“Too bad,” the woman said. “It would make it easier. I know—I’ll check into Nina’s files. As soon as I learn what’s going on, I’ll call you back. Where can I reach you, Mr. Freleng?”
He gave her his number. When he hung up he made one last call: to tell the school neither he nor his wife would be working that day.
Helga was coming in the front door when he went out to the hall.
“The girls are on the bus,” she announced. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Just man the telephone,” Eric said. “I’m heading to the police station.”
He paused, thoughtful. “They’ll want a description. It’s too bad we don’t have a photograph.”
Helga went off to do her morning chores. Rachel came out of the music room.
“Eric, I’m going to drive around Columbus,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll see him. Or maybe someone will be able to tell me something.”
“Rachel, Columbus is a huge area,” Eric said.
Rachel shrugged, and Eric could see there would be no stopping her.
“Okay,” he said. “But I think we should have a check-in time.”
“Good idea,” Rachel said. “I’ll call here at . . .”
She looked at her watch.
“At ten o’clock,” she said. “That’s two hours from now.”
“Helga will be our liaison,” Eric said.
Eric and Rachel exchanged a quick kiss, then headed in different directions. As she drove away, Rachel tried desperately to call back the picture she’d seen during her dizzy spell. It was a skyline, and she knew that it was the place where she’d find Steven. Somehow, he had sent a message to her that he was in trouble.
Rachel recalled that he’d used the name Marty. Or had it been that? It had happened so quickly that she could easily have misunderstood him.
Maybe he’d said “Mommy.”
She pulled to a stop at a red light.
“Come on, Steven,” she whispered. “Tell me where you are. Tell me where I can find you!”
At home, Eric opened the door and headed to his own car. In spite of Rachel’s fears, he would cooperate fully with the police. Probably Steven would be found within an hour or two.
But deep inside, he sensed this would be far from the case.
30
LORRAINE STUMBLED ALONG as Trefill steered her up California Avenue. As soon as she was certain no one else could see, she stopped short. Trefill stumbled, then turned around.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not coming with you,” Lorraine said defiantly.
“Oh, yes you are,” Trefill said.
Lorraine swung her foot forward, kicking him hard just beneath his kneecap. He winced, then swung his arm back.
“You little bitch!” he cried. “I’ll teach you . . . !”
Lorraine’s scream was cut short as Trefill’s hand swung forward, knocking her to the ground. He stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to move. She didn’t. He’d struck her so hard that, for Lorraine, Atlantic City had ceased to exist.
Panicked, Trefill looked around him. The street was empty. He picked up the child and slung her over his shoulder. Then he went to find the rental car he’d parked nearby. He dumped Lorraine into the back seat and sped off. He’d head for Connecticut at last, where he’d find the people who were supposed to take Lorraine. Then he would complete his mission, and LaBerge would no longer be angry with him.
He heard a soft moan from the back seat and realized Lorraine was waking up. That was good. He’d been stupid to lose his temper. If his superiors found out he’d struck her, they’d dismiss him for certain. Not because they felt any concern for the child, but because they’d want her “undamaged.”
“Take it easy, kid,” Trefill said, trying to make his voice sound paternal. It came out more like a growled command. “Don’t get up.”
He looked into his rearview mirror and saw the child had pulled herself up halfway. Her head hung, but he could see the ugly bruise that was forming on her cheek. A thick line of blood was trailing down the middle of the child’s face. It globbed on the end of her nose and dripped a small puddle of red on the seat.
“Shit,” Trefill said. Then he said it more forcefully, slamming a fist on the steering wheel: “Shit!”
He couldn’t bring her to the people in Hartford looking like that. They’d ask questions. And Trefill had a feeling Lorraine wouldn’t need to be forced when asked how she got that wound.
He’d have to hide with her for a few days. LaBerge was already pissed as hell at him anyway. Let them think he was still searching. One, two days. . . until the wound healed enough to be hidden by her hair. He’d cut her bangs and . . .