Missing Since Monday, Page 4

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said suddenly, “but shouldn’t you be searching for Courtenay?”

  Officer Stewart smiled. “It’s okay. I know you’re worried and upset. The police have already been alerted. They can do even more when they have your sister’s photo. And believe me, these questions are important.”

  The doorbell rang then, and Officer Martinez rose to answer it while Mike came in with three photos of Courtenay. One of the pictures had been taken just two weeks earlier.

  “Good,” said Martinez when he saw the photos. He kept the school photo, gave the others to a policeman who was standing, dripping, in the front doorway, and sent the officer back out in the rain.

  “Now the search can really get under way,” Stewart said. “But we’ve got to continue the questioning. It’s very important. I don’t want to scare you, but when a child disappears, there’s a better chance that she ran away or was kidnapped than that she’s lost. And the kidnapper may be known to the victim. That’s why we need all this information. We have to put the pieces together so we can make a priority statement, determine the status of the case.”

  I sat on the couch, frozen. Kidnapped. Had he really said that? I was thinking Courtie had just wandered off. Or I was hoping it, I guess. But underneath I had known of the possibility of kidnapping. Wasn’t that partly what the Lost Game was all about? Stay away from strangers, don’t get into a car with someone you don’t know. Want some candy, little girl?

  Martinez picked up where he had left off. “Okay. Your parents are divorced. For how long?”

  “About eight years,” answered Mike. I was glad to let him take over for a while.

  “Maggie said your mother may be in California?”

  “Maybe. Maggie’s last card was postmarked Los Angeles, but we never know where she’s going to be, just that she won’t be with us. Oh,” Mike added hastily, “not that she doesn’t love us. She really does. She just needs plenty of freedom. She’s sort of an … an old hippie, I guess you could say.”

  Martinez was still writing our answers on a pad of paper, but he was becoming less formal. “Divorce is tough,” he commented. “It must be hard to be separated from your mother, especially if you never see her.”

  “Well,” I said, “it is, I guess. I wish she’d visit us just once in a while. But she’s not like that. She wasn’t meant to be tied down to a family. She doesn’t like convention. Besides, I think she’d feel uncomfortable now that Leigh and Courtenay are part of our family. It’s like, where would she fit in? She never asks about Leigh and Courtenay. But Mike and I do hear from her pretty often. She sends lots of postcards. And I write to her whenever we have an address.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess. Could I see the card from Los Angeles, please?”

  I retrieved it from my desk drawer. Martinez studied it. “I’d like to hold on to this,” he said. “The FBI may need it.” My eyeballs nearly dropped out of their sockets at the mention of the FBI, but Martinez went on, “This is your father’s second marriage? What about Leigh, your stepmother?”

  “You mean is it her second marriage, too?” asked Mike. “Uh, yes, it is, I think. Isn’t it, Maggie?”

  “Yeah. She was married once before she met our dad.”

  “Any children by that marriage?”

  “No,” I replied. “She told us about it once, remember, Mike? She was married to a man whose last name is Tierno. They wanted kids but couldn’t have any together. I remember Leigh saying he was really angry when she had Courtenay. It was like he thought Courtenay should be his or something.”

  “Mr. Tierno felt that way?” Martinez was writing furiously, trying to get everything straight.

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s no chance Courtenay really could be his daughter, is there?” asked Stewart.

  What a dirty question, I thought. I glanced at Mike and made a face. “Well,” I said, “it wouldn’t be very likely. Courtenay was born after Dad and Leigh had been married for a little over a year.”

  “Do you have any idea where this Mr. Tierno lives?” asked Martinez.

  “Yes,” I said slowly, trying to remember things I hadn’t thought of in months. “Around here. Not in Princeton. Maybe in Lawrenceville.”

  “Can you remember his first name? Did you ever know it?”

  Mike shook his head, but I said, “Wait! Yes, we do know it, Mike. He runs a bicycle repair shop. We went there once. It is in Lawrenceville. His name is Jack Tierno.”

  “Good girl,” said Martinez. He nodded to Stewart. They exchanged a glance—almost as if they were talking with their eyes—and Stewart got up to use the phone in the kitchen.

  “What?” said Mike anxiously.

  “You think Mr. Tierno took Courtenay?” I exclaimed.

  “It’s a possibility,” answered Martinez. “We have to check into it. Now let’s get back to today. Tell me what happened this morning before you left for school, and this afternoon when you realized Courtenay was missing.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, it was a pretty normal morning. I mean, we got up and Mike dressed Courtenay while I made breakfast.”

  “Anything unusual happen?”

  Mike and I shook our heads.

  “No phone calls or wrong numbers? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “All right. And after breakfast?”

  “We put Courtenay on the school bus. That was all. The driver was Birdie. She was glad to see Courtie. She always is. Today she was excited because she was going to have her hair done in the morning. She said she might dye it a new color.”

  Martinez raised his eyebrows. “So you actually watched your sister get on the school bus.”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I watched her find a seat and sit down. As the bus backed down the driveway, she waved to me from the window.”

  “Has anyone gotten hold of this Birdie?” Martinez asked Stewart.

  “Someone’s questioning her now.”

  Martinez turned back to Mike and me. “We have to try to pinpoint when and where Courtenay disappeared. I can understand how the school let the day go by without notifying you that Courtenay was absent. Not every school has a policy of calling the child’s home if he or she is out, to make sure something like this hasn’t happened. What I don’t understand is why the bus driver didn’t notice that your sister wasn’t on the bus in the afternoon. Someone should have realized she was missing before you did.”

  “But,” said Mike, “the afternoon driver isn’t the same as the morning driver. The driving is done on a volunteer basis—by retired people—and the school doesn’t give any of them too many trips each week.”

  “Well, that explains that,” said Stewart. “I’ll have someone talk to a couple of the children who were on the bus with Courtenay in the morning. I guess those are our only questions for you now, kids.”

  “Right,” said Martinez. “We’re going to send over some detectives, though. And I think one of you better try to reach your parents again. Then, Mike, I’d like you to go to the station with Stewart to file a missing-person report.”

  Mike nodded grimly. “I’ll call Dad,” he said.

  6

  Bleak Tuesday

  IT TOOK MIKE A while to reach Dad. There’s hardly any phone service on Saint Bart’s, and to make things worse, it turned out that Dad and Leigh were not on Saint Bart’s at all but had taken a boat back to Saint Martin for the day to visit friends. It was past dinnertime when Mike finally got through to them. By then, an awful lot of things had happened. Mike held a brief, quiet conversation with Dad that I did not overhear and did not want to overhear. Then he hung up. Dad and Leigh were going to leave Saint Bart’s as fast as they could, of course, but they probably wouldn’t arrive home before late the next afternoon.

  Meanwhile, the search was underway. It had begun as soon as I’d called the police, but it really picked up after Martinez an
d Stewart finished questioning Mike and me. Everything happened so fast.

  First of all, the police, satisfied that Dad and Leigh actually were in Saint Bart’s (ruling out what Stewart called a “parental abduction”), and having also ruled out the possibility that Courtenay had run away, determined the case a “stranger abduction.” When Officer Stewart took Mike back to the police station to file a missing-person report, he also entered Courtenay’s description in the FBI’s National Crime Information Center computer. The computer would match information about Courtie’s case with information and leads in every state in the country. At the same time, a special phone line at the police station was set up for Courtenay’s case, so that any calls about her or the abduction could be coordinated with all the other search efforts.

  Meanwhile, two detectives stationed themselves at our house to continue the case. One, Lamberton, was a heavyset man with thinning hair and a constant craving for coffee. The other was a woman, Becker, whom I liked very much. She had a no-nonsense attitude, yet seemed to understand how Mike and I were feeling.

  Detective Becker gave me the phone number of an agency called Search for the Children that helps families locate missing children. It was after six o’clock by the time I called, but I reached their answering service, and a concerned woman took down some information about the case and told me that I would be contacted the next morning.

  Meanwhile, an actual search was in progress in Princeton. Jane had called back while Mike and I were talking to the police officers in the afternoon. I briefly explained to her what was going on, and that was all it took to involve our neighbors, the kids at Princeton High, the members of the Kiwanis Club, and several other organizations in a massive search. The word had spread like wildfire, and before I knew it, our friends (and a lot of people we didn’t know at all) were working with the police, combing the town. They formed human chains and searched every inch of wooded and open areas both in and around Princeton. I joined them for a while, working silently alongside David and Martha, but returned home after an hour, unable to bear being away from the phone. The search continued far into the night.

  The police used specially trained dogs to help them search construction sites. They sent men down wells and storm drains. They looked for open septic tanks. None of the search efforts turned up a scrap of evidence of Courtenay, but no one was willing to give up.

  The eleven o’clock news surprised me. I was watching it with Mike. (Detective Lamberton was at our house, but he was in the kitchen on the phone.) One of the first stories that night was about Courtenay. They flashed her picture on the screen, gave the details of the kidnapping, then showed her picture again and, under it, the date she had disappeared and the phone number that had been set up for people to call if they knew anything about her or her whereabouts.

  “How did the news station find out so fast?” I asked Mike.

  Lamberton appeared in the doorway to the den. “AP,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “The Associated Press. They pick up stories like this in a flash. And believe me, it’s the best thing that can happen.”

  “Why?” asked Mike.

  “Because publicity is just what we need. The more people who know that Courtenay’s missing and know what she looks like, the better the chances for her recovery. We encourage it. If you tuned into WHWH, you’d find Courtenay all over the local news. The papers will run stories tomorrow. They’ve been picking up information at the station. Undoubtedly, someone will want to interview you soon.”

  My head was spinning.

  Late that night I awoke drenched with sweat after another nightmare. I sat up, breathing deeply, and reached for the light switch. Where was Courtie then? Was she asleep? Was she dreaming about the red mitten that snores? Who would comfort her when she woke up?

  I looked at my clock. Two-thirty. I had a feeling it was going to be a very long night. And it was. I never really did go back to sleep. Finally, at six-fifteen I crept down the hall. Mike apparently was still in bed. At any rate, his door was closed.

  I tiptoed downstairs. Lamberton and Becker, wearing the same clothes they’d had on the day before, were sitting at the kitchen table. They had decided to spend the night. I was grateful. I felt much safer with the detectives there. A huge pot of coffee had been made, and a mugful of it sat before each one of them.

  “Morning,” said Becker.

  “Any word yet?” I greeted them.

  “Nothing concrete,” replied Lamberton.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “We have a lot of pieces to the puzzle and a few clues, but we don’t know how to fit everything together. The searchers knocked off around midnight last night and are just about ready to begin again. They haven’t turned anything up, though.”

  “What kinds of clues do you have?” I asked. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with them.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” said Becker.

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Someone spotted an unusual car, an old green Ford,” said Lamberton. “It was near the school at about the time your sister’s bus should have been arriving. It might mean something, it might not.”

  I nodded. “What else?”

  “Only one other important thing. Your stepmother’s first husband, Jack Tierno, seems to have conveniently gone out of town yesterday morning.”

  I thought that over. Then I asked, “Has anyone seen Courtenay?”

  “Oh, there have been a number of calls from people who say they’ve spotted a girl matching Courtenay’s description. One man said he spotted her in the Los Angeles airport at seven o’clock yesterday morning.” Lamberton smiled ruefully. “Everyone thinks they’ve seen your sister. By the way, how would you and Mike feel about doing a TV interview sometime today? Ordinarily, we’d want your parents on the show, too, but I don’t want to wait until they come home.”

  “It’s very important,” Becker said. “It shows people the purely personal, human-interest side of the case. They feel involved that way—and then they’re more apt to report anything they might know or have seen. You could do the interview right here—in your living room, if you like.”

  “I’ll talk to Mike,” I said. “What happened when Birdie was questioned yesterday?”

  “Well, she doesn’t know much,” Lamberton answered. “She finished the route. She knows that no kid got off the bus before she reached the school, unless the kid went out a window. In fact, she specifically remembers saying goodbye to your sister because Courtenay was the last kid off the bus and she blew Birdie a kiss as she went down the steps.”

  I smiled. “So she reached school,” I said, trying to reconstruct everything.

  “She reached school,” said Lamberton. “And Birdie drove off. She didn’t want to be late for her appointment with the hairdresser. So she didn’t actually see Courtenay go into school.”

  “But it’s not a long walk from the bus to the front door,” I said. “And Courtenay’s done it lots of times—all year. What could have happened between getting off the bus and reaching the door? There are usually teachers around.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Becker. “There are a lot of ifs. For one thing, we only have Birdie’s word that this is what happened. The other children back her up, basically, but they’re only three and four years old.”

  “You mean you think Birdie’s lying?”

  “Who knows? No teacher remembers seeing Courtenay outside school.”

  I shuddered. “Birdie’s always been sorry she didn’t have kids of her own. She told me so once. That’s why she likes driving the bus.”

  Lamberton nodded as if he already knew that.

  I began to feel sick.

  The phone jangled noisily just as I was rising from the table.

  “Do you want to answer it?” asked Becker.

  “Okay,” I said. I picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Maggie.” It was Martha. “Sorry
to call so early, but I figured you’d be up. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m going to help search again today. Mr. Sakala is giving two days off to any student who wants to join in the search.” (Mr. Sakala is the principal of Princeton High.)

  “Wow, that’s really nice of him,” I said.

  “Are you going to help again today?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. Dad and Leigh are coming home, and the police want Mike and me to do a TV interview.”

  “Well, is it okay if I come over this afternoon? I’d like to see you.”

  “I guess it’s okay,” I replied. “It will depend a little on when Dad and Leigh get home.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Martha.

  “I better get off. I don’t want to tie up the phone in case anyone’s trying to call about Courtenay.”

  “Okay. See you this afternoon.”

  “’Bye.”

  When I hung up, I decided to go rouse Mike and tell him about the TV interview. I knocked softly on the closed door to his room. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. Slowly, I opened the door and peeked in. The bed was made, the shades were up, the room was as neat as a pin. It looked as if Mike hadn’t slept there.

  My heart began to pound wildly. What had Mike and I done last night? We’d watched the news. Then I’d gone to bed and—what had Mike done? Where had he gone?

  I dashed downstairs, about to tell Lamberton that there was a second disappearance, then decided to check the house first. And in the den, the shades drawn, the lights off, I found Mike, just sitting and staring. He’d been there all night.

  When I poked my head in, breathing a sigh of relief, he simply extended his hand to me. I walked over to him, took it, and we both sat on the couch and cried.

  Five hours later, Dad and Leigh came home.

  7

  Secrets

  DAD AND LEIGH WALKED into the kitchen at noon. Mike and I were there with the detectives, drinking coffee, waiting for the phone to ring. Mike had helped search for Courtenay for three hours that morning, but I felt afraid to leave the phone, sure that the moment I did, it would ring with the news that she had been found.