8

They were trotting through the rain to Tate’s black Lexus when his cell phone buzzed.

As they dropped into the front seats he answered. “Hello?”

“Tate Collier, please.” A man’s voice.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Collier, I’m Special Agent William McComb, with the FBI’s Child Exploitation and Kidnapping Unit. We’ve just received an interagency notice about your daughter.”

“I’m glad you called.”

“I’m sorry about your girl,” the agent said, speaking in the chunky monotone Tate knew so well from working with the feds. “Unfortunately, I have to say, sir based on the facts we’ve got, there’s not a lot we can do. But you made some friends here when you were a commonwealth's attorney and so we’re going to open a file and put her name out on our network. That means there’ll be a lot more eyes looking for her.”

“Anything you can do will really be appreciated. My wife and I are pretty upset.”

“I can imagine,” the agent said, registering a splinter of emotion. “Could you give me some basics about her and the disappearance?”

Tate ran through the physical details, Bett helping on the specifics. Blond, blue eyes, five six, 128 pounds, age seventeen. Then he told McComb about the letters. Tate asked, “You heard about her car?”

“Urn, no sir.”

“The Fairfax County Police found it at Vienna Metro. It looks like she went to Manhattan.”

“Really? No, I didn’t hear that. Well, we’ll tell our office in New York about it… But do I hear something in your voice, sir? Are you thinking that maybe she didn’t run away? Are you thinking there was some foul play?”

Tate had to smile. He’d never thought of himself-especially his speech-as transparent. “As a matter of fact, we’ve been having some doubts, my wife and I.”

“Interesting,” McComb said in a wooden monotone. “What specifically leads you to believe that?”

“A few things. Megan’s mother and I are on our way to Leesburg right now to talk to her therapist. See what he can tell us.”

“He’s in Leesburg?”

“His mother’s in St. Mary’s Hospital. She had an accident.”

“And you think he might be able to tell you something?”

“He said he wanted to talk to us. I don’t know what he’s got in mind.”

“Any other thoughts?”

“Well, Megan told her girlfriend that there was a car following her over the past few weeks.”

“Car, hm? They get any description?”

“Her girlfriend didn’t. But we think a teacher at her school did. Eckhard’s his name. He’s supposed to be at the school later, coaching volleyball. But I’d guess that’s only if the rain breaks up.”

“And what’s her friend’s name?”

He gave the agent Amy Walker’s name. “We’re going to talk to her too. And pick up Megan’s book bag from her. We’re hoping it might have something in it that’ll give us a clue where she’s gone.”

“I see. Does Megan have any siblings?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone else who’s had much contact with the girl?”

“Well, my wife’s fiancé.”

Silence for a moment. “Oh, you’re divorced.”

“That’s right. Forgot to mention it.”

“You have his name and number?” McComb asked.

Tate asked Bett, who gave him the information. Into the phone he said, “His name’s Brad Markham. He lives in Baltimore.” Tate gave him Brad’s phone number as well.

“Do you think he was involved in any way?” the agent asked Tate.

“I’ve never met him but, no, I’m sure not.”

“Okay. You working with anyone particular at the Fairfax County Police?”

“Konnie… That’d be Dimitri Konstantinatis.”

“Out of which office?”

“ Fair Oaks.”

“Very good, sir… You know, nearly all runaways return on their own. And most of the ones that don’t, get picked up and sent back home. A little counseling, some family therapy, and things generally work out just fine.”

“Thanks for your thoughts. Appreciate it.”

“Oh, one thing, Mr. Collier. I guess you know about the law. About how it could be, let’s say, troublesome for you to take matters into your own hands here.”

“I do.”

“Bad for everybody.”

“Understood.”

“Okay. Then enough said.”

“Appreciate that too. I’m just going to be asking a few questions.”

Good luck to both of you.”

They hung up and he told Bett what the agent had said. Her face was troubled.

“What is it?” He felt an urge to append a “honey” but nipped that one fast.

“Just that it seems so much more serious with the FBI involved.”

How foolish people are, how trusting, how their defenses crumble like sand when they believe they’re talking to a friend. And oh how they want to believe that you are a friend…

Why, if wild animals were as trusting as human beings they’d have gone extinct ages ago.

Aaron Matthews, no longer portraying the stony-voiced FBI agent, protector of children, hung up the phone after speaking with Tate Collier. He almost felt guilty-it had been so easy to draw information out of the man.

And what information it was! Oh, Matthews was angry. His mood teetered precariously. All his preparation-such care, such finesse, everything constructed to paralyze Collier and his wife with sorrow and send them home to brood about their lost daughter… and what were they doing but playing amateur detectives?

Their talking to Hanson could be a real problem. Megan might have said something about loving her parents and never even considering running away. ^Or, even worse, they might become suspicious of Matthews’s whole plan and have the police go through Hanson’s office. He’d been careful there but hadn’t wore gloves all the time. There were fingerprints-and the window latch in the bathroom where Matthews had snuck in was still broken. Then there was Amy Walker,

Megan’s friend. With a book bag that probably didn’t have anything compromising but might-maybe a diary or those notes teenage girls are always passing around in school. And this Eckhard, the teacher and coach. What did he know?

Reports of a car following her…

Much of Matthews’s reconnaissance had been conducted around the school. If the teacher had walked up to the car he might easily have gotten the license number of the Mercedes; Matthews hadn’t changed the license plates to the stolen ones until yesterday. And even if Eckhard didn’t think he’d seen much, there were probably some prickly little facts locked away in the teacher’s subconscious; Matthews had done much hypnosis work and knew how many memories and observations were retained in the cobwebby recesses of the mind.

Why the hell was Collier doing this? Why hadn’t the letters fooled him? He was a fucking lawyer! He was supposed to be logical, he was supposed to be cold. Why didn’t he believe the bald facts in front of him?

A dark mood began to settle on Matthews but he struggled to throw it off.

No, I have no lime for this now! Fight it, fight it, fight it…

(He thought of how many patients he’d wanted to grab by the lapels and shake as he shouted, Oh, quit your fucking complaining! You don’t like her, leave. She left you? Find somebody else. You’re a drunk, stop drinking.)

And closing his eyes fiercely, clenching his fists until a nail broke through the flesh of his palm, he struggled to remain emotionally buoyant. After a few minutes he forced the mood away. He returned to the phone and called three Walkers in Fairfax before he got the household that included a teenage Amy.

“Yes, Amy’s my daughter,” the woman’s cautious voice said. “Who’s this?”

“I’m William McComb, with the county. I’ve gotten a call from Child Protective Services.”

“My God, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing to be alarmed at, Mrs. Walker. This doesn’t involve your daughter. We’re investigating a case involving Megan McCall.”