Stride could imagine the phone ringing off the hook on the hotline. They had received nearly two thousand leads during the search for Kerry McGrath, placing the teenager everywhere from New Orleans to Fresno. With help from around the country, they had methodically sifted the leads by priority and tracked down each one. They all led back to the same place-nowhere.
"How about the pervs?"
Maggie sighed. "Five level-three sex offenders in the city. A few dozen ones and twos. We'll be paying a visit to each one."
"Okay." Stride felt a headache squeezing his temples. It wasn't just the lack of sleep, it was the bitter sameness. The disappearance. The search. The clues. He didn't know if he had the strength to do it all over again, or to face the possibility of another failure. This time, too, he would go through the hell alone. Without Cindy.
"Boss?" Maggie said, as he drifted away.
Stride smiled thinly. "I'm here. Look, if this girl ran away voluntarily, she had to have help. She must have talked to someone. You direct the search today and keep me posted on the cell phone. I'll go to the school and check out her teachers and friends. Let's see if we can find out what made this girl tick."
6
Stride had been at the school for two hours, and he needed a cigarette.
It was an expensive habit the way he indulged it. He would buy a pack, smoke one or two cigarettes, then get angry at himself and throw away the rest. A day later, he would feel the craving again and buy another pack.
The high school was prominently labeled a tobacco-free zone. He saw an exit at the rear of the main foyer, tucked between rows of fire-engine red lockers, leading to the back of the school. Stride went through a set of doors and headed for an empty soccer field across the road. He passed a teachers' parking lot and wound along the side of a separate building labeled as a technical center.
Stride reached the corner of the building and stared down at the deserted field, which was filled incongruously with dozens of seagulls. He extracted a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then slapped the pack until one cigarette jutted out from the others. He cupped his hands and tried to light it in the wind. It took several tries. Finally, the end of the cigarette smoldered, and he took a long drag. The smoke, filling his lungs, comforted him like an old friend. He relaxed, feeling some of the tightness escape. Then he coughed long and hard.
"Those things will kill you," a voice said behind him.
Stride felt guilty-a high school student again, caught smoking behind the school. He turned and saw an attractive blonde woman on a short set of gray steel steps leading up to the back door of the technical center. She, too, was holding a cigarette. Stride smiled at her, acknowledging their common vice.
"At least we'll die happy," he said. He took a few steps closer, leaning against the railing by the stairs.
"I keep wondering whether it's better to smoke or be an alcoholic," the woman told him.
"Why not both?" Stride asked.
"I've thought about that. But I haven't committed to either one."
She was in her midthirties, with a red fleece jacket zipped to her neck and new, starched black slacks. She looked like an ex-cheerleader, with a trim body, athletic build, and short, layered blonde hair. Her eyes were pale blue. She had a pert face, upturned nose, and cheeks that had flushed red in the cold air.
She looked familiar. Stride told her so.
"We met last year," she told him. "My name is Andrea. Andrea Jantzik. I'm a teacher here at the school. Kerry McGrath was one of my students. You interviewed me when you were investigating her disappearance."
"Was Rachel one of your students, too?"
Andrea shook her head. "I think she took biology, not chemistry. Peggy, the bio teacher, was telling me about her this morning. I didn't know who Rachel was."
Stride dug in his pocket for the crumpled piece of paper the registrar had given him, with the listing of Rachel's classes and grades. "You didn't have her in an English class a year ago?"
"That would be Robin Jantzik. He teaches-taught-English here. But if you really want to talk to him, I'm afraid you'll have to look him up with his new wife in San Francisco."
"Husband?" Stride asked.
"Once upon a time."
"I'm sorry," Stride said. "Would it help if I told you that men are pigs?"
Andrea laughed. "Nothing I don't already know."
She had a cynical smile, which was like looking in a mirror. He recognized the walls she had built around herself, because he had done the same thing. He could see it in her face, too, as he looked closely: the frown lines creasing her lips, the deadness in her eyes, the heavy cake of makeup trying to freshen her skin. Loss had taken a toll on her, as it had on him.
"Is that when the cigarettes came back?" he asked, making a guess.
She looked surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"I've been through something similar," he told her. "A year ago. That's when I started smoking again."
"I thought I had kicked it a year ago," Andrea said. "No such luck."
"Did your husband ever mention Rachel?"
Andrea shook her head. "No. English classes are huge."
"What about other teachers or students? Did you know anyone who might have been close to her?"
"You might want to talk to Nancy Carver. She's a part-time counselor here. She had a lot to say about Rachel this morning in the cafeteria."
"Like what?"
"She thought the search was a waste of time."
"Did she say why?" Stride asked.
Andrea shook her head.
"So this woman counseled Rachel?" Stride continued.
"I don't know. Nancy's not a permanent employee of the school. She's a professor up at the university and volunteers her time here working with troubled students. Girls, mostly."
"Does she have an office in the building?"
"More like a closet, really. It's on the second floor. But be forewarned. You carry a piece of equipment that Nancy doesn't exactly approve of."
Stride was puzzled. "A gun?"
"A penis."
Stride laughed, and Andrea giggled, and soon they were both laughing loud and hard. They stared at each other, enjoying the joke and feeling the subtle attraction that came with it. It almost felt strange to laugh. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he had relaxed enough to find humor in something. Or how long since he had shared it with a woman.
"At least you know what you're in for," Andrea said.
"Thanks. You've been very helpful, Ms. Jantzik."
"Call me Andrea," she said. "Or are you not allowed to do that?"
"I'm allowed. And call me Jonathan."
"You look more like a Jon to me."
"That works, too."
Stride hesitated and wasn't sure why. Then he realized that he felt an urge to say something else, to ask her to dinner, or to ask what her favorite color was, or to take the one strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her face and gently put it right. The power of the feeling suddenly overwhelmed him. Maybe it was because he had not felt even a glimmering like that in almost a year. He had been dead inside for so long that he wasn't sure what it felt like to wake up.
"Are you okay?" Andrea asked. Her face was concerned. It was a very pretty face, he realized.
"I'm fine. Thanks again."
He left her on the steps. The moment passed. But it never really passed.
Stride found Nancy Carver's office tucked into a cubbyhole, almost invisible from the corridor. When he poked his head around the wall, Stride saw a narrow door, with Nancy Carver's name etched onto a wooden block hung from a nail. The photos and brochures plastered all over the door were guaranteed to send school board members into hysterics.
There were magazine articles about the dangers of homophobia. Other articles, with graphic illustrations neatly scissored out, decried the prevalence of pornography. She had a brochure from last year's annual meeting of the American Society of Lesbian University Women, with her name highlighted, where she had been a speaker. There were also dozens of photographs of women in camping gear in the outdoors. Stride recognized the Black Hills and some wilderness waterfalls he guessed were in Canada. The photographs were mostly of teenage girls and young college-age women. The one exception, who appeared in most of the photographs, was a tiny, sturdily built woman around forty, with cropped berry-red hair and large, thick-rimmed black glasses. In most of the photos she wore the same outfit, a green fleece sweater and stonewashed blue jeans.