Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (16 page)

 

Chapter 31

A
S
D
ONOVAN AND
I make our way through the deep sand on Ocean Beach to the crowd gathered near the shore, he reaches out and grabs my hand. Flickering candlelight distorts the hazy images of dozens of ­people holding candles. A low blanket of gray clouds obscures the night sky, making the darkness deep and impenetrable, but across the sand, faces glow almost eerily above candles. Nothing about this seems real.

My breath catches as I spot Lopez snapping photos, crouching in the sand, the flash going off sporadically. He's not here as my friend. He's here as a journalist. He's covering this for our newspaper. Seeing him on assignment at my daughter's vigil is a dose of reality I don't want.

Grace has been gone for more than fifty-­three hours.

TV reporters hover at the periphery of the crowd, and I feel a mixture of hatred and gratefulness toward them. The more media coverage, the more likely that news of Grace's disappearance will spread and the greater the chance that somebody who knows or saw something will come forward.

Then I spot Kellogg, and Nicole, and some other reporters I know. That Dillman kid isn't here. I can't figure out if that is good or bad. I know that while my paper probably sent Lopez and one reporter to cover the vigil for the paper, the rest of them are here to support our family. I swallow back some tears that threaten to overwhelm me.

Nobody has noticed our slow trek across the sand yet, so I look on the vigil as an outsider would, watching ­people standing in clusters, speaking in low tones. A few hold signs, but I can't read them from here. ­People hug and dab their eyes with white tissues, which glow in the candlelight. In the darkness I don't see anyone from my family, but I know they are here.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” a man with a thick Irish accent says. Father Liam. He is wearing jeans and a blazer over his priest collar. Under his bushy head of hair, his twinkling eyes meet mine and he winks. He was waiting for us to begin. I'm glad he didn't look at me with sorrow, or I would have crumbled.

“I am Father Liam Allegro from St. Joan of Arc Church in Oakland, and Grace's parents, Sean Donovan and Gabriella Giovanni, have asked me to lead us in prayer. If you would please, let's form a circle and take the hand of the person beside you as we pray. I ask that we begin by bowing our heads.”

By now, Donovan and I are at the crowd. To my left, a middle-­aged woman in a puffy coat smiles at me as she takes my hand. To my right, I reach out and hold hands with a young woman with thick black eye makeup.

“Father, we thank you for all these ­people gathered here in support of bringing home little Grace safe to us.”

As he is praying, I notice something moving down by the shore, where the waves are licking the sand. It's a person, but it is hard to tell anything more in the deep darkness of the beach. I crane my neck a bit, but I'm pinned between puffy coat woman and makeup girl. I debate abruptly letting go of their hands and running over there. I cut a glance at Donovan, but his eyes are closed as he prays.

­People are chiming in “amen” when—­this time for sure—­something moves in the darkness by the shore. This time, Donovan sees it, too. He draws back out of the circle, and I quickly follow.

Father Liam leads ­people in the singing of “Amazing Grace” as I squint in the darkness, following Donovan's figure in the dark. A cold chill starts at my scalp and makes it way down my body, settling in my stomach. The ocean breeze carries something oddly familiar. It's just a trace, but I think it is a man's cologne. I can't quite place it.

Ahead of me, Donovan stops and swears. I sprint to where he is.

“He's gone.”

­People have started to notice us, heads turn out from the prayer circle, and suddenly Lopez is at my side. He has a huge Maglite and is shining it on the sand. There are footprints in the wet sand that lead to the water.

“Jesus Christ.” Lopez shines the light on some long marks along the sand at the same time the sound of a motor carries across the waves. “He had a boat. Goddamn it.”

Donovan yells and grabs his phone, and within moments, police are everywhere, with large spotlights shining on the waves crashing into the shore, but there is no sign of a boat. Within fifteen minutes, a helicopter with a searchlight is hovering above the water. My brothers and sisters-­in-­law are there, all of us hugging and holding hands. But it is too late.

Whoever it was is long gone.

 

Chapter 32

Friday

A
FTER WE RETURNED
home from the vigil last night, I slept the sleep of the dead. It all finally caught up to me. I honestly didn't think I could sleep with my daughter missing and in a monster's hands, yet one second I was watching the eleven o'clock news in the living room, and the next, Donovan is handing me a cup of coffee and I'm wondering why I'm sleeping on the couch.

I'm disoriented for a second, but then the harsh, cold reality of my life sets in. Grace. Despair fills my chest, my throat, my mouth.

This afternoon, Grace will have been gone three whole days.

A feeling of helplessness settles on me. I thought Frank Anderson had taken her, but he's dead. Now I feel like we are starting over, but without any leads. This entire time we've been searching for the wrong man. What about that weekly reporter? Why wasn't he at the vigil last night if he's now covering Grace's disappearance?

I dial the number for the weekly and am connected to the newsroom.

“Editor.”

“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak to Michael Dillman.” I stare at my coffee cup, wondering if it's going to make me barf to drink it.

“He's not in right now, can I take a message?”

I hesitate. He's not going to help me unless I lay it all out.

“My name is Gabriella Giovanni. My daughter, Grace, has been kidnapped.”

I can hear his sharp intake of breath and shuffling of papers. But I'm not calling to give him a quote.

“I was wondering why he wasn't at my daughter's vigil last night.”

The editor clears his throat. “You know, we probably should have sent someone else out there, but Dillman was supposed to cover that. He called in yesterday morning and said he was going to be late coming in to work because he was following a lead in connection with your daughter's kidnapping. I haven't heard from him since. Frankly, I'm a little worried.”

I catch my breath. “Did he say what the lead was?”

“Sorry, he didn't. Now I wish I would've asked. He's usually a reliable kid, but he didn't show up in the newsroom later. I called him a few times to see if he was going to cover the vigil, and he never returned any of my calls. If you need to speak to somebody, however, you can talk to me.”

He thinks I'm calling to give Dillman a story or a scoop.

“No, but thank you.” I hang up, my heart thumping wildly.

My face feels ice cold and numb. What if Michael Dillman took Grace? I'm the one who told him that we liked to go to Ocean Beach.

When Donovan comes inside from smoking, I tell him what I've learned.

“Goddamn it.” He grabs his phone and steps outside, lighting another cigarette as he dials Agent West and fills him in. I stand outside in the cold morning air in the long T-­shirt I slept in, shivering and listening to his conversation.

Finally, he disconnects and takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed before he speaks.

“They're heading to Michael Dillman's San Francisco apartment as we speak—­with a warrant.”

“Can we go?”

He shakes his head. “West was already tracking him down. Was over at Dillman's place last night. He wasn't there. The landlady said she hasn't seen him since yesterday morning. West will call if he shows up or they find him, okay?” Donovan says, leaning down and kissing my forehead.

I nod, holding my stomach, which is cramping.

“Get dressed,” Donovan says. “Let's go visit Father Liam.”

He knows I'm barely hanging on. I'm sunk deep in despair and ready to give up on finding Grace.

At this moment, the only thing keeping me from a swan dive off the Golden Gate is the possibility that Grace is alive. Now I know why the parents of missing children have that dead look in their eyes. They are shadows. Flimsy shadows stuck between worlds, only sticking around on this earth on the slightest, most gossamer chance that their son or daughter will come home to them.

As soon as we get on the freeway entrance to the Bay Bridge, Donovan guns the motor, downshifting and swerving in and out of cars as if his very life depends on getting us to Oakland quickly.

He says nothing, keeping his eyes straight ahead on the road. I don't think he slept at all. When I woke, the entire kitchen was spotless and organized. All the debris left from having a house full of family and police had disappeared.

We exit at Lakeshore Boulevard and take the curve toward Lake Merritt and St. Joan of Arc Church. A black car that has been behind us since San Francisco takes the exit, as well. Donovan has watched it in the rearview mirror the entire time.

“The Saint's men,” I say, even though I don't know for sure.

Donovan passes the rectory of the church and parks a ways past it on the lake side of the road. The black car pulls over about ten car lengths behind us, parking near the front of the church. We cross the road, and when we get near the black car, a man in a black jacket and sunglasses gives us a slight nod. The Goat.

Father Liam answers the door to the rectory without his usual smile and twinkling eyes.

“Oh, Gabriella.” He wraps me in a big hug, and I gulp back tears.

He releases me and clasps Donovan in a bear hug, slapping his back.

“Thanks so much for being at the vigil last night,” I say. “I'm so sorry we didn't get a chance to talk.” I stare at my feet.

“Of course. But what else can I do?” he says when he pulls back from Donovan's hug and searches our faces.

“Can we pray?” I ask. “Just the three of us?”

We stand in the hallway near a giant life-­sized oil painting of St. Michael the Archangel. We clutch hands as Father Liam prays for Grace to return home safely.

The words coming from Father Liam's become distorted and faint. I stare at the oil painting across from me. St. Michael the Archangel stands, majestic, with a halo around him and massive golden wings protruding from his shoulder blades. In one hand he holds a sword aloft, at ready. In the other, the shiny scales of justice dangle from his fingers. His sandaled foot presses down on Satan's head, which lifts up above bare shoulders bulging with rippling muscles between his deep black wings. Flames lick at the ground where Satan lies, bested by goodness and justice.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that Father Liam is done praying and that Donovan is staring at me with a look that I don't like.

Father Liam must not notice, because he shoos us up the stairs, saying, “Let's go up to the sitting room and have some coffee and brainstorm what the parishioners can do to help.”

Upstairs, Father Liam sinks into his blue armchair by the fireplace, crosses one leg over the other, and grabs a small notepad and pen.

“We can organize a phone campaign,” he says. “Have volunteers pass out fliers. We can take up a second collection at every mass to put toward the reward fund.”

He sits, listing ideas.

After a few minutes, I scoot forward from my spot on the love seat next to Donovan. I stare off to my left at the sparkling crystal glasses and brilliant colors of the alcohol on the sidebar.

I take a deep breath.

“Can I share something with you? This is going to sound crazy, maybe,” I say, closing my eyes for a second. When I open them, both Donovan and Father Liam are watching. It takes me a few more seconds to get the courage to speak, and there is silence as the men wait.

Finally, Father Liam's smile gives me the courage to speak.

“Before I had Grace and I was in Baja California and left in that boat to die, I had something happen. Something that sort of seemed miraculous at the time but that I'm now worried was prophetic. I don't know how it could have been anything else.”

I sneak a glance at Donovan out of the corner of my eye. It is the first time he's ever heard this. For some reason I never told anyone about the whale. Not Donovan. Not my mother. Not Father Liam. For some reason I blocked that whole encounter and dream out of my memory for the past few years.

Now I continue on with the story of the whale coming up to my boat and how I was filled with serenity about dying. And about how I later remembered the folktale I'd heard about what to do when you see a whale—­go to sleep and remember your dreams. And how I forgot all of this until just before the police officer called to tell me Grace was taken. I tell them about how I dreamed something bad happened to a little girl.

When I'm done, I clamp my lips together and wait.

Donovan shifts uneasily and darts a glance at Father Liam. Donovan gives a barely perceptible shake of his head and runs his fingers through his hair, making it spiky and sticking up.

Father Liam clears his throat.

“That's quite a story,” he says, lifting one eyebrow and recrossing his legs.

“What do you think it means?” I ask. “Do you think I dreamed my daughter's face—­and her fate—­before she was born? Do you think it was possible I dreamed her kidnapping, too? How can that even be possible?”

Donovan is staring at the fireplace and working on chewing his inner cheek. Father Liam doesn't quite give me the answer I want.

“Stranger things have happened,” he says.

“Do you think it's possible?”

“I've found that nearly anything is possible,” he says. “Like the soldier who stayed to talk to me after mass Sunday. Last year, he was on a plane that crashed in South America, you might have heard about it, a military transport plane went down in the jungle. Everyone on board, all sixty-­seven ­people, died except him. He not only lived, he walked away without anything more than a scratch or two. And lived for three days alone in the jungle until rescuers arrived. By all logic, he should be dead and yet showed up to church for the first time in his life last week saying he had been spared for a reason. What that reason is? I couldn't tell him. That is his own journey of discovery. And the same goes for you. Whether in your particular case it is possible or not is a question you need to ask yourself. But that is for another day. I think you have bigger fish to fry right now, my dear.”

I'm not sure what I expected, but the harsh reality of his words—­couched in love—­still sinks in: Whether I dreamed it or not doesn't matter. The answer to that won't help me find Grace.