“I have no problem being the bully.”
“That’s our story. I wanted to drive to Champaign. But I saw the YouTube video and am terribly embarrassed, and you said the last thing I needed was to show up there and have the attention focus on me. So you’re driving me to a halfway point—let’s say Paducah—and we will head to Champaign as soon as there’s confirmation of anything.”
Roxy nodded with appreciation.
“Give me your phone. The text is going to come from you.”
“Throw in a few F-bombs to make it seem authentic,” she suggested.
I sent a group text to Tom, Kate, and Stella.
It only took a minute for Roxy’s phone to ring with my husband’s number displayed in red.
“You have to answer it.”
Roxy picked up the phone. “Hi, Tommy. Yes, we’re fine. Yes, she’s fine. She’s right here with me. She’s tired and scared and embarrassed and a little sick to her stomach. We’re in Paducah. It was my call; it’s a good place to wait. No, we’re not going to Little Rock. No, we never went to Little Rock in the first place, but that’s a conversation to have with your wife when she’s feeling up to it.”
I watched as Roxy listened for a while, her face finally wrinkling in annoyance. “Yes, we’ve seen the news. We had no idea we were being recorded in that basement. Lynn’s taking it hard. Real hard. Uh-huh. Yes. Uh-huh. She wanted to come to Champaign this morning, but she doesn’t need to be anywhere where there’s going to be cameras. You tell Anne that her momma is close by and will be there in a heartbeat if you get confirmation— Yes, Tom, I am aware of how far Paducah is from Champaign, you’re going to have to handle this until there comes a point when we need to get there. Uh-huh. She knows it, Tom. She hates to be away from Anne. Listen, I love you like a brother and I hate that this is happening, but you are getting on my nerves so I’m going to go.”
Roxy hung up and sighed. “He is so used to everyone doing what he says, he can be a real pain.”
“Did he buy it?”
“He actually said it was a good idea. He’s used to you handling all the family drama stuff. He knows how to bark orders, not how to calm Anne when she’s upset. So as long as there’s no word on William, and Anne holds it together, we’ll be OK.”
“What did he say the FBI were doing?”
Roxy gave me a worried glance. “It’s not pretty. The media is going nuts. That’s why Tom thinks it’s wise you’re staying back for now. They caught the other woman, I can’t remember her name. The one who brought you down to Murfreesboro.”
“Barbara.”
“She and Dr. Richards are being kept in complete isolation. His house in Illinois is blocked off with police tape, and the agents are scouring it. They’re giving Tom and Chris and Anne hourly briefings, but they haven’t come up with anything yet, besides the discovery of pajamas. Lynn, if they found what they think are William’s clothes….”
“They could be manufacturing all of it. You didn’t ride in the car with the agent. She was very clear about how far they would go.”
“But why, Lynn? Why do all this? What does the FBI gain? What does anyone gain by framing the wrong guy?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea. Maybe they look bad because they haven’t found the person responsible? Maybe… they’re covering something up.”
Roxy gave an exasperated sigh. “OK, sorry for that. But come on—”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore.” I leaned my head against the strap of the seatbelt while watching the bleak landscape rush by. “Look for Route 50 and take it west.”
We expected the ease of the Smokies. Like many Tennesseans, we’d breezed past the goofy golf courses and Dollywood attractions of Gatlinburg in order to climb through the mountains to get to the Biltmore Estate on the other side. We’d laughed nervously when the air became crisper, and sighed with relief at the decline towards North Carolina, slightly embarrassed that we’d been anxious at all to travel through the mountain range.
The Rockies, however, were like arrogant giants, towering above in annoyance at the vehicles scurrying up the highways crisscrossing through the peaks, like ants crawling up their pants legs. I’d never seen such white, even having lived through the bitter winters of central Illinois and the occasional whiteouts in Tennessee. But here, everything was blanketed in it: the earth, the mountain peaks, the miles and miles of evergreens scouring the valleys. I was grateful for the sunglasses. If I didn’t have them, even the deep crow’s feet around my eyes would be weary from my squinting.
The further we drove, the whiter Roxy’s knuckles became as she gripped the steering wheel, asking every five minutes if our exit was coming up. Even as we approached hour five, I didn’t mind the repeated questions. I couldn’t imagine making the harrowing drive alone.
I looked down at my phone, hovering my thumb back and forth over the voice mail icon. I finally touched it, and a row of messages appeared, most from Tom, several from Stella, and the most recent from Kate, from just a few moments ago. I’ll start with hers and work my way down. I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Mom. We are all worried sick. Dad just told me that you were in Paducah with Roxy. Please just stay there for now. I’m really worried that you’ll try to find those people. Those… Researchers, or whatever they’re called.
“Mom, I hate to leave this on a voice message, but you cannot talk to them again. I know some part of you thinks they want to help you; that maybe this Steven Richards wants to help you. He does not. They do not. They are crazy. Steven Richards had maps of our property. The FBI says he hates Dad. Do not speak to these people. Do not promise them anything. We can handle the fallout from the video. We can say you were desperate. No one will judge you. But we have to make sure the story is about William from here on out. If you get in touch with these people again, all the public will ever hear about is how you believe in—I can’t even say it. It’s going to be plastered on every tabloid. It will be the top story on every website. But it’s a twenty-four hour news cycle. The video story will pass as long as you never have anything to do with them again. Please, Mom. Whatever you’ve done, call me. Please, Mom, just call—”
I hit end and turned off the phone.
Roxy endured the silence for a few moments. “I keep telling myself, ‘It will be easier going down. It will be easier going down.’ We have to be close now. Tell me again what I’m looking for?”
“The man at the counter said it is either in San Juan or Hinsdale county—”
“The least populated counties in Colorado, according to that charming fact from Google. It has the fewest roads, the fewest people. It sounds delightful.”
“Look, San Juan County. That exit,” I pointed.
Roxy exhaled loudly as we veered onto an exit ramp and were immediately surrounded by pine trees. The suburban started crunching over hundreds of fallen pinecones. The ramp rambled down to a road without a sign. One way led back onto the highway, the other curved into the trees.
“When is this snowstorm supposed to start?” she asked.
“I’m trying not to think about that.”
“We’re going five miles—tops—and if there’s no sign of where we are, we’re turning around.”
We surpassed five miles, then ten, then fifteen. I hoped Roxy wasn’t watching the odometer as closely as I was.
“Thank you, Jesus, there’s a gas station,” she said. “And don’t think I don’t know we’re well past five miles.”
We parked next to an ancient pump and stepped out to the smell of fried chicken coming from a building covered in badly faded cigarette and beer ads. The smell was both nauseating and comforting, a reminder that the southern favorite was a staple of gas station fryers all over the country.