They Disappeared. Rick Mofina

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      8

      New York City

      Time hammered against Jeff.

      As his cab cut through the midtown traffic he watched the muted backseat TV monitor—reports on Broadway, the Mets, a triple murder in Brooklyn and more on the UN meeting in the Lower East Side.

      Amid the horns, sirens, the chaos, he tried to think.

      He called the hotel room, then the desk for messages—nothing.

      His hope sinking, he turned to the city, the sidewalks, scanning the crowds, studying faces until details melted away. He understood the skepticism of the NYPD, knew how things looked to them.

      Bad.

      Because they were bad.

      They’d said they were investigating but Cordelli and Ortiz likely thought Sarah took Cole for a few hours of shopping because she was pissed off. The detectives probably didn’t put much currency in the witness, a street guy, and were reluctant to give it much effort. Deep down Jeff believed they had doubts about his report. He didn’t trust them to make it a priority.

      As his taxi rolled through the city, his misgivings resonated with his memories of himself at fifteen. His parents were killed when their tour bus crashed in the Canadian Rockies and he went to live with his grandfather near Billings.

      In the months after the estate was settled, Jeff was given his father’s Ford pickup truck. Traces of his cologne were still in the truck; the steering wheel was worn from where his big hands usually held it. Jeff cherished the pickup because it was his connection to his mom and dad.

      Jeff got his learner’s license, and when he drove the truck with his grandfather, it felt like his parents were in the cab with them. Jeff treasured the Ford, washing it and changing the oil himself. With that truck he learned how to fix things, to become self-reliant, to endure the deaths of his parents.

      Then one day the truck was stolen from his grandfather’s driveway.

      Jeff was devastated. They’d reported the theft to police, who’d promised to “leave no stone unturned” in recovering it. But days, then weeks, passed with no news. Jeff convinced his grandfather to let him search for it by driving him to truck stops, auto shops, bars and diners in nearly every town in Yellowstone County.

      Weeks passed. Then, as if guided by fate, they’d spotted a Ford pickup at a mall near Ballantine where they’d stopped to shop for shirts. It was Jeff’s. It had a different plate and was all primed like it was going to be painted but it had the same tiny spiderweb fracture in the rear cab window and the chip in the left rear bumper.

      After police and the court returned the truck, Jeff’s grandfather told him something he’d never forgotten.

      “The truck could never be as important to anyone as it is to you, Jeff. There are certain things in this world that you just have to take care of yourself, or they’ll never be done right. If you don’t trust your gut in these matters, you’ll have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life.”

      A horn blast yanked Jeff back to Manhattan’s traffic and a decision.

      So what am I going to do here, now?

      He had no choice. He would search for his family on his own.

      Where do I start?

      He’d go back to the spot where it happened and start looking there.

      He tried calling Sarah again and again. It rang to her message. Nothing. It had been about two hours since he’d last seen Sarah and Cole.

      Where the hell are you?

      Jeff stared at his phone, then, on impulse, he called the number for Hans Beck and got a recorded message saying the number was no longer in service. That’s strange, Jeff thought, unsure what to make of it.

      After the cab dropped him off, Jeff allowed himself a moment to entertain the belief that Sarah and Cole had returned. That they’d have some wild explanation and they’d all laugh it off. How sweet the relief would be. He’d admit to her that he’d been a fool, that he was wrong for wanting to separate—no, confused, stupid and so sorry.

      He’d tell her that he wanted to keep their family together.

      Hold them and never let them go.

      But his hope was overtaken by reality as he came to the spot. There was no sign of Sarah or Cole. Freddie, the wheelchair panhandler, was gone. Jeff got out his camera, cued the photo of Sarah and Cole and returned to the ponytailed man selling souvenirs at the pushcart where Sarah and Cole had been. Again, Jeff begged for his help, showing him the photos.

      The vendor shook his head, his face a mask of indifference behind his dark glasses.

      “They were right here,” Jeff said.

      “I told you, pal. I don’t remember them.”

      Deflated, Jeff lowered his camera to grapple with a million thoughts, horrible imaginings of what the phantom abductors could be doing to his family at this very moment. Slowly he turned in a full circle in the heart of Manhattan, one of the busiest cities in the world.

      He forced himself to remain calm, to think.

      Retrace your steps. Re-create the scene.

      His attention came to the store where he’d bought the batteries, where it all started: Metro Manhattan Gifts and Things.

      He СКАЧАТЬ