“Oh, no! Is Megan all right? She spent the night here!”

“That’s what we understand. It seems she’s missing and we’ve been looking into some allegations about her father.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Tate Collier,” Matthews prompted.

“Oh, right. I don’t know him. You think he’s involved? You think he did something?”

“We’re just looking into a few things now. But I’d appreciate it if you’d tell your daughter she shouldn’t have any contact with him.”

“Why would she have any contact with him?” the edgy voice asked. How easily she’ll cry, Matthews predicted.

“We don’t think there’d be any reason for him to hurt or touch her…”

“Oh, God. You don’t think?”

“We just want to make sure Amy stays safe until we get to the bottom of what happened to Megan.”

“‘Happened to Megan’? Please tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t really say any more at this time. Tell me, where’s your daughter now?”

“Upstairs.”

“Would you mind if I spoke to her?”

“No, of course not.”

A moment later a girl’s lazy voice: “Hello?”

“Hi, Amy. This is Mr. McComb. I’m with the county. How are you?”

“Okay, I guess. Like, is Megan okay?”

“I’m sure she’s fine. Tell me, has Megan’s father talked to you recently?”

“Urn,” the girl began.

“You answer,” the mother said sternly from a second phone.

“Yeah, like, he said she’s missing and asked me about her. He was going to come by and get her book bag.”

“So he’s interested in what’s in her bag? Did you get the impression he was concerned with what might be inside?”

“Like, maybe.”

The mother: “You were going to let him in here? And not tell me?”

The girl snapped, “Mom, just, like, cut it out, okay? It’s Megan’s dad.”

Matthews said sternly, “Amy, don’t talk to him. And whatever you do, don’t go anywhere with him.”

“I-”

“If he suggests going away, getting into his car, going into his barn…“

“God, his barn?” her mother gasped. Yep, Matthews could hear soft weeping.

He continued, “Amy, if he offers you something to drink..

Another gasp.

Oh my, this was fun. Matthews continued calmly, “… whatever he says tell him no. If he comes over don’t answer the door. Make sure it’s locked.”

“Like, why?”

“You don’t ask why, young lady. You do what the man says.”

“Mom, like, come on… What about her book bag?”

“You just hold on to it until you hear from me or someone at Child Protective Services. Okay?”

“I guess.”

“Should we call the police?” Mrs. Walker asked.

“No, it’s not a criminal charge yet.”

“Oh, God,” said Amy’s mother, the woman of the limited epithets. Then: “Amy, tell me. Did Megan’s father ever touch you? Now, tell the truth”

“Who? Megan’s father? Mom, you’re such a loser I never even met him.”

“Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes. I’m here.” Her voice cracked.

“I really don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily.”

“No, no. We appreciate your calling. What’s your number, Mr. McComb?”

“I’m going to be in the field for a while. Let me call you later, when I’m back at the office.”

“All right.”

Matthews felt a cheerful little twinge as he heard her crying. Though Amy’s silence on the other extension was louder.

He couldn’t resist. “Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a gun?”

A choked sob. “No, we don’t. I don’t. I’ve never… I wouldn’t know how to use one. I guess I could go to Sports Authority. I mean-”

“That’s all right,” Matthews said soothingly. “I’m sure it’s not going to come to anything like that.”

“What if Megan’s mother, like, calls?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Walker echoed, “what if her mother calls?”

A concerned pause. “I’d be careful. We’re investigating her too… It was a very troubled household, it seems.”

“God,” Mrs. Walker muttered.

Matthews hung up.

What a mess this could become. The kidnapping had been so simple in theory But, in practice, it was growing so complicated. Just like the art of psychiatry itself, he reflected.

Well, there were other things to do to protect himself. But first things first. He had to get Megan to her new home-with his son, Peter-deep in the mountains.

Matthews returned to the Mercedes. He pulled back onto the highway, noting that the white car was still sticking with him like a lamprey to a fish.

9

Amy wasn’t home.

Oh, brother. Tate sighed. Looked through a window, saw nothing. Walked back to the front door. Pressed the bell again. Standing on the concrete stoop of the split-level house in suburban Burke, Tate kept his hand on the doorbell for a full minute but neither the girl nor her mother came to the door.

Where’d she gone? Bett had said that they’d stop by soon. Why hadn’t Amy stayed home? Or at least put the book bag out on the front stoop?

Didn’t she care about Megan? Was this adolescent friendship nowadays?

“Maybe the bell’s broken,” Bett called from the car.

But Tate pounded on the door with his open palm. There was no response. “Amy!” he called. No answer.

“Go ‘round back,” Bett suggested.

Tate pushed through two scratchy holly bushes and rapped on the back door.

Still no answer. He decided to slip inside and find the bag; a missing teenager took precedence over a technical charge of trespass (thinking: I could make a good argument for an implied license to enter the premises). But as he reached for the doorknob he believed he heard a click. When he tried to open the latch he found the door was locked.

He peered through the window and thought he saw some motion. But he couldn’t be sure.

Tate returned to the car.

“Not there.” He sighed. “We’ll call later.”

“Leesburg?” Bett asked.

“Let’s try that teacher first. Eckhard.”

It was only a five-minute drive to the school. The rain had stopped and youngsters were gathering on the school yard-boys for baseball, girls for volleyball, both sexes for soccer. Hacky Sacks, Frisbees, skateboards abounded. After speaking with several parents and students they learned that Robert Eckhard, the volleyball coach, had put together a practice for three that afternoon. It was now a quarter to two.

Tate flopped down into the passenger seat of the Lexus. He stretched. “This police work… I don’t see how Konnie does it.”

Bett kicked her shoes off and massaged her feet. “Wish I’d worn comfy boots, like you.” Then she glanced toward the school. “Look,” she said.

When they’d been married Bett assumed that he knew exactly what she was thinking or talking about. She’d often communicate with a cryptic phrase, a gesture of her finger, an eyebrow raised like a witch casting a spell. And Tate would have no clue as to her meaning. Today, though, he turned his head toward where she was looking and saw the two blue-uniformed security guards, standing in one of the back doorways of the school.

“Good idea,” he said. And they drove around to the door.

By the time they got there the guards had gone inside. Bett and Tate parked and walked inside the school. The halls had that smell of all high schools-sweat, lab gas, disinfectant, paste.

Tate laughed to himself at the instinctive uneasiness he felt being here. Class work had come easily to him but he’d spent his hours and effort on Debate Club and the teachers were forever booting him into detention hall for skipped classes or missing homework. That he would pause at the door on the way out of class and resonantly quote Cicero or John Calhoun to his teacher didn’t help his academic record any, of course.

The security offices in Megan’s school were small cubicles of carpeted partitions near the gym.

One guard, a crew-cut boy with half-mast eyelids, wearing a perfectly pressed uniform, listened unemotionally to Tate’s story. He adjusted his glistening black billy club.