he park?”
They looked back at the Mustang.
“Not in the street,” replied Tom.
“Not unless it was a timed explosion. Half the neighborhood would have seen him peel away from the crime scene.”
“So he escapes out the back door and cuts behind these houses to here. There’s no parking on the road, but it looks like both the library and the church have plenty of space in their lots.”
Esme crossed the street to the library, but stopped at the bench. “The police report said that a city bus showed up about five minutes after the explosion was first called in. Interviews with the driver verify that timeline.”
“So you’re saying our guy escaped on the bus?”
Esme sat on the bench, and then very quickly stood, the seat of her pants now moist. “Damn it. No. I mean, yes. I mean, it’s possible. Isn’t it?”
“When you’re working with a blank canvas,” replied Tom, “anything’s possible.”
The streetlight by the bus stop blinked on. It would be dark soon, and cold. Tom and Esme walked back to the Mustang. She gave him directions to her father-in-law’s house. As they left the neighborhood, she turned around in her seat and watched the bus stop fade into the distance, and Tom watched it in the rearview, both of them hoping that there was a straight line that led from that bus stop to Marcy Harper and justice.
The candlelight vigil was very well attended.
Ostensibly, it was a spontaneous event. Word of mouth inspired acts of solidarity, and by 8:00 p.m. a swarmhad gathered in the parking lot of the strip mall where Baby Marcy Harper had been taken. Not many of the attendees actually knew the Harpers, but a missing child was the universal horror, and so everyone sympathized with the mother, razor-blade-thin Gladys, and the father, alcohol-dipped Harold. Candles were lit. Hymns were sung. Strangers were hugged and held.
The manager of the local Kinkos had made a blow-up poster of Marcy’s photograph. It sat on an easel under the strip mall awning.
From the outskirts, the media affiliates filmed b-roll. This had been a busy week for them—first the scandalous murder and now a child abduction. And not just a child, but an infant. This kind of kismet birthed national careers. This kind of drama led to Pulitzers. The reporters and anchormen and bloggers shuffled their ambition to the backs of their minds, where it remained, well-behaved and grinning. Of course, these journalists had as much compassion as the other attendees at the vigil. The other attendees, though, had Sundays off. The journalists, as they jostled for the prime footage, the most heartwarming interview, the pithiest encapsulation, were on the clock.
The mother, Gladys, smoked like, well, smoked like a burning house. She smoked Newports. She’d gone through half a pack in half an hour. It was her last pack. Soon she’d have to hit up someone in the crowd for a cigarette, maybe one of those journalists who interviewed her earlier. The least they could do was spare a cigarette. That’s why these people were here, anyway: support. Her child was missing and her box turtle had cancer. That was what she was doing here yesterday, why she’d panicked and driven to the vet and left her daughter in the car seat. She knew what the other mothers were sayingabout her, that she was irresponsible, that she deserved whatever misery she got, but Gladys had had that turtle since she was two years old. Growing up, her classmates had made fun of her because she had a reptile for a pet while they had their cute little kittens and loyal dependable puppies but those kittens and puppies died after fifteen years, and she’d had Rex now for almost twenty-five. So when she noticed the curlicues of blood floating in the shallow water of Rex’s terrarium, yes, she packed up Marcy and drove straight to see Dr. Hammond.
Now Rex was at home, convalescing, and Marcy was gone, and at that moment Gladys Harper didn’t know her left from her right and so
They looked back at the Mustang.
“Not in the street,” replied Tom.
“Not unless it was a timed explosion. Half the neighborhood would have seen him peel away from the crime scene.”
“So he escapes out the back door and cuts behind these houses to here. There’s no parking on the road, but it looks like both the library and the church have plenty of space in their lots.”
Esme crossed the street to the library, but stopped at the bench. “The police report said that a city bus showed up about five minutes after the explosion was first called in. Interviews with the driver verify that timeline.”
“So you’re saying our guy escaped on the bus?”
Esme sat on the bench, and then very quickly stood, the seat of her pants now moist. “Damn it. No. I mean, yes. I mean, it’s possible. Isn’t it?”
“When you’re working with a blank canvas,” replied Tom, “anything’s possible.”
The streetlight by the bus stop blinked on. It would be dark soon, and cold. Tom and Esme walked back to the Mustang. She gave him directions to her father-in-law’s house. As they left the neighborhood, she turned around in her seat and watched the bus stop fade into the distance, and Tom watched it in the rearview, both of them hoping that there was a straight line that led from that bus stop to Marcy Harper and justice.
The candlelight vigil was very well attended.
Ostensibly, it was a spontaneous event. Word of mouth inspired acts of solidarity, and by 8:00 p.m. a swarmhad gathered in the parking lot of the strip mall where Baby Marcy Harper had been taken. Not many of the attendees actually knew the Harpers, but a missing child was the universal horror, and so everyone sympathized with the mother, razor-blade-thin Gladys, and the father, alcohol-dipped Harold. Candles were lit. Hymns were sung. Strangers were hugged and held.
The manager of the local Kinkos had made a blow-up poster of Marcy’s photograph. It sat on an easel under the strip mall awning.
From the outskirts, the media affiliates filmed b-roll. This had been a busy week for them—first the scandalous murder and now a child abduction. And not just a child, but an infant. This kind of kismet birthed national careers. This kind of drama led to Pulitzers. The reporters and anchormen and bloggers shuffled their ambition to the backs of their minds, where it remained, well-behaved and grinning. Of course, these journalists had as much compassion as the other attendees at the vigil. The other attendees, though, had Sundays off. The journalists, as they jostled for the prime footage, the most heartwarming interview, the pithiest encapsulation, were on the clock.
The mother, Gladys, smoked like, well, smoked like a burning house. She smoked Newports. She’d gone through half a pack in half an hour. It was her last pack. Soon she’d have to hit up someone in the crowd for a cigarette, maybe one of those journalists who interviewed her earlier. The least they could do was spare a cigarette. That’s why these people were here, anyway: support. Her child was missing and her box turtle had cancer. That was what she was doing here yesterday, why she’d panicked and driven to the vet and left her daughter in the car seat. She knew what the other mothers were sayingabout her, that she was irresponsible, that she deserved whatever misery she got, but Gladys had had that turtle since she was two years old. Growing up, her classmates had made fun of her because she had a reptile for a pet while they had their cute little kittens and loyal dependable puppies but those kittens and puppies died after fifteen years, and she’d had Rex now for almost twenty-five. So when she noticed the curlicues of blood floating in the shallow water of Rex’s terrarium, yes, she packed up Marcy and drove straight to see Dr. Hammond.
Now Rex was at home, convalescing, and Marcy was gone, and at that moment Gladys Harper didn’t know her left from her right and so
Similar Books
