Through the Darkness

CHAPTER 13

In the bleak reality of day after endless day, at least Erika’s breezy announcement gave me something to look forward to. Cross Current had been a highly hyped addition to NBC’s fall lineup, successfully challenging CBS’s popular prime-time news program, 60 Minutes, in the television ratings wars. I couldn’t imagine what connection Erika Rose might have to the show, but it had to be something controversial. If Cross Current’s host, Mitch Harmon, ever showed up on your doorstep, it would be prudent to keep your mouth shut and duck out the back way, speed dialing your attorney as you went.

My sister Ruth had insisted on staying with me for the remainder of the day, lending both physical and moral support as we plastered public buildings and business establishments in Crofton with Timmy’s poster, with the full cooperation of the various merchants. With her help, we finished in time for me to hustle back to Annapolis to pick up Chloe and Jake from school.

That evening, because they taunted me with it, I knew that Connie and Dennis were sharing a hot King Ranch chicken casserole with Emily and Dante, one of a half-dozen casseroles now overflowing Emily’s freezer courtesy of the ladies of St. Catherine’s Episcopal Church. Meanwhile, at our house, Ruth helped me fix dinner, or at least what passed for dinner those days: pizza. I dumped the ingredients for pizza dough into the bread machine, punched a button and let it do its thing, while Ruth kept her mind off things by chopping up assorted toppings.

After dinner, Ruth supervised bathtime upstairs, then picked up reading where I’d left off in the first Harry Potter. We’d been reading Sorcerer’s Stone to the kids for what seemed like ages-Emily thought that Goblet of Fire was too violent. Downstairs, Paul helped clean up the kitchen, debriefing me on the press conference Ruth and I had missed that afternoon.

“I wish there were more to tell, Hannah, but at least there’s no really bad news. Ron Powers reported that the Anne Arundel County police were still reviewing the shopping center videotapes.” He handed me a dirty plate. “They’re pretty bad quality, apparently, having been erased and taped over many times. Then the FBI profiler from Quantico made a statement suggesting that Timmy’s kidnapper may have no intention of returning him to us.”

“Oh, no,” I moaned, feeling the pizza turn over in my stomach. “Poor Emily. That news must have really stung.”

Paul grunted and handed me another plate. “Very disturbing. According to the profiler, when the victim is an infant, and the infant is abducted by a nonfamily member from a hospital or other location, not from a home, the abductor’s motive often is to raise the child as her own. There have been cases of women who faked a pregnancy, then stole a child in an attempt to strengthen a crumbling relationship with a significant other. And other women who have miscarried, then snatched a baby to fill the void of darkness and despair brought on by the death of that child.”

I retrieved the box of dishwasher soap from under the sink, poured some into the soap cup, twiddled with the dials, and slammed the door shut over the dirty dishes. “Damn! If that’s the case, how will we ever find him? Or her.” I’d been imagining the kidnapper as a man for so long that switching to the image of a woman was a major paradigm shift.

“Agent Crisp told the reporters that the FBI is checking hospital records,” Paul continued. “They’re trying to identify women who have lost children recently. At the press conference, Crisp urged the public to report anyone who has turned up unexpectedly with a baby, particularly if they haven’t appeared to have been pregnant.”

I grabbed a broom and started attacking the bits of cheese and vegetable scattered over the tiles. “It seems like such a long shot.”

Paul smiled grimly. “I agree. But the other bit of news is more positive. According to Dante, Phyllis Strother is starting a reward fund for Timmy’s safe return, and has contributed ten thousand dollars to kick it off.”

I dumped the contents of the dustpan into the trash can. “Paul, that’s wonderful! I take back every snide remark I ever made about the woman.”

“The bad news is that the cops are dead set against it, the FBI included. Ron Powers in particular is concerned that offering a reward will result in a flood of false leads that will take valuable time away from the search for Timmy.”

I began to work on the area nearest the stove. “But, Paul, only one tip needs to pan out! Just one! If a reward helps motivate somebody to turn in the kidnapper, then I’m all for cleaning out our savings account to do it.”

“I agree, and that’s what I told Agent Crisp, especially since Emily and Dante are so keen on doing it.” Paul gently removed the broom from my hands. “Sit down, Hannah. You’re sweeping the pattern clean off the linoleum.”

“We don’t have linoleum.”

“Well, sit down, anyway. Have some wine. Chill.”

I plopped down in a chair, folded my hands primly on the table in front of me, and asked, “How does putting together a reward work, exactly? We can’t set a table up in front of the Safeway and solicit donations, can we?”

“We’ve asked Jim Cheevers to help us sort that out. We need to make sure the terms of the reward are clear, otherwise we could get sued. It’s happened. Jim recommends setting up a separate bank account for the donations, which somebody outside the family will control, of course.”

“Do you think Hutch will be willing to do that? Ruth mentioned that he’d asked if there was anything he could do to help.”

“Did someone mention my fiancé?” Ruth asked, wandering into the kitchen and waggling her magnificent 1890s-style engagement ring in my direction for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

Without asking, Paul refilled Ruth’s wineglass and handed it to her. “We were wondering if Hutch might be interested in managing the reward fund for Timmy.”

“I’ll ask, but I’m sure he’ll say yes. Should I call him now?”

Paul nodded. “If he’s willing, please tell him that Cheevers will get in touch with him.”

“So many people have expressed concern over Timmy, Hannah. I know they’ll be willing to contribute,” Ruth said, digging in her purse for her phone. “That reward fund will go sky high!”

Paul set his wineglass down on the kitchen table. “That may be true, but Agent Crisp advises that we settle on an amount for the reward in advance and keep it there. Otherwise, we might have tipsters waiting around for a more lucrative offer before calling in.”

I gaped at my husband. “They’d do that? How appalling.”

Cell phone attached to her ear, Ruth disappeared out the kitchen door, slipping into the backyard and the cool of the spring evening. Paul barely had time to refill our wineglasses before she was back, smiling with satisfaction. “Well, that’s settled. Hutch will manage the reward fund.”

“That means a lot, Ruth. Thank you.”

Ruth joined us at the table. “I need to tell you something, Hannah. Upstairs just now? Jake asked me about the search for Timmy, and I didn’t know quite what to say. So I simply told him that the police were looking everywhere for Timmy and that we hoped his baby brother would be home soon.”

I felt my eyes fill with tears. “What else can we say? You did great, Ruth.”

We sat quietly with our thoughts, sipping our wine. After a few minutes I rose and set my empty glass in the sink. “I’d better go upstairs and tuck them in.” On my way out of the room I stopped behind Ruth’s chair, stooped, and gave her a hug. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help, Ruth.”

Upstairs, I found Jake already asleep, thumb in mouth, a habit I hoped he’d outgrow one day. On the floor next to his bed lay his blanket, all in a heap.

In the next bed, Chloe had pulled her covers up to her chin, and she appeared to be sleeping. But when I drew closer, I noticed her eyelids quivering. The little scamp was faking it.

I picked up Jake’s blanket and covered him with it. “Oh dear,” I muttered as I tucked the blanket around Jake’s solid, future soccer-player body. “Chloe’s already asleep so I can’t tell her good-night.”

Chloe’s eyelids flew open. “I’m not sleeping, Grandma!”

“So you aren’t.”

“Did I fool you, Grandma?”

“Utterly and completely.”

“What’s utterly mean?”

“It means completely.”

Chloe’s brow wrinkled. “So, I fooled you completely and completely. That’s silly.”

“I guess you’re right, Chloe. You’re too smart for me!”

Under the blanket, Chloe squirmed. “Will the bad man who took Timmy away take me away, too?”

I smoothed back her hair. “Oh, no, sweetheart. We will watch you every minute. He won’t get you.”

“Will the bad man steal Jake?”

“No, he won’t.”

Chloe seemed to be considering what I had said, then surprised me by asking, “Can I live with you forever, Grandma?”

“Don’t you think your mommy and daddy will miss you?”

“Mommy’s sad all the time.”

“We’re all sad, Chloe.”

“That lady was sad, too.”

The hair stood up on my arms. “What lady?”

“The lady at the ice cream store. She said I had pretty hair. She said she used to have a little girl like me, then she got sad.”

“Did the lady work at the store?” I asked, struggling to control the quaver in my voice.

“Nuh-uh.”

“What did the lady look like?” I asked, all the while thinking, This is ridiculous. Lots of people stop to talk to children in stores. I’d been known to make coochiecoochie-coo noises to children in shopping carts myself from time to time. Nothing unusual about that. But nothing about our present circumstances was the least bit usual, so I decided to press Chloe for information about this mysterious lady. “Do you remember what the lady looked like, Chloe?”

Chloe turned onto her right side, hugging her doll. “Like a lady.”

“Was she an old lady or a young lady?”

“She was real old, like Mommy.”

I suppressed a smile, hesitating to think what age bracket that must put me in, and moved on. “What color hair did the lady have?”

“Brown.”

“What color were her eyes?”

“Dunno. She had sunglasses on.”

“Was she fat, or was she skinny?”

“Skinny, like you, Grandma.”

The little scamp got points for that, at least!

“Who else was with you in the ice cream store, Chloe?”

“It was Ben and Jerry’s,” Chloe said. “I got chocolate with sprinkles.”

“Yum yum,” I said. “Were Timmy and Jake with you at Ben and Jerry’s, Chloe?”

“Uh-huh. And Daddy.”

“Did your daddy talk to the lady, too?”

Chloe’s head wagged vigorously from side to side on her pillow. “When Daddy brought me my ice cream, the lady went away.”

“I see.” I tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for telling me about the sad lady.”

Chloe hugged her doll tightly under her chin. “Missy is sad, too.”

I kissed my granddaughter on the forehead. “Good night, Chloe.”

Chloe thrust her doll out. “Missy wants a kiss, too.”

I planted a kiss on Missy’s porcelain cheek. “Good night to you, too, Missy. See you in the morning.”

I was halfway to the door when Chloe piped up again. “Grandma!”

“What, sweetie?”

“You forgot our prayers!”

In the subdued light from the bedside lamp, I hoped Chloe wouldn’t notice me flushed with embarrassment. “Silly me.”

I tiptoed past Jake and sat on the edge of Chloe’s bed, resting my hand on the quilt where it covered my granddaughter’s knees. “Let me hear your prayers, then, Chloe.”

Chloe squeezed her eyelids shut, laced her fingers together, tucked her hands under her chin and began to pray.

“Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me,

bless thy little lamb tonight;

through the darkness, be thou near me,

keep me safe till morning light.

And God bless Mommy, and Daddy, and Jake, and

Timmy, and Grandma, and Grandpa, and Coco.”

Chloe took a deep breath, then squeezed her eyelids even more tightly together. “And tell Timmy I’m not really mad at him for chewing the fingers off my Barbie. Amen.”

“Well done, Chloe,” I said, and hurried into the hallway so she wouldn’t see me cry.

When I got myself together, I left the children’s door ajar, made sure the antique Mary Had a Little Lamb nightlight was burning on the table in the hallway, then wandered downstairs, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. The woman who spoke to Chloe at Ben and Jerry’s could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything.

I rejoined Paul and Ruth in the kitchen and told them about my conversation with Chloe. “I think I should call Agent Crisp about this woman, don’t you? Especially in light of what the profiler said at the press conference this afternoon.”

“Absolutely,” Paul agreed.

“Do you think Crisp will want to interview Chloe?”

Paul nodded. “If she doesn’t, she’s not worth what they’re paying her.”

“I wonder if Chloe will be able to tell Amanda Crisp anything she hasn’t told me?”

Paul smiled. “The FBI has people who are experts at interviewing children, drawing information out of them. At least they always seem to do so on Law and Order.”

Ruth chimed in. “I’d mention it to Emily and Dante first, though. I’m assuming the FBI needs the parents’ permission when they interview a child.”

“Right,” I said. “And there’s always the chance that Dante himself noticed something unusual about this woman. He might not have been so blind as Chloe thinks.”

Once again I felt cold fingers of doubt creep along my spine. What if Dante had known the woman in the ice cream shop? What if he were in cohoots with her? I shivered and checked the clock. It was almost ten o’clock, time for Cross Current to begin. “Should I call now or wait until morning? I don’t want to wake anybody up.”

Paul scowled. “The FBI is working Timmy’s case 24/7. Why would you consider waiting even for a single minute?”

Paul was right, of course, and I was an idiot. While he and Ruth migrated to the living room, I used the telephone in the kitchen to contact Amanda Crisp on her cell phone and report directly to her what my granddaughter had told me. I detected a reassuring note of optimism in Crisp’s voice when she said that, indeed, the FBI had a child abuse unit specially trained to work with children, and she would encourage Dante and Emily to arrange for an appointment for them to talk with Chloe.

When I got back to the living room, Paul was aiming the remote at the cable box, scrolling down to Channel 4.

Aside from Erika’s interest in the program, we still hadn’t the slightest clue what the show was about. We’d kept the television turned off until the kids went to bed, so if NBC had been running any trailers about Cross Current that night, we’d missed them. Earlier, I’d checked the TV listing in the newspaper, but it provided no hints whatsoever to what person or institution Mitch Harmon would be skewering that evening.

Our wineglasses had miraculously refilled themselves, however, so we were prepared for anything.

Paul patted the spot next to him on the sofa. I sat there, curled my feet up under me, and endured the final five minutes of some ridiculous reality show before the Cross Current theme music began.

“Good Evening. This is Cross Current, and I’m Mitch Harmon. Several months ago we reported to you that the Internet has opened doors for pedophiles and child predators to enter, uninvited, into the privacy of our homes. Not only are children being lured into traveling to meet a person in the physical world whom they’ve met online, but pedophiles are traveling to our children! And it’s happening worldwide.”

Ruth groaned. “Pedophiles! Erika thinks this is the kind of thing we need to watch right now?”

“She’s a children’s rights advocate, Ruth. She implied that she has some sort of connection with the show.” I turned to Paul. “Maybe she’s on it!”

“Shhhh,” Paul ordered. “Just watch!”

I returned my attention to Mitch Harmon, as ordered. The reporter had a square face, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and a shock of wavy brown hair. At that moment his normally smooth thirty-something brow was deeply creased. Mitch and his brow disappeared, to be replaced by a slide show of men, all fairly normal-looking. The guy who changes the oil in your car. The teen who cuts your grass. The manager at the bank. Your next door neighbor.

In voice-over, Mitch continued, “So many children are at risk, that we decided to go undercover, filling an upscale home in a Maryland suburb with hidden cameras. Soon, a long line of visitors came knocking, expecting to find a youngster they’d been chatting with on the Internet home alone. Instead, they found Cross Current.

“To demonstrate the disturbing reality of what goes on in some chat rooms, we enlisted the help of volunteers from a vigilante organization called Predator-Beware. Volunteers of this controversial group are experts at pretending to be children online in order to catch and expose potential predators. One of these vigilantes is Debra Darden.”

A new face filled the screen. Debra Darden looked to be about forty, with close-set brown eyes and a cap of blunt-cut gray hair.

“Debra, how do you, as a PredatorBeware operative, go about catching sexual predators?”

“Well, Mitch,” Debra explained to the viewing audience, “it’s ridiculously simple. First we go into chat rooms, usually through AOL or Yahoo, and set up a profile of a twelve-, thirteen-, or fourteen-year-old… a profile that often includes a photo of a child who is quite obviously underage. Then we just sit and wait to be contacted by an adult.”

Somewhere off-camera another voice spoke low, as if reporting on a golf putt. “Tony thinks he’s coming to the house of a twelve-year-old boy whose parents have left him alone for the weekend. Tony has brought along a six pack of beer.”

We watched transfixed as a man who must have been Tony entered the kitchen wearing nothing but his smile and the six pack. Electronic fuzzing covered his naughty bits.

Ruth, who had been leaning toward the television screen, flopped back in her chair, covered her mouth with both hands. “Excuse me while I barf.”

When confronted by the Cross Current team-who thoughtfully tossed him a dish towel-Tony claimed he simply felt sorry for the boy and he brought the beer along to go with the pizza he planned to order. He’d also brought along some DVDs.

On the hidden tape, Mitch looked visibly pained. “And just where are you keeping those DVDs, sir?”

Suddenly, Mitch was back in real time, still looking pained. “Law enforcement officials estimate that fifty thousand predators are online at any given moment, and the number of reports of children being solicited for sex is growing.”

“Hello? Knock knock?”

I squinted at the screen, trying to make out the face of another man looking around, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot at the back door of the decoy house. He wore a track suit and a ball cap, its bill slightly askew.

“Roger thinks he’s coming to a house to meet a thirteen-year-old girl named Cyndi, apparently for sex.”

Roger? Not many men named Roger these days. The only Roger I knew was Roger Haberman.

I watched in morbid fascination as the man in the ball cap entered the kitchen.

A youngish voice off camera, presumably the decoy, chirped, “I’ve spilled Coke on my jeans. I’ll be down in a minute. There’s some chips if you want them.”

The man called Roger wandered around the kitchen for a minute or two, picked up the bag of chips and read the label, but didn’t eat anything. Perhaps the percentages on the nutritional panel had alarmed him. Roger put the bag down, then looked straight up into one of the hidden cameras.

I grabbed Paul’s arm. “Oh my God, it is Roger Haberman!”

Paul, who had charge of the remote, punched the volume up just as the real-time Mitch launched into: “Roger thinks the girl in this house is a thirteen-year-old virgin home alone and willing to perform oral sex. But like many of the men you’ll meet tonight, he’s in for a big surprise when I walk out. Some think I’m the child’s father, others believe I’m with the police. One thing’s certain: none of them knows our hidden cameras are recording their every move and they’ll be appearing on Cross Current.”

Back in the kitchen, Roger was stammering to Mitch and the hidden camera, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“And yet,” real-time Mitch said, “we learned that while Roger Haberman was living in California, he was twice convicted of a second degree sexual offense and served a year in jail.”

I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Roger? Eva’s Roger was a convicted sex offender? No wonder Erika had been so secretive about the television program. Erika served on the vestry at St. Cat’s. But none of that explained how she knew about the program and what her connection with it was.

Mitch shook his head into the camera. “You’ll hear more from Roger a little bit later. First, there are more men headed to our house. Meet VAguy 23458. In his online chat with Debra he said, ‘There’s nothing in the world quite like a teenage body.’He’s twenty-eight, and thinks he’s talking to a fourteen-year-old.”

Paul hit the mute. “This is simply dreadful. Does Eva know, I wonder?”

“She has to know, Paul. She’s been married to the man for over twenty years.”

“I mean, does she know about this program?”

“Surely Roger told her about the broadcast, and if he was stupid enough not to, I imagine she’ll know shortly. Her phone will be ringing off the hook.”

Ruth, a loyal parishioner of First Presbyterian, didn’t know Eva Haberman. “This could ruin her marriage.”

“Marriage? Ruth, she’s a priest. This could ruin her life!”

“Ladies! The show’s on.”

Mitch was on camera again, talking with Roger. “This is being taped for the record, you know, and for broadcast on Cross Current on NBC.”

Now that he knew the cameras were there, Roger tugged on the bill of his ballcap and turned his face away. “Oh, no, guy. No.”

“But if there’s anything else you want to say?”

Roger dipped his head. “Nothing.”

We sat in numb silence for the rest of the hour, watching Mitch and his crew nab a rabbi, a soccer coach, a pediatrician, a school bus driver, and a guy who worked at the airport for TSA.

“So what happens now?” Mitch was wrapping it up. “As they always do with law enforcement, the volunteers from PredatorBeware have turned over all of their online evidence, from the pornographic photos to transcripts of the online chats, to the Child Sex Crimes unit at the Montgomery County Police Department, which is actively looking at some of these cases. Predator-Beware has also posted the men’s pictures and entire chat logs, including their phone numbers, on their website, PredatorBeware.com.”

Jeeze Laweese! Would I have the stomach to visit their website and read the details of Roger’s chat with Cyndi? Of course I would, but I’d hate myself for it.

When the show was over and Ruth had returned to the home she shared with Hutch a few blocks away on Conduit Street, I rummaged in the kitchen cabinet behind the spices, where I’d kept my prescription medications since the grandkids came into our lives. I found one bright yellow sleeping capsule left over from my postreconstructive surgery. It had expired two years ago. I washed it down with a slug of club soda. It was the only way I could think of to get some sleep.