Picture Perfect (15 page)

Suddenly, his head jerked up and he strained to hear. Was the camper slowing down? His tongue worked frantically in his mouth as he tried to wet his lips. He needed more spit if he was going to shout so someone could hear him. The woman would let him out when she heard him call. But how was he going to know where the bad man was? What would he do if it was the man who raised the top? The woman would try to help him, he was sure of it. The camper
was
slowing down. He would be quiet and wait.

 

Cudge eased up on the throttle. “Keep your eyes peeled for a gas station, Elva. This ain't the time to run out of gas. You listening to me?”

“Yeah, I hear you. I don't see anything but grass and trees. I'm hungry,” she whined.

“Ain't we all. My advice to you is to suck in your gut because it might be a long time before we eat.”

“Can't we stop and get something from the pop-up? How long would it take?” Elva persisted. “I can't remember the last time I had something to eat. I'm really hungry, Cudge. If I don't eat, I'm gonna be sick. I can feel it in my stomach.”

“Jesus Christ! You don't hear too good, do you? After that dumb stunt you pulled this morning, you don't deserve to eat. You had the kid, Elva. You actually had him in your hands, and what do you do? You let him get away. That kid is spilling his goddamn guts to the police right now, and all you can think of is your stomach.”

Elva slouched back against the seat. Cudge was probably right. Scared as he was, he was right. Maybe, when they stopped for gas, she could crank open the top and get something. How long could it take? A minute, two or three at the most. It took that long for the tank to be filled. She decided she would risk it. She needed her strength to run if she found the opportunity. Her stomach seemed to settle down with her decision.

She wondered where the little boy was right now. Was he talking to the police like Cudge had said? She had tried to help. Cudge would never understand; he was too concerned with not being blamed for Lenny's murder. Her stomach heaved as she remembered the body in the open grave. Poor Lenny, he didn't even have a coffin. The worms and bugs would eat through the blanket real quick. Her stomach heaved, then eased as she swallowed hard.

Elva risked a quick glance at Cudge. She really wasn't hungry. She might not be the smartest person in the world, but right now, this minute, if somebody offered her a Big Mac, she wouldn't be able to swallow past the fear in her throat. Cudge had tried to kill her back there and he would try again. She must never forget that, never pretend to herself she hadn't seen that look on his face when he wanted to put her in that hole with Lenny. It was okay to pretend sometimes, when reality hurt too much, but this time pretending could get her killed.

“Dammit, Elva!” Cudge spat. “I can't depend on you to do anything. See that gas station? That's where you get gas. I thought I told you to keep your eyes open.” Elva shrugged. When you were going to die, what did it matter if you saw a gas station or not? Cudge's foot moved from the gas pedal; he swung it to the right and brought it down with all his force on Elva's ankle bone. She yelped in pain as she jerked her foot away. “Next time you do what I tell you.” Cudge laughed at the expression on Elva's face. “Now, try and act normal.”

The pickup truck bounced over and through deep ruts as Cudge maneuvered around the entrance ramp to the gas station. A homemade sign with big red letters said shocks were a specialty of the station. “Rip-offs,” Cudge muttered, “they probably dug the damn holes themselves.”

The truck pulled alongside the pump. It was so old it looked like something out of a Presley movie, none of the fancy digital stuff that was on the gas pumps in the cities. No, this one was a real antique. For that matter, so was the station itself.

“You sit tight, I gotta take a leak first. Jesus, this place don't even look like a gas station.” Elva looked around for some sign of life. The place looked empty. Disobeying Cudge's orders, she opened the door and got out. Limping, Elva walked to the opposite side of the pumps. Maybe she should pump the gas herself to save time. She was just about to lift the nozzle from the rack when she heard music and saw a needle-thin youth coming out of the garage, carrying a boombox. “What'll it be?”

Elva almost laughed. She couldn't remember when the last time was that she'd seen a gas station attendant. Usually, there was just some guy sitting in a glass box taking money.

“Fill it up with unleaded, please,” she said in a loud voice. She moved away from the pump toward the pop-up.

“Let me out of here,” she heard someone say. She looked around. The voice came again, louder. It was coming from inside the pop-up. It was the kid. Oh, God. Elva's brain felt like cold, wet spaghetti as her eyes went to the door marked MEN.

“Hey!” the muffled voice called again. “Let me out!”

Elva slouched against the side of the pop-up. “Is that you, little boy?” She waited, hardly daring to breathe as the attendant danced around on one foot, watching the nozzle with unseeing eyes.

Davey's eyes closed in relief. She'd heard him. Where was the man? They must have stopped at a gas station. He could smell the fumes and “fill it up with unleaded” was what his dad always said when he stopped to get gas. “Please let me out,” he yelled excitedly.

“You say something to me?” the boy asked, turning down the volume on the boombox. “You want the water and oil checked? Hey, are you all right? You look kinda sick.”

Elva's eyes remained glued to the restroom door. “Sick? No, I'm not sick. The water and oil are okay.” As if he cared whether or not she was sick. He was just being polite. She felt sorry for him; he kept scratching at his acne. For want of anything better to say, she blurted, “You got a problem or what? How come you bounce around like that on one foot and then the other?”

The boy held up his boombox. “I got music in my soul. My boss, he don't understand. He likes rock'n'roll. You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. I like rock'n'roll too. Especially Elvis Presley. I have every single one of his tapes but I usually listen to them with earphones,” Elva confided.

“Whatcha doin' way out here?” the boy asked.

Elva clamped her mouth shut. What business was it of his what she was doing out here—wherever here was. She'd better play it cool. It would be just like Cudge to get jealous.

“Let me out, please let me out!” came the muffled plea to Elva's left.

“Shhh,” she whispered into the crack. “Be quiet. I have to think. If Cudge hears . . .”

“What did you say?” the pimply faced youth asked as he slammed the gas pump back onto the rack.

“Nothing,” Elva replied. Her eyes flew to the old-fashioned numbers on the gas pump. Twenty-four dollars ninety. Cudge would have a fit. Let him. Right now she had enough problems. Where was he anyway?

“I heard you say something and I saw your lips move. My ma used to talk to herself before they took her away. You better watch it.
She
said she didn't talk to herself either.”

Elva's heart fluttered. What if this kid said something when Cudge got back? What if he said she was talking to herself? Cudge wasn't dumb. “Yeah, you're right, I wasn't actually talking, I was kind of singing. I miss playing my tapes. I was just saying the words to a song to myself. That's what you saw me doing. I ain't like your mother, believe me, I ain't.”

The boy looked skeptical as he held out his hand for the money.

“You have to wait a few minutes till my . . . till Cudge . . . Here he comes.” She didn't know if she was sorry or relieved. “Hey, why don't you turn your set up a little so I can hear that song? I haven't heard anything but the CB for two days.” Anything to drown out the feeble, muffled pleas of the little boy.

“You got it!” Never taking his eyes from Elva, the attendant turned up the volume. “And now for all you Metallica fans, here's their latest . . .” The disc jockey bellowed so loud Elva clamped her hands over her ears.

“Shut that goddamned thing off,” Cudge shouted.

The gas station attendant's eyes widened. Then his eyes locked with Elva's. Defiantly, he turned the volume up even louder. Blaring music ricocheted around the pumps.

“I thought I told you to shut that thing off!” Cudge bellowed.

“That's what you told me all right, but this is my turf, buddy, and I don't give a damn what you say. Pay up and get that junker of yours out of here.”

Cudge balled his hands into hard fists. Who the hell did the kid think he was with all those ugly pimples on his face? He was just about to raise his fist when he saw the boy looking at the license plate. “Okay, okay, play your damn radio. I got a headache and that's why I asked you to turn it off, but never mind. Here, keep the change.”

“Big spender, a whole quarter,” the kid smirked.

“It's twenty-three cents more than what your service was worth!” Cudge shot back.

Elva stared at the boy. As defiant as he was, she knew he would have helped her if she'd asked. Why hadn't she asked? Why had she just stood there and done nothing? Now it was too late. Her window of opportunity had closed with Cudge's return. The kid stared back at her, pity in his eyes as she climbed into the cab of the pickup truck.

“You're a loser, Elva. I saw the way you was sucking up to that kid. Well, let me tell you something. I saw that bastard look at our license plates. He's going to remember us. You in particular.”

“No, he isn't,” Elva said defensively. God, what was she going to do about the little boy? She had to get him out before he suffocated. Reason, crystal clear, seemed to come back to her. He couldn't suffocate with the cracks in the outer shell of the pop-up. She knew there had to be hundreds because of the way road dust filtered inside and stuck to everything. The boy might be stiff and sore but he wouldn't die, not like BJ. Not if she could help it anyway. She saw herself letting the little boy out of the pop-up, spiriting him away and taking him back to his family. They would call her a hero and give her a reward and everyone would live happily ever after. Everyone but Cudge.

She was cold, almost as cold as she imagined Lenny must be. Cudge was perspiring. Served him right, she thought viciously, as she rolled up her window.

The pickup came to life beneath Cudge's hands. Slowly, it moved past the attendant, who made a show of turning down the volume of his boombox.

“Let me out of here,” Davey yelled. “Open the door and let me out!”

The attendant's eyes widened in question. He followed the trailer for a few feet, his head cocked, then stood watching as it pulled out onto the highway.

The station owner walked out to where the kid was standing. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“I thought I heard . . .”

“What?” the owner prompted.

The boy shrugged. “Ah, it must have been my imagination. It sounded like there was someone in that pop-up. A kid, but . . . Nah! That ain't possible.”

“Why not?” the man asked, staring after the pickup.

“ 'Cause there ain't no room in there once those things get folded up. If there was somebody in there, they'd be smashed. Must have been my imagination.”

“It was probably one of those new radio commercials,” the owner said, pointing to the kid's boombox. “Back to work,” he said, then headed toward the grease pit.

“I think I'll write down their license plate anyway. You never know.”

 

Davey knew they were on the move again. “Let me out of here!” he screamed. “Open the door! Let me out!” Why hadn't the girl opened the door? She'd heard him. He knew she'd heard him because she'd answered him. So why?

Davey thought for a moment. Maybe she was scared the man would see her letting him out. Maybe she was afraid he would punish her if he saw her. Davey scrunched himself even tighter into the space between the refrigerator and the hard, wooden bunk. It was dark and smelly, but it was better than having the man catch him. The girl would let him out as soon as she could. She might even take him back to Aunt Lorrie. His eyes drooped wearily—he was so tired, and he didn't feel well.

S
tuart Sanders watched the people in the anteroom with clinical detachment. It was a hell of a job, all things considered. When you came all the way from New Jersey to Florida you expected to get a little sun and fun, not to sit inside a courthouse waiting for the prize witness to be recalled to the stand.

The waiting was hard on the Taylors, too. Annoyance was clearly written on both their faces, yet Sanders would have staked a week's salary that he was the only one aware of it. There they sat, chatting in companionable comfort, occasionally puffing on a cigarette.

As he watched them, he realized it was difficult to imagine Sara Taylor without her husband, just as it was difficult to picture Andrew without Sara at his side. He tried, unsuccessfully, to complete the family picture by imagining Davey between them. His eyes narrowed as he watched a stocking-clad leg move just a fraction closer to the trouser leg. No, there was no place for a little boy. Sanders saw an intimate smile play around Andrew's mouth as he looked up from his magazine, acknowledging the pressure of Sara's leg. There was no trace of a smile on her face as she lowered her gaze to her own magazine.

Sanders had seen their silent communication when Andrew Taylor had been questioned on the stand by the prosecutor, Roman DeLuca. The preliminary questions had focused on Andrew's university position, and were designed to show the jury that he was a solid, upstanding citizen, testifying at personal cost and possible jeopardy to himself and his family.

Then the prosecuting attorney's questions shifted to Andrew's relationship with Jason Forbes. It had become clear to Sanders that, whenever a question was put to Taylor, he sought out his wife, who was sitting in the first row, just behind the table where Roman DeLuca's assistants were taking notes.

Andrew Taylor's poise and confidence were unshakable, even under the hostile stare of the accused killer, and his confidence was reinforced by small, almost imperceptible nods of Sara's head. Her eyes never left her husband and, from the proud set of her shoulders and the slight smile around her lips, Sanders realized that she was giving Andrew her approval.

Sanders turned his attention to DeLuca, saw him look back and forth between Andrew and Sara, much as he had done himself. DeLuca was sharp, almost as sharp as him. Sanders studied DeLuca's expression and knew that he, too, had seen the silent signals between husband and wife. Sanders wondered how unshakable Andrew would be in his testimony if Sara weren't in the courtroom.

He hoped the trial wouldn't continue much longer. He'd always considered himself a patient man, but he decided now that he liked his company a little more jovial. He disliked the hushed whispers and dusty rooms, the smell of furniture polish and dry, cracked leather. Most of all he disliked the stale air and the austerity of the countless courthouses in which he had spent half of his life. And, to be honest, he disliked the Taylors. The thought surprised him—he'd never thought himself capable of such intense dislike. It bordered on hate. Everyone had faults, he supposed, and God knew, he was far from perfect himself. That was it! The Taylors were just too perfect to suit his tastes.

At that moment he would have given his soul to be with Lorrie Ryan and Davey, visiting the zoo, laughing at the animals' antics, eating popcorn and drinking sodas. Or had the trip to the zoo been planned for yesterday? He couldn't remember.

Now, where had all that come from? he asked himself. He glanced at the clock above the judge's head. In the weeks he'd stayed with the Taylors, he'd grown especially fond of Davey. Maybe because he felt sorry for the little kid. In the Taylor family, Davey was the odd man out, so to speak. Wanted, yet a bother. A flawed intruder. A wrinkle in the fabric.

Sanders had never had any kids of his own; his one marriage, ten years ago to a career-minded book editor, hadn't produced any children. His wife hadn't wanted them, and at the time, neither had he, though now he couldn't remember the reason why.

Spending time in Davey's company had brought out feelings in him that he hadn't known existed—feelings about home and family.

Lorrie was also an intruder. Where her feelings went, she wore her heart on her sleeve, loving Davey as if he were her own. Men weren't supposed to see or understand the subtleties that went on between women, but any fool could see that Sara disliked her sister and especially disliked Lorrie's love for Davey.

It wasn't right, he thought. Any kid who had gone through what Davey had gone through deserved a lot more love and nurturing than Sara offered. Davey should have been Lorrie's kid, not Sara's. Sara only loved Andrew and Andrew . . . Sanders wasn't sure what was up with Andrew; he seemed deaf and dumb to what Sara was doing. Why they'd had a child at all was beyond him, yet he was sure Davey hadn't been a mistake. The Taylors didn't make mistakes.

Sanders wished he had a cigarette, but he'd emptied his pack of Marlboros a half hour ago. He'd have to go out into the hall to see if he could bum one off one of the court clerks.

“Mrs. Taylor, I'm going outside for a smoke. If you need me, I'll be right outside the door.” That was another thing that angered him—why did he always defer to her?

Sara nodded, not bothering to glance up from her magazine.

Outside the courtroom, Sanders spotted a clerk standing next to a potted palm, smoking a cigarette. The man nodded at Sanders's request but was slow to get his pack out of his pocket. As Sanders waited, he imagined he could taste the acrid, hot smoke on his tongue.

“Thanks,” he told the clerk as he put the filter tip between his lips. A lighter flashed and he drew deeply, the spiraling smoke making his eyes narrow. A vibration against his waist told him he was being beeped. He pulled the cell phone out of its belt case, opened it up and pushed the button to retrieve his voice message.

“This is Lorrie Ryan. I need to speak with you. It's an emergency,” the voice said.

Sanders recalled the premonition that had prompted him to give Davey and Lorrie his business card.

He pushed a second button to see the phone number, then pushed it again to dial it automatically. “Lorrie, this is Stuart Sanders. What's wrong?”

“Oh, Stuart. It's Davey. He's gone. I've looked everywhere and can't find him.”

“What happened, Lorrie?”

“I—Oh, God.” Her voice was an anguished cry.

“You have to calm yourself, otherwise I can't help you,” he said in his FBI voice.

She sniffled. He could tell that she was trying to regroup. “Right after breakfast, we went fishing,” she began. “There's this cute little pond . . . We weren't catching anything and Davey got bored so I suggested he go for a short walk with Duffy. He knew we would be leaving soon . . .”

“Lorrie?”

“Duffy came back without Davey.”

“Christ,” Sanders swore beneath his breath. “How long has he been gone?”

“Duffy never leaves Davey's side,” Lorrie said, not answering his question. “This is all my fault. I should have been more careful. I shouldn't have let him out of my sight, not even for a minute. If anything's happened to him, I'll never forgive myself.”

“Let's not borrow trouble, Lorrie. You don't know that anything
has
happened to him. How long has he been gone?” he asked again.

“Since about nine thirty this morning.”

“For God's sake, Lorrie. It's almost four. What took you so long to call me?”

“What? I . . . we . . . the managers and I—we've been searching the campground and—”

“Who else knows he's missing?”

“The police. I called them when we couldn't find him.”

“I wish you'd called me first, Lorrie.” Sanders glanced at his watch. Three fifty. Another five minutes and the court would adjourn for the day.

“Called
you
first? But I thought it was more important to call the police and get them started looking for him. I called you because . . . because I need you to tell Sara and Andrew.”

Sanders's sharp gray eyes traveled the length of the corridor, coming to rest on the nattily dressed young lawyer who was assistant to the defense. In the old days, he would have been called a mouthpiece. Not for the first time Sanders wondered why a promising young attorney would align himself with known syndicate bosses. It occurred to him that Davey might have been kidnapped by a branch of the syndicate and was being used as a pawn to discourage Andrew Taylor from testifying.

“I'll tell them.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket. “Tell me exactly where you are, Lorrie.”

Lorrie quietly gave Sanders the name and location of the campground. “Stuart . . . this couldn't have anything to do with . . . What I mean is—you don't think Davey's disappearance has anything to do with Andrew's testifying in this case, do you?”

Sanders hesitated before answering. “Anything's possible, and the thought has occurred to me.” He was instantly sorry he'd admitted his suspicions. “I want you to sit tight. Leave your cell phone on so I can get back to you.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Lorrie?” He wished he could reach out and touch her, comfort her.

“What?”

“Everything's going to turn out all right. I promise. You'll get Davey back unharmed.”

“I pray to God you're right, Stuart. I can't tell you how much I love that little boy.”

“You don't have to. I already know.” He paused. “I'll be back in touch with you in a couple of hours.” He pushed the “end” button and stood there, staring into space.

Davey had been kidnapped. It was exactly what the FBI had been guarding against; the reason he'd been moved into the Taylors' house. What kind of scum would snatch a kid? The kind of scum Andrew Taylor was testifying against, he answered himself. They were everywhere. And kidnapping was only the tip of the iceberg.

His steps were heavy as he made his way down the hall. In a husky whisper he repeated the phone conversation to his associate, Jake Matthews, giving him orders to report to headquarters. “I'll be waiting here, so make it snappy. I don't want to tell the Taylors until I get an okay from upstairs. There's a good possibility the boy is just lost.”

Matthews nodded and took off at a run. He was back ten minutes later. “Something is brewing around here, Sanders,” the younger man told him. “I get the feeling that everybody is watching and waiting. What's your hunch? Do you think that friends of the syndicate have snatched the Taylor kid?”

Before he replied, Stuart Sanders took a last drag on his cigarette, watching the conversation outside the courtroom door between Lester Weinberg, counsel for the defense, and his young assistant. “Matthews, it's enough to know that the bad guys probably already know the kid is gone. Our aim, right now, is to keep the Taylors from knowing until we get the go-ahead. You'd better get word to Roman DeLuca. As state prosecutor, he's got to know that his case might fly out the window if Taylor refuses to jeopardize his son by testifying.”

 

Lorrie's white-knuckled fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms. In spite of Stuart's words, she couldn't find the comfort she so desperately needed. All she could do was wait. She kept going over her phone conversation with Stuart. Was it possible that Davey had been kidnapped by someone affiliated with the syndicate? If Davey had been kidnapped, then it was reasonable to assume that he was safe somewhere. But if he'd just wandered off—what had happened to him? Where was he? More often than not, kidnapped children were found dead. It was easier to think that Davey was lost and that, before too long, he'd come wandering out of the woods, safe and sound.

Lorrie watched the police prowl the woods, their dogs sniffing and straining at their leashes. The local police had called in the state troopers for extra manpower. It was late in the day, and Lorrie had been told that if the boy wasn't found by morning, the police would alert the media and widen the search. The blood had rushed to Lorrie's head at the thought of Sara seeing her son's picture on national news.

Where was Davey? What could have happened to him?

Davey Taylor was as close to a flesh-and-blood son as she was ever going to get. He was part of her, no matter what Sara or Andrew said to the contrary. She loved him as much as Sara did—maybe more. A sob rose in her throat and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Leaning against the door frame, looking out, Lorrie thought about Stuart Sanders. She wondered what difference it would have made to call him first. He was in Florida. How could he help find Davey from there?

It was nearing dusk when Lorrie saw a tall, lanky police officer come into the clearing. Suddenly uniformed figures were everywhere. “What? What is it?” Lorrie yelled.

The lanky officer backed off a step when he saw Dr. Ryan running toward him. “Stay here, ma'am. This isn't for you to see. No,” he answered her unasked question, “we didn't find the boy. This is something else. Stay here,” he repeated firmly.

“No,” Lorrie said just as firmly. “I want to see what it is. Whatever it is, will it help you find Davey?”

“I don't know,” the officer replied.

In spite of his orders, Lorrie followed him through a stand of trees to what looked like a hole . . . or a grave.

“Put some muscle into it, Delaney. If there was a six-pack in that hole you'd have it out by now!” a local policeman with a noticeable beer paunch bellowed.

“Whatever's down here isn't going to come up any faster with you yelling, Jackowsky. And who the hell appointed you my superior? You want speed, grab a shovel and do it yourself. If not, shut up and let me do it my way.” Delaney hefted his shovel and gently prodded into the soft dirt.

Standing at the edge of the hole, Lorrie saw the outline of a body. An adult's body, not a child's. She breathed a huge sigh of relief.