school. Lived only a mile from the Howrigans, but the two families didn't know each other. Dub had taken off around seven weeks later than Essie, in mid-September. To Mo, these two kids didn't fit the profile of probable runaways. The parents certainly didn't think so, and the local papers had made a thing of it for a while. In his file were a half dozen newspaper clippings, some about the disappearances, some about the community meetings at which dozens of parents had spoken about the "teen crisis," social fragmentation, erosion of the family, etc. The BCI school liaison officer came to talk about "normlessness," the current big buzzword at the Bureau. For all Mo's cynicism about the jargon, he tended to agree with what they said.
Mo checked his watch, closed his files, left the building. Outside, a breeze blew through the parking lot, carrying a chill as if it had blown off the ice-cube subdivision on the distant slope. He was glad to get into his car.
Driving to the town of Purdys, he thought about the case some more. The individual cases came together into a pattern in that the dates fit into two clusters. Mo had filled in a calendar, marking the days when Essie and Dub had disappeared, then shading in a band of days when it was probable Mike and Steve had gone. Essie's X fell on August 6, in the middle of the period when it was likely Mike had vanished; Dub's X filled in September 19, at the tail end of Steve's band. It was suggestive.
His next job was to explore the possibility of links between the kids. In his notebooks, he had started to draw a tinkertoy pattern, four circles representing each kid, with lines connecting them—knew each other, went to school together, friends in common, overlapping interests. So far, there weren't many connecting lines.
Today's interviews were the ones he'd decided were most likely to give him something useful: the families of Dub Gilmore and Essie Howrigan. These were parents who could be expected to know something about their kids' lives, who had demonstrated enough concern to call the police right away.
Mo checked the Gilmores' Briar Estates address in his notebook, found the number on a mailbox in front of a recently built two-story house, one with some architectural flourishes, stylishly faced in brown clapboards. Each tree in the yard was surrounded by a neat circle of redwood bark. When did that fashion start? More to the point, he wondered, when would it pass? A professionally maintained yard, a Honda Accord station wagon parked in the drive: Mo decided that the Gilmores were doing all right.
Before turning into the driveway, he glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes to one—he was early. It wasn't a good idea to be early for an interview like this, when families needed to brace themselves. He turned up the heater another notch and continued past the house, out the Lewisboro Reservoir Road, along the bottom of the reservoir.
It was pretty country up here. He remembered coming fishing with his parents to one or another of these reservoirs when he was a kid, and loving it. In the last twenty years, the landscape had changed as the commuter population burgeoned and old farms and woodlots were sold off as subdivisions. Yet on a day like today, when the bare trees were gaunt and dark, when the wind seemed to press the water of the reservoir into a flat slate-gray sheet, he could still feel the way it had been. There was still the feel of Washington Irving's Catskills here—hoary old woods, meandering tumbledown stone walls, dark, shingle-faced houses barely visible through the trees.
Mo checked the time again and pulled into a wide driveway to turn around. Two squat pillars of mossy stone flanked a wrecked car that had been placed to block access to the driveway, which rose steeply away from the road and disappeared into the trees. Another of the old family homes, most likely run on hard times, estate litigation, or generational transitions. By next year or the year
Mo checked his watch, closed his files, left the building. Outside, a breeze blew through the parking lot, carrying a chill as if it had blown off the ice-cube subdivision on the distant slope. He was glad to get into his car.
Driving to the town of Purdys, he thought about the case some more. The individual cases came together into a pattern in that the dates fit into two clusters. Mo had filled in a calendar, marking the days when Essie and Dub had disappeared, then shading in a band of days when it was probable Mike and Steve had gone. Essie's X fell on August 6, in the middle of the period when it was likely Mike had vanished; Dub's X filled in September 19, at the tail end of Steve's band. It was suggestive.
His next job was to explore the possibility of links between the kids. In his notebooks, he had started to draw a tinkertoy pattern, four circles representing each kid, with lines connecting them—knew each other, went to school together, friends in common, overlapping interests. So far, there weren't many connecting lines.
Today's interviews were the ones he'd decided were most likely to give him something useful: the families of Dub Gilmore and Essie Howrigan. These were parents who could be expected to know something about their kids' lives, who had demonstrated enough concern to call the police right away.
Mo checked the Gilmores' Briar Estates address in his notebook, found the number on a mailbox in front of a recently built two-story house, one with some architectural flourishes, stylishly faced in brown clapboards. Each tree in the yard was surrounded by a neat circle of redwood bark. When did that fashion start? More to the point, he wondered, when would it pass? A professionally maintained yard, a Honda Accord station wagon parked in the drive: Mo decided that the Gilmores were doing all right.
Before turning into the driveway, he glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes to one—he was early. It wasn't a good idea to be early for an interview like this, when families needed to brace themselves. He turned up the heater another notch and continued past the house, out the Lewisboro Reservoir Road, along the bottom of the reservoir.
It was pretty country up here. He remembered coming fishing with his parents to one or another of these reservoirs when he was a kid, and loving it. In the last twenty years, the landscape had changed as the commuter population burgeoned and old farms and woodlots were sold off as subdivisions. Yet on a day like today, when the bare trees were gaunt and dark, when the wind seemed to press the water of the reservoir into a flat slate-gray sheet, he could still feel the way it had been. There was still the feel of Washington Irving's Catskills here—hoary old woods, meandering tumbledown stone walls, dark, shingle-faced houses barely visible through the trees.
Mo checked the time again and pulled into a wide driveway to turn around. Two squat pillars of mossy stone flanked a wrecked car that had been placed to block access to the driveway, which rose steeply away from the road and disappeared into the trees. Another of the old family homes, most likely run on hard times, estate litigation, or generational transitions. By next year or the year
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