office, checking my e-mail—and got no response, I began to worry. It was now nearly four, so I phoned Adam’s work again, though I doubted the campus bar would be open in the afternoon. Silly me. Of course it was.
When I spoke to one of the servers, I learned that Adam was away for the week. At some conference, she said. Which sparked a memory flash and a big, mental “duh!” I returned to my computer and checked my recent e-mail, finding one from two weeks ago in which Adam mentioned going with his parents to a conference on the role of glossolalia in the Charismatic movement. Not that Adam gave a damn about Charismatics or glossolalia (A.K.A. “speaking in tongues”), but the conference was being held in Maui, which had more than its share of attractions for a twenty-four-year-old guy. The dates of the conference: June 12 to 18. Today was June 16.
I thought about tracking them down in Maui. Neither Robert nor Adam carried a cell phone—Robert didn’t believe in them and Adam’s service had been disconnected after he’d failed to pay yet another whopping bill. To contact them, I’d need to phone the conference in Hawaii and leave a message. The more I thought about this, the more foolish I felt. Robert would be home in two days. I’d hate to sound like I was panicking. This wasn’t critical information, only background. It could wait.
Lucas Cortez’s visit had, in fact, prompted me to remember two things I needed to do. Besides contacting Robert, I needed to line up a lawyer. Though I hadn’t heard back from the police, and doubted I would, I really should have a lawyer’s name at hand, in case the need arose.
I called the Boston lawyer who handled my business legal matters. Though she did only commercial work, she should be able to provide me with the names of other lawyers who could handle either a custody or criminal case. Since it was Saturday, there was no one in the office,so I left a detailed message, asking if she could call me Monday with a recommendation.
Then I headed to the kitchen, picked up a cookbook, and looked for something interesting to make for dinner. As I pored over the possibilities, Savannah walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured some milk. The cupboard creaked open. A bag rustled.
“No cookies this late,” I said. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes? I can’t wait—” She stopped. “Uh, Paige?”
“Hmmm?” I glanced up from my book to see her peering out the kitchen door, through to the living room window.
“Are there supposed to be people camped out on our front lawn?”
I leaned over to look through the window, then slammed the cookbook closed and strode to the front door.
C HAPTER 10
H ELL H ATH N O F URY L IKE A M IDDLE-AGED M AN S CORNED
I threw open the door and marched onto the porch. A camcorder lens swung to greet me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The man with the camcorder stepped back to frame me in his view-finder. No, not a man. A boy, maybe seventeen, eighteen. Beside him stood another young man of the same age, swilling Gatorade. Both were dressed in unrelieved black, everything oversized, from the baggy T-shirts to the backward ball caps to the combat boots to the pants that threatened to slide to their shoes at any moment.
On the opposite side of the lawn, as far as they could get from the young cinematic auteurs, stood two middle-aged women in schoolmarm dresses, ugly prints made into unflattering frocks that covered everything from mid-calf to mid-neck. Despite the warm June day, both wore cardigans that had been through the wash a few too many times. When I turned to look at the women, two middle-aged men appeared from a nearby minivan, both wearing dark gray suits, as ill-fitting and worn as the women’s dresses. They approached the women and flanked them, as if to provide backup.
“I asked: what’s going on?” I said. “Get that camera—What are you doing?”
“There she is,”
When I spoke to one of the servers, I learned that Adam was away for the week. At some conference, she said. Which sparked a memory flash and a big, mental “duh!” I returned to my computer and checked my recent e-mail, finding one from two weeks ago in which Adam mentioned going with his parents to a conference on the role of glossolalia in the Charismatic movement. Not that Adam gave a damn about Charismatics or glossolalia (A.K.A. “speaking in tongues”), but the conference was being held in Maui, which had more than its share of attractions for a twenty-four-year-old guy. The dates of the conference: June 12 to 18. Today was June 16.
I thought about tracking them down in Maui. Neither Robert nor Adam carried a cell phone—Robert didn’t believe in them and Adam’s service had been disconnected after he’d failed to pay yet another whopping bill. To contact them, I’d need to phone the conference in Hawaii and leave a message. The more I thought about this, the more foolish I felt. Robert would be home in two days. I’d hate to sound like I was panicking. This wasn’t critical information, only background. It could wait.
Lucas Cortez’s visit had, in fact, prompted me to remember two things I needed to do. Besides contacting Robert, I needed to line up a lawyer. Though I hadn’t heard back from the police, and doubted I would, I really should have a lawyer’s name at hand, in case the need arose.
I called the Boston lawyer who handled my business legal matters. Though she did only commercial work, she should be able to provide me with the names of other lawyers who could handle either a custody or criminal case. Since it was Saturday, there was no one in the office,so I left a detailed message, asking if she could call me Monday with a recommendation.
Then I headed to the kitchen, picked up a cookbook, and looked for something interesting to make for dinner. As I pored over the possibilities, Savannah walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured some milk. The cupboard creaked open. A bag rustled.
“No cookies this late,” I said. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes? I can’t wait—” She stopped. “Uh, Paige?”
“Hmmm?” I glanced up from my book to see her peering out the kitchen door, through to the living room window.
“Are there supposed to be people camped out on our front lawn?”
I leaned over to look through the window, then slammed the cookbook closed and strode to the front door.
C HAPTER 10
H ELL H ATH N O F URY L IKE A M IDDLE-AGED M AN S CORNED
I threw open the door and marched onto the porch. A camcorder lens swung to greet me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The man with the camcorder stepped back to frame me in his view-finder. No, not a man. A boy, maybe seventeen, eighteen. Beside him stood another young man of the same age, swilling Gatorade. Both were dressed in unrelieved black, everything oversized, from the baggy T-shirts to the backward ball caps to the combat boots to the pants that threatened to slide to their shoes at any moment.
On the opposite side of the lawn, as far as they could get from the young cinematic auteurs, stood two middle-aged women in schoolmarm dresses, ugly prints made into unflattering frocks that covered everything from mid-calf to mid-neck. Despite the warm June day, both wore cardigans that had been through the wash a few too many times. When I turned to look at the women, two middle-aged men appeared from a nearby minivan, both wearing dark gray suits, as ill-fitting and worn as the women’s dresses. They approached the women and flanked them, as if to provide backup.
“I asked: what’s going on?” I said. “Get that camera—What are you doing?”
“There she is,”
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