She walked at a steady rate, not with the frenzy of the ‘power walkers’, nor the idle stroll of the tourists looking for shells. She walked as if she were on her way to some place she had to be, but didn’t want to get to. The lifeguard paused in his chair unfolding and raised a hand in greeting as was the way here on Hilton Head, where everyone acted friendly, especially to locals.
Susan Golden forced herself to acknowledge the lifeguard’s wave with a flutter of her right hand. It was more out of habit than anything else, but years ago she had allowed herself to accept that habit was important. Indeed, she had built a large portion of her professional life on the principle that people were predictable.
Passing marker number fourteen, she turned right, heading inland toward the house she rented. As she walked up the thin concrete beach access path, she noted that the off-shore breeze had stopped and the air was still and hot. She too came to a complete halt when she saw the Beuafort County Sheriff's car parked in her drive. A young deputy was standing next to the car, looking decidedly nervous. His apparent discomfort paled in comparison to the surge of emotion that raced through Golden. He saw her and straightened, one hand unconsciously running down the front of his khaki shirt, straightening the folds.
"Dr. Golden?"
She could only nod at first as she struggled to find her voice. "Did you find him?"
"Excuse me?"
"Did you find him?"
“Who, ma’am?”
“My son. Jimmy.”
"I'm not sure—" he paused and regrouped. "I was sent here to escort you to the airport."
"The airport?" Golden repeated dully.
"Yes, ma'am." He awkwardly opened the door to his patrol car and pulled out a clip board, and held it out to her.
She didn't take it, afraid to see what was on it.
The deputy continued to hold the clipboard out as if that would relieve him of his discomfort. "It's a request from the Department of Defense. Asking us to help you get to the airport as quickly as possible. A plane will be there shortly for you. Apparently someone needs you."
Golden's shoulders slumped. A mixture of relief and anger replaced her fear. "Why?"
The deputy pulled back the clipboard and glanced at the faxed letter, and then shrugged. "It doesn't say, Ma'am. It's signed by a Mister Nero if that means anything to you."
"It doesn't."
Golden still didn't move as the deputy shuffled his feet.
"There's a number you can call?" the deputy suggested.
Golden didn't want to call but she knew she had to. It could be about Jimmy.
She took the cell phone the deputy offered and the clipboard. She punched in the number.
It rang once and a woman's voice answered.
"Yes?"
"This is Doctor Golden and I—
"Hold please."
The voice that came next wasn't human, that was Golden's first reaction even before the words hit home. The voice was metallic, words sliding over steel and adjusted to be legible.
"Doctor Golden, my name is Mister Nero. A young girl is missing and we need your help in trying to resolve the issue. The girl is Colonel Cranston’s daughter. Please go with the deputy to the airfield. There will be a plane there shortly to pick you up. All will be explained then. Thank you."
The phone went dead.
Sam Cranston. Golden remembered seeing a photograph on his nightstand. A young girl, pretty in a clean, freshly scrubbed way, slightly overweight. Golden felt faint and her body slumped, the deputy reaching out a protective hand, placing it on her shoulder.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Please stop calling me ma’am,” Golden said. “And take me to the airport immediately.
CHAPTER THREE
One of the children had spotted a snake earlier in the morning so the caregiver’s eyes were constantly going toward the line at the edge of the play area where manicured lawn met palmettos, shrub brush and pine trees. Cathy Svoboda hated snakes and she was responsible for a half-dozen twelve year olds who ran about the park. She was thin, in a nervous pale way, with dark hair cut short in the latest Hollywood fashion according to the magazine she bought off the rack at the checkout counter. Twenty-four, she’d worked at the Chez Petite daycare center in Enterprise, Alabama for two years.
Cathy was seated on a wrought iron bench, giving her a clear view of all six, the playground and the tree line. She kept bringing her left hand up to her chin, resting on it, then sliding a hidden finger into her mouth, teeth gnawing at an already chewed down nail. She was counting days.
Three weeks late. Twenty-two days actually. That she knew from the marks on the calendar taped to her old refrigerator. It was the extra math back from that marked day which bothered her. Mark, her fiancé, had done his reserve duty thing over a month ago, spending two weeks with the other boys pretending to be men. Mark’s friend Sean had shown up at her door with a twelve pack a day after Mark had gone off. She didn’t mean for it to happen. She could admit to herself now that she’d just been stupid and drunk.
She closed her eyes and her forehead crinkled as she pictured both Mark and Sean in her mind. They looked a lot alike. Same color eyes and hair. Roughly the same height. Could one really tell? She wasn’t sure. She opened her eyes and blinked.
How long had he been there? Cathy was startled, her eyes fixing on the man standing in the shadows under the wide oak near the swings. She didn’t remember seeing him before. He was looking at the children. The man wore a long black leather coat, unusual for the area and weather, and a cap with a bill pulled down low over his eyes, putting his face in a shadow. She should have been paying closer attention, she chided herself. Her head swiveled as she quickly did a visual head count. Her heart slowed toward a more normal cadence as she accounted for all.
But Brandon, the little tow-headed kid who always had to push things, was on one of the swings. Cathy stood abruptly as Brandon turned when the man said something to him. She began walking across the closely-cut grass as Brandon stopped his swing and said something in reply. The man knelt down so that his head was at the same height as the boy’s. He whispered something that Cathy couldn’t hear as she arrived. He put a piece of paper in Brandon’s hand. Cathy reached them and grabbed Brandon’s other hand, pulling him off the swing.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, staring at the man.
“I was just asking him if he liked his teacher.” The man gave a slight smile as he got to his feet. “He said yes.”
His face was scarred as if it had been head on in a wind of slicing rain. She’d never seen anything like it and she could tell Brandon was nervous. Cathy leaned over to pick up Brandon, thinking the stranger was—
Her thoughts stopped, as there was a glint of sunlight off something metal in the man’s hand as it flashed forward. She felt like she’d been slapped in the neck and her eyes opened wide as she saw blood on Brandon’s hair. Had the man hurt him she wondered? How? She hadn’t seen him touch the boy. She looked up — the man was gone. So quickly. Cathy blinked, hearing Brandon screaming as if from a distance, but he was right in front of her. More blood, soaking his blue t-shirt.
Cathy tried to hush Brandon, to calm him, but no words came. She felt sick, faint. Brandon fell backward into the sand under the swing, his hands up, protecting his face, both palms covered in blood, still wailing. Too much for a little boy, Cathy thought in panic.