Sheridan handed the battered photograph to her mother. The image of the two girls had been cut with scissors or a knife from a larger photo. Because of the clothes they were wearing and their formal smiles and the sliced-off heads, arms, and dresses of others who had been standing close to them, she thought the original might have been a family portrait of some kind.
There were two of them in the photo, two blond girls. They looked like sisters, but they weren’t.
The deputy said, “Do you recognize either of these two girls to be Vicki Burgess?”
Sheridan’s mouth was so dry she had trouble saying, “Yes. The one on the right.”
But it wasn’t Vicki Burgess’s likeness that had shocked her.
Her mother took the photo and her eyes widened. She whispered, “Oh, my God.”
Lucy reached up and took it from her mother. Her eyes moved from one figure in the photograph to the other.
She said, “That’s April,” and tapped her finger on the girl on Vicki’s left. “She’s alive,” Lucy said.
Her mom walked away, digging her cell phone out of her purse to call her dad.
Rangeland
Joe sat in the open doorway of the silent helicopter with his head in his hands. The parking lot and vestibule area were whooping with red and blue wigwag lights from the dozen PD and sheriff’s department vehicles that surrounded the death scene. Portenson was ecstatic, running from place to place, firing off orders, alerting the brass in Washington, D.C., what had happened, physically moving local law enforcement away from where they were gawking at the body of Robert in the reception area. Men and women from the midnight shift inside the plant had wandered down to the front as well and were being herded back toward the elevators before they could track blood across the floor.
Coon walked over and leaned against the aircraft next to Joe.
“I’ve got one happy boss right now,” he said. “Do you know what he screamed at me when we saw it was Robert inside the building? He said, ‘Hello, D.C.! Here I come!’ ”
Joe grunted. “Can’t say I’ll miss him.”
“Me either.”
A minute passed by. Bruises Joe didn’t know he had from falling off the dirt bike began to ache on his legs, ribs, and butt.
Coon said, “Should I even ask who it was driving the bike?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. Any idea which way he headed?”
Joe shrugged. Hole in the Wall, he thought.
Coon said, “You’ve never seen a guy more scared than that bread truck driver when we landed the helicopter in front of him on the highway. I think the bureau will need to pay for some dry cleaning.”
Joe didn’t respond.
“That was a pretty good trick,” Coon said. “You want your phone back?”
As Joe reached for it, the phone lit up and burred.
Marybeth.
31
Chicago
TWO DAYS LATER, JOE, MARYBETH, AND LUCY OCCUPIED THE middle seat of a black GMC Suburban with U.S. government plates as it cruised slowly down a residential street in an old South Side neighborhood. Sheridan was in the seat behind them. The street was narrow, the sidewalks cracked. Homes that looked fifty or sixty years old lined up one after the other on both sides of the road. Most had enclosed porches and neat, close-cropped lawns. Parked cars had Bulls, Bears, and Blackhawks bumper stickers. Towering leafy hardwood trees blocked out the sky. The morning was cold and dark, and the wind that had cut through Joe earlier while he opened the car door to let his family in reminded him that no matter how cold it got in the mountain west, it was colder and damper in the Midwest. Maybe, he thought, it was why they were so damned tough.
The Suburban was full of people. Coon sat in the front seat next to the Chicago-based FBI agent driver and the Chicago Police Department liaison. In the third seat with Sheridan were two senior representatives from the Illinois Child Welfare Agency. They’d introduced themselves at the airport as Leslie Doran and Jane Dickenson.
Joe was a red ball of raw nerves. He found it hard to let go of Marybeth’s hand in the car. He needed her; she was stronger about this. He wore a jacket and tie with his Wranglers and Stetson as well as a light raincoat he’d owned for fifteen years. Sheridan and Lucy wore dresses and tights, and Marybeth wore a dark business suit. Joe reached up and worked a finger between his neck and collar and tried to loosen it.
“This is exciting,” Lucy said. “It feels like we’re going to church.”
“Yes it kind of does, honey,” Marybeth said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sheridan said to Lucy under her breath from the back. “You should just stop talking.”
“Oooh,” Lucy purred. “Someone is very prickly today.”
“Girls,” Marybeth said.
The liaison, a beefy square-jawed man with gray-flecked red hair named Matt Donnell, winked at Joe and Marybeth with empathy that said, Been there, then told Coon, “We’ve got four cruisers in the neighborhood within a minute of the Voricek home ready to move in on my call. I doubt we’ll need them, but they’ll be ready.”
Coon nodded, said, “Good. Do we know who’s in the house right now?”
“Ed’s there. He’s a piece of work. From what we understand he’s between jobs again, so he’s home. His wife, Mary Ann, is always home. And we’re lucky today because it’s an in-service training day for the school district.” He raised his eyebrows.
Coon said, “Which means she’s there.”
“Should be.”
“Have your guys actually seen her?”
“There’s a girl who matches the description. We checked her description against the school yearbook. She’s there, all right. Goes by April Voricek. Problem is, there is no known birth certificate for April Voricek, and no legal record of a name change from Keeley. It’s her,” Donnell said.
Joe felt Marybeth’s eyes on him and felt her squeeze his hand.
Lucy said, “I thought Chicago would be, you know, big buildings. Skyscrapers and stuff like that.”
Jane Dickenson chuckled in the back seat. “It does look like that downtown, honey. We’re a long way from the Loop.”
“This just looks like houses,” Lucy said, disappointed.