“Search!”
Yoda’s nose shot to the ground. She circled the playpen in an ever widening circle, then made a beeline for the patio doors. With Helm holding onto the leash for dear life, Yoda flew through the French doors and out to the patio. She was working fast, sniffing her way over the flagstones, along the path through the garden, across the lawn, moving in the general direction of the parking lot.
A half-dozen yards into the parking lot, Yoda seemed to lose the trail.
“Oh, no,” I moaned.
Barbara Helm slowed down to let Yoda work it out, moving her in a wider and wider circle, repeatedly casting the dog off to let her find the scent. Suddenly, Yoda hit it and was on the trail again, straining on the leash, her nose scouring the ground, trotting down the driveway that led to Kimmel Lane.
Although an officer had been sent on ahead to keep the reporters out of the way, at sight of the dog they must have surged forward because I heard Helm yell, “Get those people the hell out of there!” Yoda and her handler charged through the gates, turned the corner and out of sight, followed slowly by the K-9 van.
“What if the kidnapper was on foot, and took Timmy into the woods?” Paul asked Agent Crisp.
“It’s even easier to track in the woods,” Crisp replied. “And they’ve got their radios.”
Radios. Of course they had radios.
Agents Crisp and Brown excused themselves, leaving us sitting in chairs on the porch, the same chairs where just forty-eight hours earlier we’d been chatting and yucking it up, drinking iced tea.
Nobody spoke, sitting quietly, nursing their own thoughts.
As sensitive as her nose was, I was thinking, it would be something of a miracle if Yoda could follow Timmy’s trail along the miles and miles of road the kidnapper might have used while making his getaway. It was not outside the realm of possibility, though. I knew that from a program I’d seen on television, on the crime channel, maybe, or it could have been Animal Planet. Trails had been laid in a park, then a fishing contest was held. Over a thousand people attended the event, walking over the trails, driving their cars over them. Some trails were laid over water, and in some cases it had rained. And yet, even after all that, the dogs were able to track and find their targets. And they say animals are dumb.
“Scientists think the drool helps reconstitute the microscopic particles that drop off the victims,” Connie commented.
So, she had been thinking about bloodhounds, too. Or else she was a witch, reading my mind.
“Fingers crossed,” said Paul.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.
Suddenly, Paul stood up. The K-9 van was on its way back up the drive.
I sprang to my feet. “It’s too soon, Paul. They’re coming back too soon.”
“We don’t know that.”
“No, Hannah’s right,” said Connie. “They’re coming back way too soon.”
CHAPTER 10
Paul looked handsome pacing in front of the cameras, positively presidential. Wearing a navy blue windbreaker, open-necked shirt, and pressed denims, he appeared more put-together than any of the other members of my family clustered behind that bank of microphones, but it was entirely accidental, I knew, as he’d grabbed the first thing that came to hand in the closet that morning, not giving a moment’s thought to how he should dress for a television appearance.
It was 1:55 P.M. The press continued to gather at the end of the driveway in rowdy, fidgety packs. Standing on the sidelines between Connie and Dennis, I watched Paul turn his back on the crowd and speak quietly to Emily.
Dante was otherwise occupied, conversing in hushed tones with Jim Cheevers, our attorney, who had dispensed with his usual trademark tie-tropical fish and Disney characters were among his current favorites-for one in a somber maroon and gray stripe. Recently, Jim had taken over the handling of our legal affairs from our old friend Murray Simon. Murray had been summoned to Washington to head up a presidential task force on Hurricane Katrina relief. Judging from the number of times we’d heard from him since last fall, Murray might as well have been abducted by aliens. One evening I ran into Murray’s wife at the symphony. She’d reported a Murray sighting at Christmas, but other than that, claimed not to have seen him in ages.
From my vantage point at the edge of the driveway, with the branches of a forsythia bush periodically stabbing me in the back, I saw Dante’s hands flutter.
Cheevers nodded.
Dante raised a finger.
Cheevers shrugged.
For all I knew, they might have been discussing the plays of Monday night’s baseball game.
Without warning, an icy hand reached out and seized my heart, squeezing it so hard I could barely breathe. What we need is a publicity stunt. My son-in-law’s exact words, spoken only a few short days before.
Sweet Jesus. Was the success of Paradiso so important to him that he’d engineer the kidnapping of his own child? It was unthinkable! And yet…
“Dennis?” I hissed.
“Shhhh,” my brother-in-law hissed back, inclining his head toward mine. “I think they’re going to begin.”
They’d evidently been waiting for a signal from Agent Amanda Crisp, who emerged from the house and took her place to the left, just behind Emily. Next to Agent Crisp stood Officer Ron Powers. Earlier, Powers had asked if I wanted to be on camera, but I’d politely declined. I had no desire to appear on television-I looked like something the cat dragged in, for one thing-but there was a more practical consideration. If the press conference ran long, I’d need the flexibility to duck out unobtrusively and pick up the children.
That might be easier said than done. Cedar Lane, a quiet street not far from the entrance to Hillsmere Shores, was now parked wall-to-wall with cars, SUVs, and trucks. The overflow spilled onto Hickory and Pine. I was congratulating myself for taking the precaution of parking out on Edgemere Drive where I wouldn’t get hemmed in, when a hush stole over the crowd.
Paul had stepped up to the microphones. Speaking without notes, looking directly into the cameras, he began.
“At approximately one o’clock on Monday, May fifteenth, our grandson, Timothy Gordon Shemansky, was taken from his playpen at Spa Paradiso in the Bay Ridge community near Annapolis, Maryland. Timothy is ten months old. He has short red hair and green eyes, and was last seen wearing denim overalls, a blue and green striped polo shirt with a white collar, socks with Thomas the Tank Engine on them, and black and white tennis shoes. The heels of Timmy’s shoes blink red. If you see Timmy, or have any information about his disappearance, please call the Anne Arundel County Police Department or the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the number which is now showing at the bottom of your screen.”
At the mention of Timmy’s shoes, I reached out and grabbed Connie’s hand. I’d bought those shoes for Timmy, and he adored them. He’d sit in his high chair, pounding his heels on the rungs, squealing with delight every time a well-placed kick got them to light up. My heart lurched, remembering.
Paul turned and extended a hand to Emily, who slipped out from under her husband’s arm to join her father at the podium.
Emily was a mess. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lids swollen. Her thick blond hair-normally worn in a single, plump braid-was gathered willy-nilly at the back of her head and secured there with a large plastic clip. Strands of hair had escaped the clip and hung untidily over her shoulders. Had it even been combed? I doubted it. In spite of the warm afternoon, she wore a shapeless sweater over a pair of black jeans with frayed cuffs.
Emily coughed. She cleared her throat. With downcast eyes and her lips close to the microphone she began speaking quietly. “If you have our little boy, please bring him back.” Then she raised her eyes and looked directly into one of the cameras. “Timmy, Daddy and Mommy love you very much. I want you to be a brave little boy, to… to…” Tears leaked out of Emily’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She sucked in her lips and shook her head from side to side, unable to continue.