Noah's Rainy Day Page 7

“His hair looks like mine,” Officer Cheryl, the Little Lotta look-alike, said, handing the photo to the person next to her. “Only blonder.”

  Streeter was thankful for the example.

  The original TSA agent who bragged he never forgot a face said, “No one’s been through here today looking like that. But check with her.” He jerked his thumb at the TSA agent posted at the top of the up escalators. “I was stuck over here and I doubt whoever took the boy would risk coming back through security.”

  “What’s her job there?” Streeter asked.

  “Mainly to make sure no one goes down the wrong way on the escalator or into the elevator bypassing security to board the trains to the concourses. That’s where travelers coming into Denver depart the terminals.”

  Gates nodded. “Sounds reasonable. I don’t want to rule anything out at this point.”

  The TSA agent was persistent, pointing at the up escalators across the main concourse in the distance. “They either left the airport over there—which is where we post two of our TSA agents at all times—or they hopped a plane elsewhere without having to go back through security.”

  Streeter had already come to the same conclusion, but he could see how getting the employees to talk would help stimulate recall and discussion of earlier “odd” events.

  “There’ve been only two TSA employees working security on the discharge end of that escalator since the child’s flight landed in DIA. She’s one of them,” the TSA shift supervisor said. “Best bet is to grill her. She’d be the most likely one to see a snatcher with a kid, unless they hopped on a plane headed somewhere else. I’m telling you, that’s how I’d do it.”

  Gates looked at Cheryl and said, “This guy’s starting to think like a criminal.” Then to the TSA shift supervisor, Gates said, “Did someone screen you before they hired you or what?”

  The mood lightened slightly.

  Streeter said, “We’ve already lost six hours so we need to move.”

  “Tell her we’ll want to talk with her before she leaves work and after you get through with her,” the TSA shift supervisor said.

  As the photos worked their way through the crowd of TSA employees and officers and back to Gates, he said, “Case headquarters is being set up on the mezzanine level above the customer service desk near gate 56 on Concourse B. We’ll be directly above and across from gate B31, where the boy was last seen.”

  “Who’s cleared to go through security for this operation?”

  Streeter was pleased with the TSA senior shift supervisor, understanding quickly how he had earned his position.

  Gates turned to Streeter, a question in his eyes.

  Streeter said, “No one. Call Gates or me on every individual who claims to be working with this case. Even if they have a badge or credentials. Direct them immediately to case headquarters once we clear them.”

  “Clear my officers who are already here now.” Gates gave them a list of twelve officers who were on-site with Eddie.

  “Got it,” Cheryl said. “I know most of them.”

  “And Eddie. Chief Deputy Eddie Heisinger.”

  Streeter heard the buzzing of Gates’s cell phone and watched as he fished for his phone and looked at the display. “They found Kevin Benson. He came in on his own. BlueSky will be taking him up to our case headquarters. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “WHILE ELIZABETH AND I finish preparing dinner, will you let Noah stretch out a bit in the living room?” my sister Frances asked.

  “Sure.”

  I didn’t get to spend enough time with Frances these days. Not like I used to. We were inseparable. Best friends. In school, we were so close in age—nine months and a day, my dad always says—we were in the same grade. I was the jock, and she was the natural beauty men wanted to date and all women wanted to befriend. All of us Bergen siblings were close, but Frances and I were tight. Or used to be. Now she was so busy with everything—with work, with the kids, with Gabriel. With life. As a Hogarty.

  I unbuckled Noah from his blue, Styrofoam chair that was propped in the frame of the wheelchair and scooped him up in my arms, careful not to let Frances or Elizabeth see me flinch with pain.

  Damn, my rib hurt.

  With dinner nearly ready, Frances and Elizabeth made last-minute preparations while their husbands, Gabriel and Michael, worked on assembling the contraption my mom and dad had sent Emma. The bike depicted on the box looked like a police motorcycle with a sidecar that was big enough to slide Noah’s blue chair in it. Emma couldn’t wait to try it out.

  My sisters and I knew the drill well. The men kept sending Emma on missions to retrieve different tools because they didn’t want young ears hearing them swear every time they had to assemble and disassemble parts when they misread the instructions. And consuming vast quantities of spiked eggnog had not dulled their ability to come up with some colorful new word combinations. I truly hoped Noah wasn’t recording them with his new pin.

  Elizabeth stepped aside, watching me struggle with Noah. As I passed through the opening, careful not to hit his head or feet against the doorframe, Elizabeth commented, “That was a cool gift from Mom and Dad.”

  “Perfect,” I said, trying not to wince.

  “Emma’s going to love racing around the neighborhood in that thing.”

  “She’ll be the envy of the local kids,” Frances said.

  Emma was a good sister to Noah. A great sister, in fact. She had always been there for him. She understood him better than anyone did. She knew exactly what to say to him. She never treated Noah like a baby even though Frances sometimes made her change his diapers. Around her friends, he was Emma’s big brother and she expected them to treat him with respect. All they saw was how different he was. And when Noah took an occasional hike to the top of Mount Pity Pod, it was Emma who knocked him off it. Just as a sister should.

  “Heard you guys saw a mountain lion this morning,” Frances said as she and Elizabeth closed in behind me.

  Elizabeth was tiny, like my mom. Although Frances was shorter than me, taller than Elizabeth, she had all Mom’s beauty and grace. Even the scolding tone in her polite question was exactly like something Mom would say to me. She looked relaxed, with her arms folded loosely at her thin waste, her eyes soft with compassion and absent any judgment. Her hair was the soft brown of pine trees and smelled of woodsy vanilla, fresh and natural. Which suited her life as Gabriel’s wife, since he reminded me of the lumberjack character on the Brawny commercials.

  “And you got hurt?” Frances added.

  I groaned as I realized her request for me to move Noah was a test. Elizabeth unfolded the blanket in front of the television in the living room for me to set Noah down.

  Noah laughed.

  “You? Traitor,” I whispered to Noah, who stopped laughing. “Tickle torture for whoever told on me.”

  “Don’t blame him,” Frances scolded.

  “Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Elizabeth said, as I lowered Noah onto the blanket with a few expletives of my own. “Michael told me about how you slipped on some ice and broke a rib.”

  I paused, glad Michael hadn’t ratted me out. Completely. Noah giggled, knowing everyone was bending the truth.

  “But that sounded too convenient,” Elizabeth said. “So I forced the truth out of him.”

  “See? Tickle torture works,” I said to Noah, who laughed again.

  I noticed that both my sisters were now standing with arms folded, glaring down at me as they watched me struggle with Noah. They had allowed me to move Noah to test the extent of damage from my alleged broken rib.

  I stood up and took a bow and said, “See? Not broken. I wouldn’t have been able to do that. Bruised, is all.” Noah moaned. Leveling my gaze at Frances, I added, “I’m okay. Really. What else did Elizabeth tell you?”

  “That’s it,” Frances said.

  “Traitor,” I said to Elizabeth. “As is your hubby.”

  “Speaking of hubby, what
did Michael leave out of the story, CM?” Elizabeth said, her elfish stance as menacing as ever. The bright yellow and brown spikes of her hair were vibrating, which indicated her underlying excitement. Or anger at Michael for not telling her the whole story. I decided to cover for him, since he’d covered for me, by telling them we’d seen a mountain lion, but not the whole story about almost getting killed by the mountain lion.

  “Apparently he told you more than he should have. It’s not like I need a mother, so stop treating me like a kid. I was doing fieldwork, training exercises, and a mountain lion spooked Beulah, who got startled and pulled me off my feet. I landed wrong, my ribs are bruised, and I scraped my hands. That’s all. End of story.”

  Elizabeth jerked her chin at me with her arms still folded. “By the looks of your mug, CM, the cat used you as a scratching post.”

  “Pine needles. And quit calling me CM. I am not Critical Mass. Shit happens to everyone. Not just me.”

  Over the sound of Noah’s laughter, Frances scolded me, “How many times have I told you not to swear around the kids?”

  “Don’t worry. New Year’s is just around the corner and CM will undoubtedly pretend to work on that flaw of hers with her notorious resolution to stop swearing,” Elizabeth said.

  “Again? How many years has that been, CM?” Frances added.

  “Quit calling me CM or you’ll both really hear some swearing. I’ve finally gotten the family to stop calling me Boots and now you’re starting in on CM. What’s wrong with calling me Liv?”

  “Too easy,” Elizabeth said.

  “And what’s wrong with Boots? You are the proverbial ‘boots on the ground’ sort of person and I would think you’d take that as a compliment,” Frances said.

  “We’ll stop calling you CM if you quit yelling at us for calling you Boots,” Elizabeth offered.

  That seemed fair to me. I nodded.

  “And Michael’s cheek? The scratches? Are those from pine needles too?”

  I ignored Elizabeth.

  The roast in the oven smelled divine. I loved Christmas Eve dinner. And Frances was almost as good a cook as Mom. The screen door slammed in the other room. Noah’s body jerked, his uncooperative limbs pulling toward his core, his lips curling into a giggle.

  “Don’t slam the door!” Frances, Elizabeth, and I said in unison.

  Noah laughed. Within seconds the screen door slammed again and Emma ran back downstairs through the kitchen after retrieving yet another tool.

  We scolded Noah again. He never seemed to tire of Frances or anyone pretending to yell at him, as if he had just returned from outside, climbing a tree, or riding his bike, slamming the door behind him. These are things he can never do, only dream about. He’s all boy.

  He was still giggling as Frances stooped to wipe the drool from his mouth. Her knees cracked when she stood, which, for some strange reason, made him laugh even harder. Boys. Boys and noises.

  “What’ve you been eating, Noah? Is Auntie Liv sneaking you midnight snacks again? You must weigh at least forty pounds. That’s why your mom’s knees are cracking,” Elizabeth said.

  Noah was still. His mood had shifted. It appeared he took his aunt’s comment too seriously. I knew Elizabeth was joking but we all wondered how long Frances could handle Noah as he grew. Frances was nothing like me. I must have had at least forty pounds and three inches on her. If it weren’t for the Irish optimism and Norwegian stubbornness we shared, you’d never know we were sisters. Those two traits were instrumental in Frances’s steadfast decision to keep Noah at home, despite the experts’ unanimous recommendation to put him in an institutionalized home. Not a chance, according to Frances.

  And Noah worried about it. Worried about his mom. I had seen it firsthand. Like the time that lady in the grocery store had asked Frances if Noah was retarded. Frances had smiled and Noah had felt bad for her. It had been written all over his face and I had asked him later about it. He had always been an expressive boy. I, on the other hand, didn’t take the comment so graciously, remarking to the lady, “Not as retarded as you for asking such a stupid question,” which made Noah smile and Frances blush.

  Then there was the time that idiot substitute teacher at school asked Frances what she was going to do when Noah got too big for her to carry. What was she thinking, saying something like that right in front of Noah? She acted like deafness accompanied severe cerebral palsy or something. I was so mad. Noah was crushed and worried, refusing to eat for days after that, thinking if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t gain weight. Instead, not eating caused his blood sugar to drop, triggering yet more seizures. Some of his worst seizures. The grand mal seizures. His reaction to the comment only made things worse.

  Noah concentrated and rolled his eyes up to find his mom. I knew that look, the look of concern he had for his mom. He was struggling to bring Frances’s gray, shadowy shape into better focus with his good eye. He must have lost his contact already. Sometime between being upstairs with me earlier and now. Probably when Emma and I were roughhousing with him, during the tickle torture.

  I stepped in front of him and patted my belly. “Noah, tell Auntie Elizabeth that when you get as big as me from all my midnight snacking, then maybe your mom will have something to really complain about.” And I added a belch for good measure.

  The tension in his face drained and relief led to a wide smile. A squeal of delight escaped his lips. One down, one to go.

  “Nice, Auntie Liv,” Frances said, shaking her head in disgust.

  Elizabeth mouthed “Sorry” to me and Frances.

  There. The mood shifted back. All was good. Not a shining example of how I’d like my sisters or my nephew to remember me should I get struck by lightning at this moment, but at least it kept Noah’s mood light.

  “Come on,” Frances said to Elizabeth. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “I thought you said we were having cookies and eggnog for dinner?” I asked.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Figures,” I said, plopping down on the blanket beside Noah. “Probably something gross like a rare roast beef, fresh vegetables, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy. That junk.”

  Elizabeth called from the kitchen, “And when are you going to settle down and get married?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I protested. “And how the hell do you two always manage to slip that into any conversation we’re having?”

  “Don’t swear in front of the children.”

  Noah giggled at our bantering.

  I leaned down and whispered, “If I took you downstairs, I bet you could hear your dad and Uncle Michael swear up a storm. They probably won’t be done with your police motorcycle until next Christmas. If Gramma Bergen were here, she would have it done already.”

  Noah smiled.

  My redheaded niece had bounced back up the stairs and slid onto the blanket beside me, hugging me tight.

  “Ow,” was all I managed.

  Emma’s face fell. “Sorry.”

  I smiled. “No problem, Princess.”

  That got a rise out of Noah.

  “Shut up,” Emma said to Noah. “At least she doesn’t call me Peanut.”

  “Don’t swear,” Frances called from the kitchen.

  I whispered to Emma, “‘Peanut’ is a swear word?”

  Emma whispered back, “No, ‘shut up’ is.”

  “Whatever. Emma, is your motorcycle done?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but almost.”

  Frances called, “Emma, come set the table. Water for everyone, too, please.”

  “Cinderelly, Cinderelly,” Emma mumbled only loud enough for Noah and me to hear.

  Headlights swept across the living room wall from an oncoming car. Emma sprinted to the front door and bounded outside into the cold.

  I got up to shut the door she’d left open as the cold blast swept across the living room floor, chilling Noah. I saw a car pull into the driveway next door.

  Frances had
stepped up beside me and said, “That’s our neighbor.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “He’s creepy.”

  “Well, Emma just bolted out the front door and headed in his direction.”

  Frances’s eyes widened and she ran out into the dark. Barefoot.

  CHAPTER 11

  I FOLLOWED FRANCES AS far as the driveway, bringing boots for her to step into. It was below freezing.

  I could see the man in the glow of the dashboard lights and assumed he would roll down his window and talk with Emma since she stood on the other edge of the driveway waving at him. I thought I saw something move in the backseat, someone wave back, but I wasn’t sure. The windows were tinted and it was dark. The neighbor’s house and yard were dark, with no outdoor lights on yet.

  I was surprised he didn’t roll down his window and at least offer a holiday greeting to my niece. I was sure he would when my sister walked up behind Emma and stood with her. He didn’t. Nor did he turn off the car’s engine, or open the garage door with an automatic opener. Instead, he just sat in his car.

  Staring at Emma.

  All I heard was the engine idling. Then I heard Frances say, “No, let it go, Emma. Come inside. It’s getting too dark.”

  When we were back inside, Frances closed the front door and threw the dead bolt. “Em, finish up your chores for me.”

  “What chores?”

  “I told you. Setting the table and filling the water glasses.”

  As Emma stomped off to the kitchen, I asked, “What was that all about? The guy just sitting there.”

  “He just sat there?” Elizabeth asked.

  “And stared at Emma,” Frances added. “She said she ran out when she saw the lights of the neighbor’s car, hoping to see the girl again, find out her name.”

  “What girl?”

  “There is no girl,” Frances said. “Sometimes Emma creates imaginary friends. She told me earlier that she’d seen a girl her age with Mr. Fletcher, our neighbor. Emma said the girl had waved at her earlier.”

  “And there was no girl?” I asked, thinking I had seen something move in the backseat, but I know I wasn’t as close as Frances had been.