Through the Darkness

CHAPTER 10

Paul looked handsome pacing in front of the cameras, positively presidential. Wearing a navy blue windbreaker, open-necked shirt, and pressed denims, he appeared more put-together than any of the other members of my family clustered behind that bank of microphones, but it was entirely accidental, I knew, as he’d grabbed the first thing that came to hand in the closet that morning, not giving a moment’s thought to how he should dress for a television appearance.

It was 1:55 P.M. The press continued to gather at the end of the driveway in rowdy, fidgety packs. Standing on the sidelines between Connie and Dennis, I watched Paul turn his back on the crowd and speak quietly to Emily.

Dante was otherwise occupied, conversing in hushed tones with Jim Cheevers, our attorney, who had dispensed with his usual trademark tie-tropical fish and Disney characters were among his current favorites-for one in a somber maroon and gray stripe. Recently, Jim had taken over the handling of our legal affairs from our old friend Murray Simon. Murray had been summoned to Washington to head up a presidential task force on Hurricane Katrina relief. Judging from the number of times we’d heard from him since last fall, Murray might as well have been abducted by aliens. One evening I ran into Murray’s wife at the symphony. She’d reported a Murray sighting at Christmas, but other than that, claimed not to have seen him in ages.

From my vantage point at the edge of the driveway, with the branches of a forsythia bush periodically stabbing me in the back, I saw Dante’s hands flutter.

Cheevers nodded.

Dante raised a finger.

Cheevers shrugged.

For all I knew, they might have been discussing the plays of Monday night’s baseball game.

Without warning, an icy hand reached out and seized my heart, squeezing it so hard I could barely breathe. What we need is a publicity stunt. My son-in-law’s exact words, spoken only a few short days before.

Sweet Jesus. Was the success of Paradiso so important to him that he’d engineer the kidnapping of his own child? It was unthinkable! And yet…

“Dennis?” I hissed.

“Shhhh,” my brother-in-law hissed back, inclining his head toward mine. “I think they’re going to begin.”

They’d evidently been waiting for a signal from Agent Amanda Crisp, who emerged from the house and took her place to the left, just behind Emily. Next to Agent Crisp stood Officer Ron Powers. Earlier, Powers had asked if I wanted to be on camera, but I’d politely declined. I had no desire to appear on television-I looked like something the cat dragged in, for one thing-but there was a more practical consideration. If the press conference ran long, I’d need the flexibility to duck out unobtrusively and pick up the children.

That might be easier said than done. Cedar Lane, a quiet street not far from the entrance to Hillsmere Shores, was now parked wall-to-wall with cars, SUVs, and trucks. The overflow spilled onto Hickory and Pine. I was congratulating myself for taking the precaution of parking out on Edgemere Drive where I wouldn’t get hemmed in, when a hush stole over the crowd.

Paul had stepped up to the microphones. Speaking without notes, looking directly into the cameras, he began.

“At approximately one o’clock on Monday, May fifteenth, our grandson, Timothy Gordon Shemansky, was taken from his playpen at Spa Paradiso in the Bay Ridge community near Annapolis, Maryland. Timothy is ten months old. He has short red hair and green eyes, and was last seen wearing denim overalls, a blue and green striped polo shirt with a white collar, socks with Thomas the Tank Engine on them, and black and white tennis shoes. The heels of Timmy’s shoes blink red. If you see Timmy, or have any information about his disappearance, please call the Anne Arundel County Police Department or the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the number which is now showing at the bottom of your screen.”

At the mention of Timmy’s shoes, I reached out and grabbed Connie’s hand. I’d bought those shoes for Timmy, and he adored them. He’d sit in his high chair, pounding his heels on the rungs, squealing with delight every time a well-placed kick got them to light up. My heart lurched, remembering.

Paul turned and extended a hand to Emily, who slipped out from under her husband’s arm to join her father at the podium.

Emily was a mess. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lids swollen. Her thick blond hair-normally worn in a single, plump braid-was gathered willy-nilly at the back of her head and secured there with a large plastic clip. Strands of hair had escaped the clip and hung untidily over her shoulders. Had it even been combed? I doubted it. In spite of the warm afternoon, she wore a shapeless sweater over a pair of black jeans with frayed cuffs.

Emily coughed. She cleared her throat. With downcast eyes and her lips close to the microphone she began speaking quietly. “If you have our little boy, please bring him back.” Then she raised her eyes and looked directly into one of the cameras. “Timmy, Daddy and Mommy love you very much. I want you to be a brave little boy, to… to…” Tears leaked out of Emily’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She sucked in her lips and shook her head from side to side, unable to continue.

Looking gaunt and haunted, Dante stepped to the podium, whispered something in his wife’s ear, waited until she had been safely turned over to the care of her father, then bent at the waist so his mouth could reach the microphone.

“Please. If you have children, you know how much Timmy means to my wife and to me. There is a big, deep hole in our hearts that won’t be filled until Timmy is back home again. We miss him so much, and so does his big sister, Chloe, and his big brother, Jake.” Dante paused, pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “If you have Timmy, please, please take good care of him. Please don’t harm him.” Dante raised both hands, palms out. I’d seen him do that before. He was struggling for control.

You are an idiot, Hannah. How could you doubt this man, even for a minute?

Paul quickly stepped in and continued where his son-in-law had left off. “This is a message to whomever took my grandson. Please, bring Timmy to a police station, or to a hospital. Or take him someplace where he’ll be safe, and call 911 and let us know where he is. We bear you no ill will. We just want our boy back.”

We bear you no ill will. That was a crock. In my opinion, a sex change operation using a rusty penknife would have been too good for Timmy’s kidnapper.

“Thank you for coming.” Paul was wrapping it up. “Now, Officer Ron Powers of the Anne Arundel County police will answer your questions.”

With Powers in charge of the mikes, all hell broke loose. Until that moment, presumably out of respect for our family, the press corps had listened in polite silence, scribbling notes to the accompaniment of the beeping and clicking of digital cameras. With the police in charge, however, all bets were off. Powers-clearly a pro at dealing with the press-simply stood there saying nothing, waiting them out.

“I have a brief announcement,” he said when the crowd grew quiet, “then I will take your questions. Our department is working around the clock to reunite Timothy Shemansky with his family. To that end, we have enlisted the help of the FBI, who have assigned a crisis negotiation team to the case.” A brief nod here to Agent Crisp. “Until the child is found, we will be holding a press conference daily at this time and place. If there is breaking news, we will, of course, let you know. That is all.”

“Officer Powers! Officer Powers!” The shouts came at him from every direction.

Powers pointed to someone on his right wearing a ball cap. “You.”

“Has there been any ransom demand?”

“No.” A finger to the left.

“We know you brought the K-9 team in this morning. What did they find?”

“Canine Officer Barbara Helm and her dog, Yoda, working out of the Baltimore County Search and Rescue Center, determined that Timothy Shemansky was taken from his playpen at Spa Paradiso. The kidnapper carried the child to a vehicle in the parking lot, and drove down Herndon Road toward Annapolis. The dog lost the scent at the intersection of Forest Drive and Bay Ridge, which as you know is a busy intersection. There is some indication that the kidnapper may have entered the Bay Ridge shopping center, so we are checking the surveillance cameras there, and will let you know if there’s anything to report in that regard.”

“Officer Powers!” A reporter in a red windbreaker had sidled up to us where we stood on the fringes of the crowd. “Officer Powers!” He was standing so close to me that I feared for my eardrums if Powers didn’t call on the guy soon.

Powers ignored the man and continued. “In addition, we have been conducting a roadblock search at the entrance to Bay Ridge, talking to people who use that route every day to see if we can come up with any witnesses who remember seeing Timmy or any unusual vehicles.”

“Sir, sir…” The jerk in the windbreaker again.

Powers’s head swiveled our way. “Yes?”

“At what time was the child taken?”

“I believe we’ve already answered that question. Next?”

“How about other surveillance cameras?” another reporter wanted to know.

“The spa has surveillance cameras. We’re working on that now.”

Dennis’s head spun in my direction. What? he mouthed.

I shrugged and whispered into his ear, “They’re not working. Apparently the FBI doesn’t want the kidnapper to know that.”

And the FBI seemed to have the situation well in hand. While we stood outside the house listening to Officer Powers answer questions, the FBI’s crisis negotiation team was inside, manning the command center. We’d given them complete run of the upper level of the house, including its three bedrooms.

Dante and Emily had checked out of the hotel, but they’d decided to occupy the “mother-in-law” suite of their split-foyer home, a bed, bath, and pocket kitchen combination that had been built into the basement by a previous owner. As for Chloe and Jake, we would try to keep their lives as normal as possible. They’d stay with Paul and me, for the time being, at least.

For one thing, I didn’t want the children to witness their mother’s inexorable slide into depression. Emily was, completely understandably, going through a wide range of emotions-upset, frightened, and clinging to her husband one minute, angry and argumentative the next, refusing to be comforted, either by Dante or anyone else. In coaching my daughter in how to deal with the kidnappers, the FBI had its work cut out for them. Crisp urged Emily to pull herself together, to be strong to help save her son’s life. Emily responded by alternating between screaming insults at everyone and staring at the wall. Once, in exasperation, I’d threatened to drive my daughter back to the Marriott where she could hole up in her room, watch television, and order junk food from room service. She told me to go to hell, but it did seem to calm her down.

While I took care of the children, Connie had been designated community liaison. She would answer the telephone, keep notes, organize the volunteers (who were already starting to call), and decide which visitors to admit to the residence. Taking her responsibilities seriously, Connie had arrived around noon with an assortment of salads and carbonated fruit drinks she’d purchased at the Whole Foods market in Harbour Center. These were sitting in the refrigerator, however, largely untouched, because nobody felt much like eating.

“Officer Powers!” The questions seemed to go on and on. Powers was built like a Sherman tank; he could roll on forever.

“Agent Crisp! Would you comment on…?” Even Amanda Crisp hadn’t wilted under the barrage.

Emily, though, was flagging. “Take care of Em,” I whispered to Connie. “It’s time for me to pick up the children.”

Connie nodded, and I managed to slip away without attracting attention.

As I passed Locust Lane on my way to Edgemere Drive, where I had abandoned my car, I ran into the name tag lady from church, Erika Rose. I’d never seen Erika in anything but a suit, so I almost didn’t recognize her in khaki pants, a white shirt, and a bright pink cardigan. Mother always told me that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, but on Erika, especially with her hair pulled back, the effect was stunning. She was carrying a white and blue casserole dish covered with foil.

I didn’t much feel like talking to Erika or anybody else, but since she was chugging in my direction bearing food for my starving children, I really had no choice in the matter.

“Erika! How good of you to come.”

She greeted me soberly. “Eva called and suggested I come right over.”

“I’m very glad you did,” I said, truthfully. “And thanks for bringing the casserole.” I gestured back down Cedar Lane. “It’s only fair to warn you, though, that there’s a press conference going on, and it’s a madhouse over there. They should be wrapping up soon.”

“Don’t worry.” She smiled grimly. “I have plenty of experience dealing with the press.”

I’ll bet you do, I was about to say, remembering that Erika had been all over the news when a firm she used to work for had been defending a Baltimore slum lord against charges of flipping houses. “We could use some advice, I guess.”

Erika looked me up and down, taking in my crumpled sweat pants, tank top, and hoodie. “How are you doing, Hannah?”

“I’m doing okay, under the circumstances, but I’m really worried about my daughter. The FBI has been trying to prepare us for all eventualities, but some of those eventualities are more than Emily can take. Everything they say just seems to upset her. My sister-in-law is with her right now, but I would appreciate any suggestions.”

Erika hoisted the casserole dish. “I’m not sure a turkey-noodle casserole will do much to help in that department, but I’ll give it a try.” She studied me thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’re aware that I do quite a bit of pro bono work.”

I wasn’t, but didn’t want to admit it. “Yes?”

“I’m a passionate advocate for children’s rights, for one thing,” she told me, “and fortunately, my firm encourages my efforts. Recently I worked with Amnesty International seeking asylum for a woman who’d fled to the United States with her seven-year-old daughter to prevent the daughter from being subjected to female genital mutilation.”

I shivered. Chloe would be seven next year! Just thinking about the torture female children were subjected to in the name of cultural tradition made me ill. And the practice wasn’t limited to third-world countries, either, I’d heard. “Tell me you were successful.”

“Oh, yes,” Erika said, in a tone of voice that suggested that once she was on the case, you’d better lend her a hand, or get the hell out of the way.

“Thank goodness!” I glanced at my watch. “Oh, gosh, it’s getting late, and I have to pick up my grandchildren from school.”

“Don’t let me keep you, then.”

I smiled a genuine smile of gratitude. “Thanks, Erika.”

She’d taken several steps past me, and then turned back. “Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure the police are doing an excellent job with their investigation, but I know from experience that there are other things we can do that might improve our chances of getting Timmy back. And time is of the essence.”

“I know that,” I said. “And we’re prepared to do whatever it takes. Anything.”

“Good. Well, you’d better get on with picking up your grandkids, we can talk later. Will you be coming back here?”

I shook my head. “Not tonight. We’ve decided it’s better for Chloe and Jake to stay with Paul and me.” I indicated the bag I was carrying. “Emily picked out some clothes for the children to wear over the next couple of days, but in her rattled state, she didn’t do a very good job of it, I’m afraid. It’s a good thing I checked, because Emily’d forgotten the socks and the underwear.”

“Is anyone with her, then?” Erika took a breath. “A woman, I mean. Husbands aren’t always the best choice in times like this, I’ve discovered.”

That was certainly the truth. Dante had been trying to help, Lord knows, but Emily had seemed inconsolable.

“Her aunt is with her,” I said.

“Good. Good. Well, I’ll see you later, then.”

See you later. That, as it turned out, was the understatement of the century.