay.”

So Olivia swings by the video store, the one my brother is supposed to be working at. But I don't see his old beater in the parking lot. Hopefully he's parked it in back. When we go inside, I don't see Zach. And when we get to the counter, I ask if he's there.

“No.” The girl rolls her eyes as she gives us our change and receipt. “And he's in trouble now.”

“Sorry,” I tell her. But mostly I'm sorry for Zach.

“Do you think he'll get fired?” Olivia asks as we head for her car.

“Probably.”

“Let's pray for him,” Olivia says once we're in the car.

We bow our heads and really pray for Zach. We ask God to get his attention, to wake him up, to protect him, and to bring the right kinds of friends into his life—all kinds of things. Then finally we say amen.

“Sometimes it's hard to have faith when it comes to my own family,” I admit as Olivia starts to drive.

“Yeah, I know. It's like that with Clair and Dan.”

“Well, at least Clair and Dan aren't a mess.”

“Not so you'd notice. But I hear Clair saying things about their marriage to my mom sometimes. Things that worry me.”

“I just don't see why people want to make it so hard on themselves,” I say. “I mean, it's so much easier to live with God than without Him.”

“Yeah, you should know. You've had firsthand experience,” teases Olivia. “And back then I used to wonder the same thing about you. Like why did you want to go to so much trouble just to be miserable? You know?”

“I guess it's just one of those things that some of us have to walk through before we get it. Maybe that's what's happening with Zach…and Clair and Dan too.”

“I shouldn't talk. I suppose it could happen to me too.”

“Nah,” I tell her. “I think you're one of the smart ones, the kind who will hold on to God no matter what and never let go.”

“I hope so. For both of us.”

“Me too.”

Olivia lives in a pretty nice neighborhood. Not that my neighborhood is exactly a slum. It's not. Just more middle class. Whereas Olivia's is more upper-crust. Her dad is a city attorney, and her mom is a part-time social worker for the county.

Olivia's the youngest of three kids. Even so, she's not spoiled. Not at all. I'm not even sure why. I could assume it's because her parents raised her right, but I'm thinking it has more to do with who she is. In fact, if any of the three kids were spoiled, I'd say it's her brother Edward, and he's the middle kid, so go figure.

But it's always a pleasure to be at Olivia's house. And that's not just because they have money. It has more to do with Olivia's mom. Mrs. Marsh is one of those women who loves doing “home things.” Seriously, I think she and Martha Stewart could be related. Only Mrs. Marsh, in my opinion, is lots nicer.

So when you come to Olivia's house, you can always count on certain things. Like the house always looks gorgeous, there are usually good things to eat, and most of, the time music is playing. Mrs. Marsh is the kind of person who will light candles
just because.

And tonight when Olivia pulls, up to their house, I'm not surprised that their Christmas lights, all white, are neatly hung and there's a big evergreen wreath on the glossy red front door. Not overly done. Just classy and right. And when Olivia parks her car in their big quadruple-wide garage, I'm not surprised that everything, as usual, is in its place. And her mom's Volvo is already there.

We go through the door that enters into the kitchen, and I can smell something baking combined with the smell of pine, which I assume is coming from the enormous Christmas tree in front of the big window in their great room.

“Hey, Mom,” calls Olivia.

“In here,” says her mom.

“Samantha's with me.”

“Oh, good.” Her mom steps around the corner and joins us in the kitchen. “I haven't seen you since before Thanksgiving, Samantha. How are you doing?”

“I'm okay. It sure smells good in here.”

“I'm trying out this new five-minute fudge recipe I saw on TV,” she says. “You guys will have to sample it after it sets.”

“No problem,” says Olivia.

“Your tree looks great,” I tell her. “We don't even have one up yet.”

She smiles. “Well, you know me. I have to get one up the first week of December. Will thinks I'm nuts. But it just puts me in the spirit. Did you girls hear that we're supposed to get snow tomorrow?”

“Cool,” says Olivia.

“I thought it felt pretty cold today,” I say. “I hope it doesn't put too much of a damper on the Christmas parade.”

“That's right,” says Mrs. Marsh. “I nearly forgot about it. Are you going to be Mrs. Santa again this year, Samantha?”

Olivia laughs. “No, she worked a deal with.her mom.”

“I'm doing Christmas cards instead.”

“Your mom's lucky,” she tells me, then looks at Olivia.”Any chance I can work a deal with you?”

“Maybe.” Olivia grabs my arm and starts pulling me away. “Let me know what you have to offer, and I'll get back to you.”

There have been times'when I felt seriously jealous of Olivia's family. And back during my “dark era” after Dad died and I pushed God away, I almost let it come between my friendship with her. But for the most part, I think I've gotten over it. Mostly I'm thankful that I get to participate with her family. And really, they've been amazingly good to me. Still, I get twinges sometimes. Not really jealousy though. More like I wonder why Olivia's family seems to have it so good and my family struggles so much. It's one of those things I plan to ask God about when we're up in heaven. Although I suspect that I might not really care by then. But it's reassuring to know that I can ask if I want to.

We spend a fairly uneventful evening, and I'm relieved that my mom doesn't call me. We watch our movie, which is only so-so, play some computer games, eat too much fudge, then to compensate, do a workout in their mini-gym down in the basement. And finally we're both ready to call it a night.

“Are you worried about tomorrow?” Olivia asks after the lights are off and I'm almost drifting to sleep.

“A little.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine.”

And the next thing I know, it's morning, and since we overslept and it's already eight-thirty, we have to scramble to get dressed and out the door on time.

“What's the hurry?” Olivia's mom asks as we head toward the door to the garage. “I've got cinnamon rolls in the oven.”

“Sounds great,” I tell her. “But I have to, uh, be somewhere.” I glance nervously at Olivia. She knows that I don't o want anyone to know about my involvement in the case, O or my “special gift.” Including her parents.

“I promised to drop Sam at an appointment, but I'll be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay. Well, see you later, Samantha,” calls Mrs. Marsh.

“Bye. Thanks.”

“This is going to be tricky,” Olivia says as she starts her car.

“You mean not telling people?”

“Yeah. What if you end up helping to locate Kayla and then the newspaper gets ahold of this story? What will you do then?”

“I don't know. I just hope we can prevent that. I'll ask Ebony.”

Olivia drops me off in front of the precinct, telling me to call when I need a ride. And this time when I go up the steps, I don't get the same sense that Dad is there. But I imagine he is. I imagine that he's watching me. And smiling.

“There you are,” Ebony says when I peek into her office.

“Sorry I'm a little late.”

“No problem. Michael just got here too. He's just getting set up down the hall. I'll show you where.”

“Hey, Michelangelo,” calls Ebony. “Here's our girl.”

“Almost ready,” says a short, stocky man with a gray beard and a ponytail. He's wearing an oversized corduroy shirt about the color of an eggplant, and when he smiles, a gold front tooth flashes in the overhead fluorescent light.

“This is Samantha McGregor,” says Ebony. “And this is Michael Taylor, the renowned composite artist.”

We shake hands, and he holds on to mine for just a few seconds longer than necessary, but he's kind of squinting and has this thoughtful look on his face. “I sense that Samantha has a very deep spirit,” he finally says as he releases my hand. “I think I will enjoy working with her.”

“I hope so,” I say nervously.

“Ebony showed me your answers to my questions.” He pulls out a chair for me. “It gives us a place to start.”

“Do you mind if I sit in?” asks Ebony.

He seems to consider this. “As long as you don't interrupt. I can't abide interruptions. It messes with the waves.”

“The waves?” I question.

“Yes. I rely on intuition as much as anything else. Surely you understand that, Samantha.”

I glance at Ebony. “Did you tell him about me?”

She nods. “I needed to let him know that you hadn't actually
seen
the suspect. Not physically anyway.”

“No worries,” he tells me. “I understand these things. You can trust me, Samantha.”

“It's just that I don't really want other people to know about this,” I explain to both of them. “I mean, it's hard for some people to understand this. And I'd rather just keep it under wraps, you know?”

Michael nods. “Oh, believe me, I know.” He makes a zipping gesture across his mouth. “These lips are sealed.”

“Mine too,” says Ebony.

So we settle into this thing. First Michael encourages me to just relax, and he chats about pretty much nothing for a while. Then after a few minutes, he asks me to close my eyes and to focus on the image I saw yesterday. Then he starts to ask me more questions. But it's not so much about what I saw as about how it made me feel.

And then he asks about the apron and the kinds of letters that spelied out the name Colby. He asks me about colors and shapes, and then he goes into more details about the actual facial description. And it's weird because I can't imagine how some of his questions would really help him, but I try not to think about that. I just try to answer them, the best I can. Then after about an hour, he tells me to open my eyes.

“Now, I'm going to let you see what I've drawn, Samantha, but I want you to know that it's only the beginning. I'm sure it won't look like the man you saw in your vision. Not completely anyway. But we'll find the features that are right, and we'll try to adjust the parts that aren't.” He smiles, and that gold tooth glints in the light again. “You ready?”

I nod.

He turns his large sketch pad around for me to see, and I am shocked that it actually feels very familiar—and creepy. “Wow,” I say quietly, getting out of my chair to see it better.

“Are we closer than I thought?”

The drawing shows a man from the waist up, clearly depicting the apron and name Colby on the right side. He has a rounded face, somewhat coarse looking features, a stubble beard, and a receding hairline. But it's the small piercing eyes that get me. I make a face. “He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Not exactly the kind of guy who someone like Kayla would be attracted to?” asks Ebony.

“Not at all. He looks like the kind of person Kayla would make fun of. Like some old, geeky geezer dude who pumps gas and hits on high school girls for kicks.”

Then I point out some things that don't seem quite right, and Michael changes his eyebrows and puts his eyes farther apart, broadens his nose, and narrows his lips. After about an hour, I am pretty satisfied.

“I mean, it's hard to say for sure/' I admit. “When I see something in a vision, it's so fast, and some of it doesn't even feel visual, you know? But I really think that looks a lot like the guy I saw.”

“Works for me,” Ebony says as Michael hands her the final drawing. “I plan to run it today.” She shakes Michael's hand. “You do good work, Michael.”

“I hope it helps to catch the jerk,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Of course, I couldn't have done it without Samantha.” He smiles. “You've got good instincts. If you have any artistic ability, you might be good at this.”

I laugh. “Maybe I should show you my mountains.”

“Mountains?”

Then Ebony explains.

“Well, I don't usually do landscapes, but maybe I should take a look,” he offers. “Maybe I could help to make it look more like the real deal.” 3

I pull out my very amateurish-looking drawing, and he o nods. “Yep. Looks like Arizona to me.” Then he gets out a o fresh piece of paper and starts drawing. Within minutes he's taken what look like a five-year-old's squiggles and turned them into something that might be real. I point out a couple of things that I remembered differently.

“Like this shape.” I point to my drawing. “It was kind of like a bear's head. Or maybe a monkey head. I mean, the profile.”

So he starts playing with it some more.

“Yes,” I tell him when he gets it right. “Like that!”

Finally he's done, and I feel like it's similar to what I envisioned.

“This could be very helpful,” says Ebony. “It's obviously a long shot, but you never know. Anyway, I'll see if I can find someone who knows Arizona geography well enough to identify this location.”

I stare at Michael's landscape and wonder about Arizona. I've never been there before, and I try to imagine Kayla there now. What is she doing right this moment? What is she thinking? Is she frightened or sorry or even alive?

A
fter we tell Michael good-bye, Ebony walks me down the hallway, pausing in front of her office, i can tell something's bugging her. “You have a minute, Samantha?”

“Sure.”

“Come in.”

I follow her in, and she closes the door. “I talked to your mom.” She leans against her desk. “Did she mention anything to you?”

“Actually, I spent the night at Olivia's last night. I haven't talked to my mom yet.”

“It did sound as if she's pretty busy right now, what with the parade today and then the winter carnival program that the park district runs for school-age kids during Christmas break. I'm sure her hands are more than full this time of year.”

I nod. Of course, I want to add that they're always full—winter, spring, summer, or fall. Her job seems to consume her. But I don't say this.