Bianca nods. We walk out of the room and cross the wing to Caleb’s room again.
“Is everything alright?” Kendra asks. “What’s happening?”
“Gloria Hernandez is here. She’s alive.”
“Oh, thank God,” Kendra gasps, pressing her hand to her heart. “Where was she? Where’d they find her?”
“We didn’t find her. She escaped. Kendra, I need you to think about what the doctors have told you about Caleb’s condition. Did they mention any injuries like cuts or scrapes?”
“He had a few on his arms and legs. But his hands.” She turns one of his hands over in her palm and strokes it with her fingertips. “They were full of splinters.”
“He was kept there, too,” I say.
“Kept where?” Kendra asks.
“Gloria was able to give us some information about where the kidnapper brought her. It seems they were kept in a treehouse. Does that sound familiar?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know of any treehouse that’s not in somebody’s backyard.”
“Okay. If you can think of anything else, call me,” Sam says.
We head out of the room, and my phone rings as we ride the elevator down.
“Eric?” I answer. “Did you find out who that email belongs to?”
“Yes. In a way,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
We hurry across the parking lot and get into Sam’s car.
“It seems to be a burner email. It was only registered a few days ago, and the only activity has been that one email.”
“What’s the name that registered it?” I ask.
“Samuel Johnson.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
My head swims, and I can hear blood rushing in my ears. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to take deep breaths to keep my stomach settled.
“Emma? Emma, it’s not him. You know it’s not him,” Eric says.
“I know,” I manage to get out. “It’s just bad memories.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” he asks.
“No. Thank you.”
I hang up and look over at Sam.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“The email address that sent that clue to Vincent this morning is registered to you,” I tell him.
His eyes widened, and his face goes dark.
“Emma, you know…”
“I know it wasn’t you,” I tell him. “You were with me when a lot of this was happening. This person is taunting you. They’re calling you out. Something else is going to happen, and we need to figure it out before it does.”
“As soon as the doctors will let her, we will take Gloria out and have her show us to this treehouse.” He hesitates for a second. “The handwriting on those affirmations Bianca showed us. You saw it, too.”
“It’s the same as the clues,” I confirm.
“But the pastor was with Bianca when Gloria was taken from the community center,” he points out.
“No. Bianca was in the meditation garden. We don’t know where Pastor Robins was.”
Sam looks at me with eyes that hope I have more to say, but I don’t.
* * *
We have to wait two more hours before the doctor clears Gloria to come with us. I’m nervous as we get into the car with her. She’s still very young, and children, especially children who went through an emotional and physical trauma like being kidnapped and held for two days, aren’t known for being especially reliable.
Sometimes they are able to do incredible things and remember every single detail about what happened. But sometimes they get fundamental things wrong. Mary Katherine Smart watched her sister Elizabeth be abducted, but later described the man to the police with completely incorrect details, from the color he was wearing to saying he had on a golf hat. But in the end, they found Elizabeth, so I have to have as much faith in Gloria as I can.
The path she takes us on is long and winding, starting at her house and leading us backwards along the way she came. It takes us deep into the woods more than half a mile from her neighborhood and then through the trees, thorns, and thick brush. There are many times when she stops and looks around like she’s not sure where she is or what she’s supposed to do next. I can’t push her. Sam is there beside her, and she’s trusting him, one hand tucked inside his as we walk.
Bianca agreed to stay with one of the cars securing the entrance to the woods and wait for us. Sam didn’t want too many people muddying the waters of Gloria’s thoughts or making her nervous. As vital as it is for children to be protected and advocated for in difficult situations, it’s also a reality that most respond better and are more willing to open up when they don’t have the pressure of a parent right there.
Finally, she stops. Her empty hand lifts, trembling as she points ahead of us.
“There,” she says.
I follow her finger and see the dark form of an old treehouse built into the frame of several thick oak branches several yards away. Sam reaches for his gun and hands Gloria behind him to me.
“Stay with Emma, okay? If she tells you to run, you need to do what she says.”
Gloria nods and backs up to me. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, so she feels surrounded by me. Holding his weapon ready in front of him, Sam approaches the treehouse. He demands anyone inside to announce themselves. There’s only silence.
He shouts again. When there’s no movement or response, he puts his gun away and climbs up the pieces of wood nailed into the side of the tree, just like Gloria described. Pulling himself up onto the small platform in front of the door, Sam puts one hand on his gun again and uses the other to turn the knob. My arms tighten around Gloria as he throws open the door and draws his gun in the same movement. He pauses, then steps inside. An instant later, he emerges again.
“It’s empty,” he calls down.
He takes out his radio and calls for some of the officers at the edge of the woods to come in. They will take Gloria to Bianca, then bring both of them back to the station for some more questions while we examine the treehouse and the surrounding area.
When Gloria is safely gone, I climb up into the treehouse. The wood of the steps presses into my hands, and when I grab for the edge of the platform, I feel the slice of a splinter sliding into my skin. It makes me think of the children and what they went through right here. A treehouse is supposed to be fun, an escape into their own world where they can play and think, imagine, and relax. It’s not supposed to be a place of terror and isolation.
I get inside the treehouse and look around. The floor of one corner is scattered with papers, pens, and crayons. Without touching any of them, I look down at the papers and see what the children drew and wrote.
Help me.
Dear Mama.
Caleb was here.
Sam points out empty water bottles and bags of snacks in another corner.
“There isn’t enough here for it to be from all the children,” he notes. “The kidnapper must have cleaned up after each child and prepared for the next one.”
“Why? What would be the point of that? If they’re going to hold these children captive and eventually kill them, why try to make them comfortable?” I ask.
“So, they will last longer?”
Hanging on one wall, I see the chalkboard Gloria described. On the car ride over, she told us it was like one a friend of hers had in her treehouse. They used it to play school. The thought runs through my mind that this one looks like it was once used for the same purpose. Then I realize what I’m looking at, and my heart drops.