Through the Darkness (22 page)

Behind her, her father looked at me pleadingly and mouthed the word
pills
.

I had been fully prepared to snatch the child and damn the consequences, but without Emily to back me up, I felt my resolve waver.

I glanced from my daughter to Jenny's mother, who was negotiating a difficult three-point turn between the closely spaced tables and chairs of the food court. As she pushed off in the direction of Greenleaf Grille, the crowd separating us suddenly seemed to thicken. I looked to my left, where the escalator was disgorging a steady stream of moviegoers into the food court. One of the features, perhaps several of them, had just let out, and Jenny's mother's yellow beret was rapidly disappearing into the boisterous throng.

“Paul?” I whispered. When I had his full attention, I said, “When she calms down, take Emily into Borders or something. I'll meet you there.”

Before Paul could reply, I took off, following the woman with the fire-engine-red Kiddie Kruzer that may or may not have contained my grandson as she pushed it up the ramp that led out of the food court. I trailed the yellow beret as it bobbed past CVS, stopped for a few seconds to look into the window of the Disney store, and hurried along to the Gap for Kids.

At Lord and Taylor, I nearly lost it. I stood at the cross aisles, gazing frantically in four directions, before spotting the beret again outside Build-a-Bear. Jenny's mother was kneeling next to the stroller, pointing out to her daughter a stuffed Easter duck perched on a block in the window. She certainly didn't look like a woman with something to hide, but I continued to follow her anyway, as she wandered through the linens department of JCPenney. She ditched the stroller at the door and carried Jenny in her arms into the vast wilderness of the parking lot.

I followed at a discreet distance, weaving and ducking between parked cars, keeping one eye on them all the while I was scrabbling blindly in my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper—any paper—to write on.

Jenny's mother unlocked the door of a white Toyota Corolla, put Jenny into the backseat, fussed for a moment—presumably buckling the child in—then climbed into the car herself and backed out of the parking spot.

As the Toyota approached, I jotted down its license number on the back of a business card some guy named Ed had given me when I considered availing myself of his stump removal service. I stepped aside to let the Toyota pass, staring at the driver's profile, trying to memorize it. But I didn't need to memorize it. Just as she turned the corner, I realized with absolutely certainty that I had seen the woman before. But where?

We took Emily to see a doctor after that.

He talked with her for fifty minutes, and sent her home with a legitimate prescription for something she already had samples of in her medicine cabinet.

I held on to Ed's business card with Jenny's mother's license number scrawled on the back of it and wondered what to do.

“Leave no tern unstoned,” would have been my husband's advice.

My late mother would have said, “Follow your instincts.”

Emily, had she been saying anything, rather than sleeping soundly courtesy of the good doctor, would have said, “Go for it, Mom.”

So I did what anyone with a police lieutenant for a brother-in-law would have done. I called him, at home this time rather than on his cell, interrupting his dinner, or almost interrupting his dinner, since he mentioned that Connie was still fixing it.

“I have a big favor to ask, Dennis.”

“Should I hang up now, or wait to hear what the favor is before hanging up?”

I ignored the jab. “You heard about what happened at the mall last night?”

“My niece practically assaulted some poor woman with a child who looked like Timmy? Connie told me.”

“Exactly. But Dennis, here's the thing. As I was looking at that little girl, all
my
bells and whistles were going off. I felt so strongly about it that I nearly snatched the kid. But I decided to follow the woman instead, although taking the time to look at stuffed animals through the window of Build-a-Bear isn't exactly fleeing in panic, I suppose.

“Dennis, I've been thinking about it all night,” I rattled on, “and I've almost convinced myself that the child she calls Jenny is actually Timmy. But even if Jenny isn't Timmy, even if I'm dead wrong, it wouldn't hurt to check it out.”

“Check what out?” Dennis sounded wary.

“I followed the mother to the parking lot, and I have her license plate number.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But, Dennis, what harm could it do? Looking up a license plate number would hardly get
you
into trouble.”

“Hannah, what you're really asking me for is the name of the owner of that vehicle. And if I give it to you, the next thing I know you'll be knocking on her door, asking questions. Are you just itching to be charged with harassment? Or stalking?”

“I'd happily do hard time for assault and battery if it brought Timmy home.”

“Sorry. I just can't do it.”

“How about I give you the number anyway?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“It's Maryland plate BBL6K4.”

“I'm hanging up now, Hannah.”

“Will you put Connie on?” But the line went dead.

I hung up in satisfaction. Knowing Dennis, he would be running that number through the DMV computers before five minutes had elapsed. He'd share what he found with the FBI, too. But just in case he didn't, I telephoned Agent Crisp and left a message on her machine.

Sitting in my own kitchen with the muffled sounds of children's laughter wafting up from the basement playroom where they were playing Chutes and Ladders with their grandfather, I brewed myself a cup of Lady Grey and sat down to think.

Staring into the amber liquid, I ran through my catalog of friends and acquaintances—Naval Academy wives, Go Navy/Beat Cancer team, St. John's College friends, St. Catherine's congregants, fellow survivors. I didn't keep up much with my former colleagues at Whitworth and Sullivan, but I knew that one of them, a research librarian named Sallee Garner, might have some contacts.

Did I have any IOUs I could call in? I nibbled on a biscotti.

Duh! I'd once worked as a data consultant at Victory Mutual, a national insurance firm with its headquarters in Annapolis. Even after I left, its office manager, Donna Hudgins, and I had remained friends.

I located the phone book, looked up Donna's home number, and made the call. “Hey Donna. Long time.”

“It sure has been,” she replied, her voice serious. “I've been following the story about your grandson's disappearance in the paper. How's everyone holding up?”

“Poorly,” I said, truthfully. “My daughter, Emily, was hovering on the brink anyway, but when the FBI said they were pulling out, she took it as a sign they were giving up, and I think that pushed her right on over.”

“What do you mean, the FBI is pulling out?”

“Not off the case. They've had a crisis management team at the house for four days, which is one more than is customary, but since there hasn't been a ransom demand, they decided to pack it in. They've taken the team back to the office, where they have the resources to focus all their efforts on locating Timmy, rather than negotiating with his kidnapper.”

Then Donna said the magic words. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Actually, that's why I'm calling.” I told Donna about seeing the woman and the child who looked like Timmy in the mall, and how I was dying to know who the woman was. “My brother-in-law thinks I'm out of my mind,” I added.

“Hannah, you are the sanest person I know. Impulsive, maybe. But totally sane.”

So, I read Donna the license plate number.

“I don't have direct access to the database myself,” she said as she jotted it down, “but I know someone who does. Can I call you right back?”

“Sure.”

So I waited. Puttering. Wiping down the kitchen counters with a damp cloth. Organizing the magnets on my refrigerator door by shape and by color.

When the phone rang about ten minutes later, I nearly jumped out of my slipper socks.

“Got a pen?” Donna asked.

“You bet,” I said, my heart hammering.

“Okay. Here it is, but you didn't get it from me.”

“Get what from you?”

“Funny girl. Anyway, that plate is registered to a Joanna Barnhorst, 303-B Scott Circle. Do you know where that is?”

“Off Bestgate Road?”

“Right. She drives a Toyota Corolla, white in color. Right?”

“Bingo!” I said, enormously relieved that I'd gotten the number right. The car Donna described was a perfect match to the one I'd seen Joanna Barnhorst driving. “Donna, I can't thank you enough.”

“Good luck, Hannah. And how about lunch soon?”

After I made a date for lunch in two weeks time and said good-bye to Donna, I sat back in my chair, staring at the name I'd written down: Joanna Barnhorst.

I'd never heard of her.

I tripped downstairs to the computer room and Googled “Joanna Barnhorst.” Except for some genealogical data going back to the 1830s, and a girl who was a star lacrosse player for her high school in New Jersey, there was nothing. I considered clicking on a link for one of those fee-based background check services, but what good would information about the woman's credit history do me? It was probably a rip-off anyway.

While I was on the computer, I located the Barnhorst apartment on Mapquest. Joanna Barnhorst's condo was just off Medical Drive, one of a series of condominium developments that had sprung up like weeds along the cut-through from Bestgate to Jennifer Road when the hospital moved from downtown Annapolis to a multi-acre campus that adjoined the mall in Parole. A good move for the hospital, I felt sure, but not for the patient suffering a heart attack if the ambulance got stuck in traffic during the holiday shopping season.

I flopped back in my desk chair. I wanted to run right out to Scott Circle, bang on Barnhorst's door, and demand to see her child. Except it was nearly dark.

First thing in the morning I'd get Paul to run the carpool. Then I'd check this Barnhorst woman out.

Early the next morning, with a cappuccino grande
screwed into the cup holder on my console and a bag of doughnuts from Carlson's on the seat beside me, I waited in the parking lot outside of 303-B Scott Circle for Joanna Barnhorst to make an appearance. Her Toyota was parked in a space just outside her building, so unless she'd gone out for a pre-dawn stroll, I knew she had to be at home.

An hour later I was down to half a cup of lukewarm coffee and one doughnut, still staring at her apartment window and seeing nothing but white lace curtains, tightly drawn.

Thirty minutes after that I had an empty paper cup and traces of powdered sugar on my lips.

Feeling a bit reckless, I climbed out of my car and tested the glass door that led to the vestibule of Barnhorst's apartment tower. Naturally, it was locked. Her name, J. Barnhorst, was written on a scrap of paper in a slot on the intercom panel outside the door, next to a big white button. I could press the button, of course, but what would I say if Joanna answered? Candygram? UPS?

I could wait until the next resident came in or out, and slip in after him. Or I could push all the buttons until someone buzzed me in, but people stupid enough to do that only lived on the other side of the television screen, right?

Besides, what would I do once I got into the building? Stand outside Joanna Barnhorst's apartment with my ear cupped to the door, waiting to overhear something incriminating?

I could call her on my cell phone. I had her number—thanks again to Google—but if she had caller ID, “Hannah Ives” would scroll across her display panel clear as day.

Discouraged, I leaned against the aluminum siding and toyed briefly with the idea of pulling the fire alarm. I'd already used my Get Out of Jail Free card on that one, though. Pull that trick again, and the cops would probably swoop down, lock me up, and double the fine, just to teach me a lesson, and I certainly didn't have a spare ten thousand dollars lying about.

I groaned. Manning a stakeout was certainly easier on television. Didn't P.I.'s ever need to eat? Sleep? Go to the bathroom? Elliot and Olivia would have found a parking place right in front of Barnhorst's building, too, rather than at the end of a line of parked cars, next to a tacky ornamental fountain, and so far away from a direct line of sight to her door that I had to sit in the passenger seat in order to keep an eye on her building.

I returned to my car, slid into the seat, readjusted the sideview mirror, and plugged my iPod into the cigarette lighter: “Wake Up Little Susie” segued into “Moi, Je ne regrette rien,” followed by “Spem in alium” and “Sheep May Safely Graze.” The iTunes party shuffle certainly made for strange bedfellows. I listened to Robin Blaze's exquisite countertenor voice soar through “So Parted You” with one eye glued to the sideview mirror. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.