The Disappearance (7 page)

“I have a brief statement to make, but I won’t answer any questions.” He straightens his shoulders against the onslaught of emotion. “As you know by now, our daughter Emma—our only child—has been found dead. The police assume she was murdered. There will be an autopsy done to determine the cause of death.”

He pauses to collect himself. “My wife and I are in shock. I cannot begin to describe how deeply hurt and wounded we feel. As painful as our lives have been since the night Emma was abducted from our home, it is nothing compared to how we feel now, because until now we could hold on to some hope that she was still alive and would be returned to us. Now that hope has been shattered.”

He stops again, to pull himself together, as much as he can.

“I have only a few things to say. The police have assured me that the hunt for Emma’s killer will not diminish. Instead, they will intensify their efforts to find out who did this, and bring him to justice. In that regard, I am doubling the reward I offered last week. I am now offering half a million dollars for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of the inhuman bastard who stole my daughter’s life—from her and from us.”

A
woosh
rises from the assembled reporters and their entourages—talk about a story! This is going to flush out every weirdo and freak who envisions getting rich off a family’s grief. And it may even help in finding the kidnapper—half a million dollars will loosen a lot of lips that know secrets meant to be buried. Most people would turn in their mothers for a sum like that.

“The other thing I want to say is, now that this ordeal is over, my wife and I want to be left alone. I know that we are semipublic figures, and that we ourselves are members of the media, and that we are, and unfortunately will continue to be, news. But, please, folks—this is a horrible time for us. We ask that you act decently, and give us some space to try and put our lives back together.”

A few reporters, not heeding his entreaties, begin to shout questions at him. But he turns his back on them and goes into his house.

The television reporters, including one from his station, do their standups with the house in the background. Then they all pack up and leave, and the house stands alone in darkness.

The postmortem comes back two days later.

Glenna and Doug are in their house. Williams stands in front of them, feeling incredibly ill at ease. When he saw the coroner’s report an hour ago he couldn’t believe it, but Dr. Limones, the county coroner, assured him that there could be no doubt the findings were accurate.

Williams has the document with him. He reads from it. “Cause of death was from an object striking the head.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?” Glenna asks hoarsely.

She’s been up and around since yesterday, after she woke up, first from the sleep-shock of hearing the news, then from the sedative their doctor had given her, she decided she couldn’t keep doing this—denying what had happened and opting out from living. Now she sits on a couch with Doug, steeling herself to hear the worst. Emma’s dead, so whatever happened, it’s in the past.

“She had …” Williams pauses. “There is evidence of sexual activity.”

Glenna moans.

Williams looks pained. “But not necessarily forced entry,” he says quickly.

She looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“There had been penetration,” he stammers. He dreads what he has to say next. “The coroner’s conclusion is that the sexual activity … may have been consensual.”

Glenna goes ballistic. “Are you insane?” she cries. “She was fourteen years old! She was kidnapped from her bedroom! She’s only been having her period a year, for Christsakes! Let me see that.” She tries to grab the autopsy report from his hand.

Doug restrains her. “Glenna, don’t.” He looks at Williams. “Is this true?” he asks incredulously.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“Oh, man!” Doug pushes the heels of his hands up against the tops of his eye sockets. “This is going to turn the search for her killer in a whole other direction, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Williams answers truthfully.

“Doesn’t this indicate that whoever took her might have known her?”

“It might. It’s certainly a possibility we have to consider.”

“Oh, man, this is …” Doug doesn’t know what to say to this excruciating piece of information.

“She was sexually active.” Glenna’s dull voice pulls him around. “Those rubbers up in the gazebo. Someone was using them on her. With her,” she amends.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think her having been active has anything to do with the other,” Williams says.

“You just said …” Doug says.

“That it might influence the investigation? That whoever took her might have known her? It’s theoretically possible, but my cop’s gut instinct tells me it isn’t. I think this was either an act done by a sexual deviate, or a kidnapping for money that went wrong.”

Doug has been pacing the floor. “Who’s going to know about this?”

“That’s up to the district attorney. He can seal the report and keep it confidential. If he thinks that’s in the public interest,” he adds pointedly.

Ray Logan is the D.A. Doug knows him well—the station endorsed Ray in the special election that was called after the popular incumbent, Luke Garrison, abruptly announced he was resigning, walked out of his office, and disappeared off the face of the earth. Ray owes Doug.

“Anything else?” he asks Williams. “What about leaks from the coroner’s office? Or yours.”

“I’m the only one in my department who’s seen this,” Williams says stiffly. “And the coroner’s office is pretty good about keeping their mouths shut.”

“Good,” Doug says. “Because sullying her memory won’t serve any useful purpose. Someone out there kidnapped her and killed her. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Lancaster. That’s what this is all about.”

Doug and Ray Logan talk on the phone. Logan extends his heartfelt condolences. He hopes to God the police catch the sonofabitch who did this.

The autopsy report regarding the death of Emma Lancaster is sealed, in the public interest.

After the first few weeks, when no suspect in what is now a kidnapping and murder is found, the media frenzy subsides. Doug goes back to work, Glenna starts going out into the world again, they try to patch together the pieces of their splintered lives.

A few months go by. Despite the allure of Doug’s reward offer, there are still no legitimate leads.

The ongoing strain is taking its toll on their marriage. The knowledge that Emma had been sexually active haunts Glenna. She can’t stop talking to Doug about it. She tells him that not knowing about such an important part of her daughter’s life, when she had thought they were so close, so mother-daughter bonded, tears at her insides. And she can’t stop talking about her persistent conviction that Emma’s being sexually active was in some way tied to her abduction. In her wild fantasies, she tells Doug, she imagines Emma being a willing partner in her disappearance, imagines that the whole thing wasn’t a kidnapping at all.

Doug doesn’t want to hear that. He’s in denial about it. You don’t sneak out to have sex while two of your friends are sleeping in your room, then wind up being found murdered five miles away, hastily buried off a virtually inaccessible trail. This was a kidnapping, pure and simple.

More and more they find themselves going in different directions.

Sheriff Williams comes to the house on a Saturday afternoon after lunch. It’s a few days before the beginning of summer. Their gardens, tended to perfection, are in full color—the only brightness in their lives anymore.

The three sit by the pool. “So far we haven’t been able to develop any leads, nothing useful at all,” Williams tells them somberly.

Their faces register dismay and despair. “So her killer’s never going to be found,” Glenna says dully. She’s lost fifteen pounds since this ordeal began. Her face, although still striking to look at, is all bones and angles.

“Never say never,” Williams says. “Sometimes things come up. Later.”

“By accident. Chance.”

He nods slowly. “We can’t manufacture something that doesn’t exist.”

Doug sees him out. “Thanks for all your help,” Doug says.

“I’m sorry we haven’t done better,” the sheriff apologizes. “Truly sorry.”

“You’ve done your best. And like you said, something could still turn up. My reward still stands. Make sure people don’t forget that.”

The two men shake hands. “Good luck, Mr. Lancaster,” Williams says.

Luck will have nothing to do with this, Doug thinks. He keeps the thought to himself.

Glenna files for divorce the week after Labor Day and moves to a condominium on Butterfly Beach, near the Biltmore Hotel. They put the house up for sale. Doug stays in the house until it’s sold. The sale is finalized the week before Christmas.

Emma Lancaster’s kidnapping spawned a multiple tragedy: one life gone, two others ruined.

A year goes by. Whoever abducted and murdered Emma is still at large. No leads have ever panned out, no perpetrator has ever been arrested.

J
OE ALLISON, CRUISING DOWN
Coast Village Road after midnight in his Porsche turbo, is styling. Earlier in the evening he had dinner with Nicole Rogers, his girlfriend, a stunning woman befitting a star newscaster, who is finishing the last semester towards her law degree at Pepperdine, commuting down the coast to Malibu. Now, a Cohiba double corona in hand, the balls-to-the-walls twelve-speaker stereo blasting UB40, he’s feeling awesome.

The dinner was a celebratory event. A month ago, his agent negotiated a contract for Joe to be the 5
P.M.
anchor at KNBC, the network’s station in Los Angeles. This evening’s six o’clock newscast was his valedictory performance at KNSB.

Doug Lancaster joined Joe and Nicole for dinner. He was sorry to see his star anchorman leave, but Joe’s ascension had been inevitable from the day he started work at the station. Joe was going places, and Doug was happy to have been a part of it.

Joe’s yearly fee is going to start in the medium six figures, with a $125,000 signing bonus. And they promised him a good crack, down the line a year or so, at some of the network’s most prestigious showcases—the
Weekend News
, subbing on the
Today Show
, doing live remotes on the
Evening News
. Tom Brokaw called Joe personally during the negotiations to congratulate him on this upward career move, even joshing that he’d better start looking over his shoulder. Joe and Nicole aren’t spending the night together, as they usually do. That’s the only downside to his new job—she isn’t coming with him. She has a life here, and she isn’t ready to give it up. And he isn’t ready for that kind of commitment either. The career’s got to come first; the personal life will go on hold.

He doesn’t know how long the revolving red lights have been flashing in his rearview mirror. He hasn’t had that much to drink, but he isn’t confident he can go under .08 percent on a blood-alcohol test. You don’t need much booze in your system to test positive—he’s done many a news story on this issue.

“I’ll need to see your driver’s license and registration, sir,” the cop tells him, shining his flashlight into the window. The cop takes a closer look. “You’re Joe Allison, right? From Channel 8.”

Joe smiles at the officer. This might be a small pond, but he’s a big fish in it. “That’s me,” he says brightly. Tone it down, man, he thinks to himself, you’re giving it away. “I wasn’t speeding, was I?” he asks as conversationally as he can. “I’m usually good at staying at the limit.” Pulling his wallet from his hip pocket and handing over the driver’s license, he fumbles around in his crowded glove compartment for the registration. The light isn’t very good. “How fast was I going?” he asks again.

“You weren’t speeding, but you were weaving over the double yellow line. I’m going to ask you to step out of your car onto the sidewalk, sir, so I can Field test you for sobriety. After you find the registration.” A beat. “This is your car, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s mine.” He digs more frantically in the dark compartment. This is pathetic; he needs to throw three-quarters of this shit out. His head buried halfway under the console now, he continues his line of patter, speaking slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “I’ll tell you right now, officer, I have had a few drinks.” Cop to the small indiscretion now and avoid the larger consequence, that’s the smart strategy. His name in the paper or on a police report is what he wants to avoid. Not the best way to impress your new bosses down in Los Angeles.

“After the test, sir.” The officer’s right hand is resting lightly on his hip, above the gun. He’s beginning to get impatient. “Do you need some help?” He starts to shine his flashlight into the car.

“Got it.” Damn! He was panicked for a minute there. Bad enough he wasn’t driving a straight line. Not producing his paperwork would do him in for sure. Although in truth he feels his driving was fine, but maybe he swerved—once. He wasn’t paying attention.

He hands the slip to the cop, who looks it over.

“Okay. Now step out, Mr. Allison.”

Slowly, carefully, Joe gets out of the car. As he opens the door, the cop’s flashlight catches a reflection off something lying on the floor behind the seat.

“Excuse me, sir,” the officer says tersely. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Allison turns to look behind him.

There’s a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon on the floor. It’s half empty. “Turn around, sir,” the cop says harshly. “Come up here onto the sidewalk, and place both hands behind your head.” Keeping his eyes on Joe, he bends down and picks up the bottle. “Having an opened bottle of spirits in a vehicle is illegal, Mr. Allison.”

Joe’s startled. “Hey, I don’t know how this got here,” he protests. “I don’t even drink bourbon.”

“Do as I say.”

Joe backs off. How did that get there? “The parking lot attendant must’ve left it there, because it isn’t mine, I swear to God.”

The officer pats him down. “Please sit down on the ground, sir, with your hands behind your head.” He opens the passenger door, shining the flashlight on the floorboards and under the seats.