do.”
“I don’t know where your wife is, man!” He pulled the covers up around his pale, concentration camp survivor chest and cowered against the headboard, trying to get as far from me as he could. “How would I know where she is? I told you. Get out!”
“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Preston, then I’m gonna take you apart, one piece at a time. Now, where . . . is . . . she?”
“I told you! I don’t know where she’s at! Dad! DAD!”
“This is definitely not cool!” Johnny said, bounding in with his wife hard on his heels. He was clutching a ski pole like a spear.
“You need to take a deep breath and calm down, Mr. Logan,” Gwen said with her palms outstretched, pleading. “Please. Before someone gets hurt.”
“My wife is missing and I’m wondering if Cujo here knows something he isn’t telling.”
“You have no right to call my son names,” Gwen said.
“Mom, I told him. I don’t know nothing what he’s talking about!”
I might’ve corrected him on his use of double negatives, but intuition told me that was the least of Preston Kavitch’s sins.
S TREETER ANSWERED his phone on the second ring. I told him that Savannah had disappeared, and that I was worried.
“How long has she been gone?”
“I don’t know. I came back from meeting with you, and she wasn’t here.”
“We don’t usually take missing persons reports until the party’s been gone at least twenty-four hours,” Streeter said.
“Every hour a kidnapping victim remains missing, the chance of recovering that victim alive declines ten percent.”
“How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I know. I’m asking you to help find her.”
“Does she jog?” Streeter asked.
“Occasionally.”
“OK, so it could be she went jogging. Maybe she stopped for coffee somewhere.”
I told him how her running shoes were still packed away in her suitcase.
“There’s something else you should know,” I said. “She’s pregnant.”
“How far along is she?”
“Couple months.”
Streeter speculated that Savannah may have had a complication with her pregnancy. He said he’d put in a call to the local hospital.
“If there was a medical problem,” I said, “she wouldn’t have just started walking, and definitely not without her coat. She would’ve asked the people we’re staying with for a ride to the hospital. She didn’t do that.”
“Well, there’s probably some logical explanation,” Streeter said. “She’ll be back. You just need to be patient.”
Patience, unfortunately, has never been my strong suit.
“I have a proposition,” I said.
“A proposition?”
“You get a fingerprint tech over here in the next hour and I’ll get you the information you want from that FAA file.”
“If I didn’t know better, Mr. Logan, I’d say you’re trying to coerce a sworn peace officer.”
“I prefer to call it a quid pro quo.”
Streeter drew out a long, slow breath over the phone. “I can’t promise an hour,” he said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
I hung up and stood at the window, gazing out at the white-flocked Currier and Ives landscape. Streeter had asked me how I knew about kidnapping survival statistics. I wasn’t about to tell him that of the seven authorized rescue missions I’d participated in as a member of Alpha to rescue the victims of kidnappings, only two resulted in those victims returning home alive. The last mission had been the worst: an airborne insertion into eastern Yemen to save two American missionaries taken hostage by extremists. One of the kidnappers detonated a suicide vest at the last minute as we moved in, blowing himself and the two missionaries to pieces.
I blinked the bloody image from my head.
Where are you, Savannah?
The Kavitches insisted I pay for the door jamb that I’d wrecked, and demanded that I check out by noon. Weirdly, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned or even interested in Savannah’s welfare. I told them I was
“I don’t know where your wife is, man!” He pulled the covers up around his pale, concentration camp survivor chest and cowered against the headboard, trying to get as far from me as he could. “How would I know where she is? I told you. Get out!”
“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Preston, then I’m gonna take you apart, one piece at a time. Now, where . . . is . . . she?”
“I told you! I don’t know where she’s at! Dad! DAD!”
“This is definitely not cool!” Johnny said, bounding in with his wife hard on his heels. He was clutching a ski pole like a spear.
“You need to take a deep breath and calm down, Mr. Logan,” Gwen said with her palms outstretched, pleading. “Please. Before someone gets hurt.”
“My wife is missing and I’m wondering if Cujo here knows something he isn’t telling.”
“You have no right to call my son names,” Gwen said.
“Mom, I told him. I don’t know nothing what he’s talking about!”
I might’ve corrected him on his use of double negatives, but intuition told me that was the least of Preston Kavitch’s sins.
S TREETER ANSWERED his phone on the second ring. I told him that Savannah had disappeared, and that I was worried.
“How long has she been gone?”
“I don’t know. I came back from meeting with you, and she wasn’t here.”
“We don’t usually take missing persons reports until the party’s been gone at least twenty-four hours,” Streeter said.
“Every hour a kidnapping victim remains missing, the chance of recovering that victim alive declines ten percent.”
“How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I know. I’m asking you to help find her.”
“Does she jog?” Streeter asked.
“Occasionally.”
“OK, so it could be she went jogging. Maybe she stopped for coffee somewhere.”
I told him how her running shoes were still packed away in her suitcase.
“There’s something else you should know,” I said. “She’s pregnant.”
“How far along is she?”
“Couple months.”
Streeter speculated that Savannah may have had a complication with her pregnancy. He said he’d put in a call to the local hospital.
“If there was a medical problem,” I said, “she wouldn’t have just started walking, and definitely not without her coat. She would’ve asked the people we’re staying with for a ride to the hospital. She didn’t do that.”
“Well, there’s probably some logical explanation,” Streeter said. “She’ll be back. You just need to be patient.”
Patience, unfortunately, has never been my strong suit.
“I have a proposition,” I said.
“A proposition?”
“You get a fingerprint tech over here in the next hour and I’ll get you the information you want from that FAA file.”
“If I didn’t know better, Mr. Logan, I’d say you’re trying to coerce a sworn peace officer.”
“I prefer to call it a quid pro quo.”
Streeter drew out a long, slow breath over the phone. “I can’t promise an hour,” he said, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
I hung up and stood at the window, gazing out at the white-flocked Currier and Ives landscape. Streeter had asked me how I knew about kidnapping survival statistics. I wasn’t about to tell him that of the seven authorized rescue missions I’d participated in as a member of Alpha to rescue the victims of kidnappings, only two resulted in those victims returning home alive. The last mission had been the worst: an airborne insertion into eastern Yemen to save two American missionaries taken hostage by extremists. One of the kidnappers detonated a suicide vest at the last minute as we moved in, blowing himself and the two missionaries to pieces.
I blinked the bloody image from my head.
Where are you, Savannah?
The Kavitches insisted I pay for the door jamb that I’d wrecked, and demanded that I check out by noon. Weirdly, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned or even interested in Savannah’s welfare. I told them I was
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