Beyond Recognition

64

Daphne found herself sitting in the Santori home doing nothing, wondering why she was there. Fifteen minutes had passed since she had heard one of the neighborhood boys scream out from the woods. Kids! She had actually allowed herself to believe it had been Ben. How paranoid can a psychologist get? she wondered.

Her biggest mistake was leaving her cellular phone in her car, plugged into the cigarette lighter. She had debated walking the one block to get it but worried that it might attract Jonny Garman’s attention to her red Honda; Martinelli had been driving an Explorer. This car difference was what had kept her grounded in the house. If Garman was watching the place-and she believed he could be-and she returned to the wrong car or he got a good look at her, the game was up. They were back to square one.

For the last quarter hour she had been attempting to develop the nerve to call Boldt and tell him her latest theory-that Garman had lifted the wrong address off the backpack. But Boldt had been cut back to one or two detectives, and she didn’t want to be the one to screw things up again, to pull LaMoia off Martinelli just in time for Garman to fry the woman.

But she had to check in. Officially off-duty, she knew Boldt was nonetheless counting on her. She called her voice mail, to check messages, with one eye on her car, wondering how she had been so stupid as to park directly under a streetlight. When things went wrong, she decided, they went wrong in a big way.

There were six messages: one from Owen, two from Susan, two from Boldt, and one from Emily Richland. Of all the calls, it was Emily Richland’s she returned; the woman had sounded half out of her mind.

“Daphne Matthews,” she announced when the woman said hello.

“He was here,” Emily Richland confessed immediately, without introduction or small talk. “When you came looking for him, he was here. I hid him. I lied, and I know now that was stupid.”

Daphne felt her heart racing away from her. She tried to calm herself, but the woman’s agitation was contagious.

Emily continued, “He ran away. Left the house while we were talking, I imagine. But of course I expected him back, and he never returned. He hasn’t returned. A long time now, and he hasn’t returned.”

“Probably doesn’t trust either of us,” Daphne allowed, trying to calm the other.

“No, it’s not that,” said Emily nervously.

“Then what?”

“Listen. I don’t expect you to believe this…. I know you don’t believe this. Maybe it’s impossible for you to. But I beg you to believe just this one time. At least hear what it is I have to say.”

“Go on.” Daphne fought against her own desire to shout, to scold the woman. Get on with it! she wanted to say.

“I do have visions. I really do. You must believe me. And I’ve had one tonight. Several times. The first time …”

Daphne could hear the woman’s voice falter, and the tears begin. She struggled with her own emotions to keep from giving in to the other’s. Tricks! she reminded herself. Emily Richland was a professional liar, nothing more.

“He was dead. On the ground, his eyes open.” Emily broke down crying-sobbing-into the phone. If it was an act, it was a damn good one. “Ben,” she muttered, “lying there on the ground. Oh, God…. And then, just now-right before you called-a second image. All dark and a fence, and Ben’s face pressed up against it. He’s in trouble, I know he is! I know this. I’ve seen it! And I don’t know what to do about it!”

Daphne did not want to reveal the terror she was experiencing. The images of the boy were fixed in her head. To give the woman some encouragement seemed the best route. “Anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?” As a psychologist she simply could not allow herself to believe in paranormal activity; as a woman who loved this boy herself, she believed every word.

“A fence … darkness … chain link, you know? Looking through it. Boxes. Blue boxes.”

“Train cars?”

“I don’t know.”

“Containers. Ship containers?”

“I can’t see it clearly. Blue boxes…. fence … darkness.”

“I’ll call,” Daphne said. “If we find out anything, I’ll call.”

Emily Richland was still crying as Daphne hung up the phone.

One hell of an act indeed, if that’s what it was.

She needed no more courage than that call. She lifted the receiver and dialed Boldt’s cellular.