The Drowning Child Read online

  You look so young.

  A man as handsome as Ben Rader could have relied on his looks, developed nothing more than his body, but Ben developed a soul that radiated kindness.

  I loved watching you cook Jesus you’re dead now you’re fucking dead this is so screwed up dead Jesus and you only look about eighteen you are so hot were no I can’t do past tense are are are amazing arms steady grip strength of all kinds love love love gone gone gone stop stop stop.

  She still had his texts; they felt like a weight in her phone that she was always aware of, but could never remove.

  Can’t imagine ever sending another loving text filthy text miss-you text to any other man I don’t want a stranger in my bed I don’t want another man in my head.

  Her cell phone rang. GARY flashed on the screen.

  No way.

  Her boss, Supervisory Special Agent, Gary Dettling.

  Yeah hey Gary I’m in Manny’s yeah the bar where the serial killer who killed our friends picked up one of his victims yeah what is that telling you what is it telling me who fucking cares have you been drinking Ren yes Gary two beers and I’m about to leave …

  She let it go to voicemail.

  Gary left a message, and followed it with a text.

  Call me – CARD

  Shit.

  Three months earlier, she and Gary had joined the North West Region’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team – CARD. There were sixty members in the country, split across five regions, ready to deploy at the invitation of local law enforcement to help in the crucial early stages of a child disappearance or abduction. Though an invitation was welcome, it wasn’t a requirement – when it came to a ‘child of tender years’, twelve years old and under, the FBI was automatically involved, whether there was an interstate element or not.

  Ren called him back.

  Breathe speak slowly breathe speak slowly enunciate.

  ‘Hi, Gary – sorry I missed you.’

  ‘Get a good night’s sleep,’ said Gary. ‘We’re—’ He paused. ‘Where are you?’

  Um … ‘On my way home.’

  ‘From a bar?’

  ‘From a bar.’

  Pause. ‘We’re booked on a six a.m. flight to Portland, Oregon, heading for the town of Tate. Missing twelve-year-old boy: Caleb Veir, last seen by his father at seven forty-five this morning when he left the family home to take the fifteen-minute walk to school.’

  ‘OK.’ Say as little as possible.

  Pause. ‘Ren—’

  ‘See you at five.’ Ren hung up.

  Step away from the phone.

  She put it on the bar, picked up her beer and drank the last of it. She ordered another. She checked her watch.

  Ugh Denver airport five a.m.

  Denver airport – where memories flew at her like razors, where she had welcomed Ben, kissed him, hugged him, seen him off. Denver airport – the last place she was before she drove home to find out that he had been killed.

  She looked back at his photograph as she waited for her drink.

  That’s it. Life over.

  I should have taken more photos.

  Her stomach turned.

  You were an asshole to him that night anyway just delete it you were always an asshole to him he loved you and you were an asshole.

  She started to cry.

  Get your shit together you stupid bitch go home just go you’re a mess everyone’s looking at you you mess.

  She stood up, pulled on her coat, paid for the drinks. She walked into the cold night, and her stomach spasmed, her throat constricted.

  You fucking loser again fucking asking to enrage Gary you self-destructive I can still get five hours’ sleep yeah whatever whatever I’m still here I’m still alive no one died yes they did you asshole yes they did fucking die.

  She started to walk toward her Jeep.

  Shiiiiiit. My CARD team Mac is at the office. Fuuuck.

  Ren pulled up outside the Livestock Exchange Building where Safe Streets had the fourth floor. She put the Jeep into park, paused until her eyes could focus.

  I can’t believe I drove here of course you drove you don’t give a shit a bit late to care now you loser you’re going to die.

  She grabbed her phone, scrolled through iTunes, picked a song from the filthy rap collection, and put in her earpods. Since the shootings, it was her routine any time she walked into Safe Streets alone: she didn’t want to risk hearing the banging door she heard that evening, which she found out later had been the door to the basement where Ben’s body had been thrown after Duke Rawlins shot him dead.

  As she walked toward the building, a car door slammed behind her. She didn’t see it, couldn’t hear the footsteps behind her. She jogged up to the door, stood in front of the keypad.

  Jesus could everything just be in focus.

  She punched in the wrong code.

  Shit.

  She tried a second time, punched in the wrong code again.

  Fuuuck.

  Just as she was trying a third time, she saw the silhouette of a man reflected in the glass.

  Oh oh oh fuck.

  She pulled out her earpods with her left hand, went for her sidearm with the right.

  ‘Ren! Don’t fire – it’s Cliff! It’s me!’

  Ren turned around, weapon raised, then quickly lowered. ‘Jesus Christ, Cliff. You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.’

  ‘Jesus Christ yourself! And you have never looked so deadly.’ Cliff James was her big-bear buddy and colleague. ‘Finally,’ he said, ‘after all these years, you’ve heard my girl voice …’

  ‘It’s over,’ said Ren. She smiled and opened her arms.

  Cliff came up to her, arms wide. He paused. ‘Hey, pretty lady – have you been crying?’

  ‘Possibly …’

  He recoiled a fraction. ‘Oh, oh, no. And drinking.’ He glanced back at Ren’s Jeep.

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Ren. ‘But keep it coming with the hug.’

  Cliff hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head.

  Ren looked up at him. ‘I need my CARD laptop. I’m flying to Portland with Gary in the morning.’

  ‘Aw, Jesus, Ren …’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I know I know I know.

  ‘For someone who knows a lot of things …’ Cliff reached around her, punched in the right code, pushed the door open. Ren stepped out from under his arm, let him put his foot inside the door. He dangled his car keys in front of her. ‘Why don’t you tell me where that laptop is, go wait in my car, and let me take the lady home.’

  Aw, maaaan. ‘I’m a loser.’

  ‘You are, Renderland, you are. But nothing’s gonna change my love for you.’

  Ren grabbed his arm, squeezed. Then she watched how he took the stairs slower than he used to and she felt a pain in her chest.

  You instinctive knight-in-shining-armor with your own burden of grief to deal with.

  Cliff’s wife, Brenda, whom he adored, had passed away from cancer just two months after the shootings at Safe Streets.

  Everywhere I turn …

  Ren looked around the foyer.

  Leave.

  She stepped inside.

  You come here every day why are you doing this now you’ve been drinking this will be a shitshow don’t.

  She walked ten paces in, stared at the basement door.

  Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang.

  And the sensation struck, the sensation that terrified her, like she was being drowned in a rush of cold air or water or something that she wouldn’t rise above, that she couldn’t breathe through, something she would succumb to. She sucked in a huge breath, and another, and another.

  And then Cliff was back, and he had taken her in his big arms, and he had held her tight as she shook. She looked up at him, still holding on, her eyes wide. ‘How did it all come to this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Renheart. I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s like someone took a slash ho
ok to our lives.’

  3

  Ren was settled into a dark corner of a dark restaurant in Denver airport by four thirty a.m. She ordered coffee and a pineapple juice. She popped two Advil.

  Somebody fucking shoot me. Ugh. Do some work. My brain is fried. Do something easy.

  She opened Safari.

  Fuck, the light.

  She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.

  Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.

  The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Bucky’s written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.

  The public announcements of Tate PD were about fallen trees, storm damage, and buckling up to avoid getting a citation.

  Caleb Veir’s disappearance had hit the news and there was a photo of him alongside the article. He was a sturdy-looking boy with dark, side-parted hair, pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, and a naturally downturned mouth.

  A mournful-looking kid.

  Ren jumped as a figure came into her peripheral vision.

  Gary. Jesus. Fuck hangover jumpiness.

  ‘Hey.’ He sat down beside her. He glanced at the watery pineapple juice pooled in the dying ice of her glass. He knew it was her hangover cure of choice.

  Please just smell my beautiful wintergreen smokescreen breath.

  ‘Caleb Veir was last seen by his father, John, at seven forty-five yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘When did you get the call from Tate PD?’

  ‘Right before I called you last night,’ said Gary. He nodded. ‘Yes – it’s strange. The kid didn’t make it to school, but when his teacher called his mom, she couldn’t get hold of her. She left a message, then left one for the father on his cell phone and at work. He’s a corrections officer at Black River Correctional Institution outside Salem. An inmate escaped the previous day, so the teacher figured John Veir would be caught up with that and didn’t want to bother him: she figured Caleb was at home being looked after by his mom anyway – a lot of kids had been off school with a virus.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘Wouldn’t the teacher have persevered? And why wasn’t the mom answering her phone?’

  ‘She wasn’t home the previous night and no one could reach her the following day.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Ren.

  ‘I don’t have all the details,’ said Gary.

  ‘So, Caleb was alone with his father the night before he disappeared?’ said Ren. ‘What’s the father’s deal?’

  ‘John Veir, fifty-seven years old, ex-military, CO at BRCI for the past five years.’

  Military man, corrections officer, son about to hit his teens … hmm.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Sylvie Ross is flying in too,’ said Gary. Sylvie Ross was an agent and child forensic interviewer. ‘I’m still seeing her.’

  Loving the defiant tone. ‘That’s your business,’ said Ren.

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said.

  Why – so I’ll know to exercise the muscles of my blind eye again?

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ren. Honored to be part of your cheating ways.

  He turned to Ren. ‘Paul Louderback’s coming too.’ There was weight to his gaze.

  Tou-fucking-ché.

  Paul Louderback was Ren’s former PT instructor at Quantico. He was ten years her senior, married throughout their emotional affair, then briefly separated from his wife when he and Ren slept together. He was her kill-your-curiosity fuck, the eliminate-years-of-buildup fuck. After they slept together, Ren had officially gotten together with Ben, and Paul got back with his wife. Contact had dropped since then, until he called her when he heard about the shooting.

  What will my heart do when I see you again, Paul Louderback? Because I’ve no control over that.

  Your heart will betray Ben and you’ll feel like shit.

  The plane landed in Portland in torrential rain. Ren drove to Tate without music, listening, instead, to the sound of the rain pounding the car. It was soothing at first, but as it fell harder, faster, louder, she turned on the radio to drown it out. She focused on Gary’s car, up ahead, copied every move he made.

  I am on autopilot.

  What the fuck was I doing, driving last night?

  Jesus. Christ.

  Cliff. God bless him.

  I am a shitshow.

  She shook her head.

  Paul Louderback … his mouth … his hands … his … one night … sexy and just a little dirty … not dirty enough … like he was unleashed but didn’t know what to do with it … an old-school gentleman trying to be filthy … he just didn’t have that thing …

  That Ben and I had. That fuck-me-always-any-way-you-want-to thing.

  Ben.

  Stop.

  As Ren drove past the Welcome to Tate sign, she saw black ribbons tied around some of the trees.

  Not very hopeful.

  As she approached the gates to Tate PD, she felt her stomach clench: it was chaos – news vans, reporters, law enforcement, volunteers, a K-9 Unit.

  Gary slowed to a crawl in front of her, and a young Tate PD officer parted the crowd and guided them both through and into two reserved parking spaces. The building was single-story, red-brick, with a parking lot on three sides and a strip of grass planted with trees along the other.

  Inside, the lobby was small, clean, and pine-scented, with fresh plants and a wall covered with community photographs that spanned decades of sporting events, picnics, barbecues, charity drives, swim meets – beaming police officers, teachers, schoolchildren, and senior citizens.

  Ren and Gary checked in at the desk and took a seat.

  Within minutes, a short man with a tight, round stomach came out to meet them. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sad dark brown eyes and a puffy face, pockmarked on the left side. Ren and Gary stood up.

  ‘Pete Ruddock,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ As he shook Ren’s hand, he gave her a smile that was all about the warmth that radiated from those sad eyes.

  I like you already, Pete Ruddock. Whoa. Is that pity in your eyes? Oh, God – have you read about me? You have to know what happened at Safe Streets. How could you not know?

  Because he wouldn’t have been told which CARD team members were coming to Tate. Jesus.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren. ‘I’m Ren Bryce.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Ren.’

  ‘Gary Dettling,’ said Gary, shaking Ruddock’s hand.

  Ruddock picked up immediately on Gary’s get-to-the-point ways.

  ‘Something’s a little hinky with the parents,’ he said.

  4

  Ruddock guided Ren and Gary to his office. It was neat and tidy, with family photos lined across the lower shelf of a walnut cabinet. The biggest one, framed in gold, was a nineties-looking shot of Ruddock, with his arm around a short, smiling woman and two boys and a girl who looked to be in their early teens.

  ‘What’s your major concern?’ said Gary.

  ‘There are a few things,’ said Ruddock. ‘The delay in reporting Caleb missing is one.’

  Ren nodded. ‘Yes, we thought that – did they explain why? Caleb should have arrived home from school at around four thirty, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruddock. ‘But Teddy Veir, Caleb’s mom – didn’t come home until six thirty yesterday evening. She’d been staying with a friend in Salem, Sunday night, and she was at a trade show there yesterday – she works part time in Gemstones, a kind of New-Agey shop here in Tate – sells crystals and incense and angel healing things. Her cell phone battery had died overnight and she had left her charger at home.’

  ‘Surely someone at the venue could have charged her phone for her,’ said Ren.

  ‘She said she didn’t think to ask,’ said Ruddock. ‘When she got home, she figured Caleb was at a
friend’s house and that he’d be back for supper by seven. She charged her phone, called Caleb’s, left him voicemails. His phone, we now know, was upstairs in his bedroom, powered off. Teddy also tried her husband’s phone, which was diverted. She left voicemails for him, then called BRCI and they said they’d get him to call. When she checked her own messages, she heard one from Caleb’s teacher, Nicole Barton, made at eight thirty a.m., wondering if Caleb was OK, that he hadn’t shown up for school. At this point, about seven thirty p.m., with still no sign of Caleb, Teddy called neighbors and friends, but no one had seen him, and the kids from his class confirmed that he hadn’t been to school that day. Now, Teddy was panicking. At seven forty-five, she called BRCI again and insisted she would wait on the line to speak with John. He came home right away when she told him Caleb was missing.’

  ‘So, John Veir was working what shift?’ said Ren.

  ‘Well, here’s the other strange thing,’ said Ruddock. ‘He was rostered in to work at seven a.m., but he didn’t show up until the three p.m. shift.’

  ‘Nobody called from work to check where he was that morning?’ said Ren.

  ‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘They were taken up with the escaped inmate from the day before.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have made them even more suspicious if Veir didn’t show?’ said Ren.

  ‘I guess they trust him,’ said Ruddock.

  ‘I’m not buying that Veir screwed up his start time,’ said Ren. ‘An ex-military man who works a standard shift arrangement gets it wrong the same morning his son disappears?’

  ‘The only thing is,’ said Ruddock, ‘Veir was filling in for someone yesterday. It was supposed to be his day off. So it wasn’t part of his usual routine.’

  ‘Still,’ said Ren. ‘And when the school called, he didn’t pick up?’

  ‘He said he was home, but he didn’t realize the ringer was turned off.’

  ‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Ren, ‘because he brought his cell phone to work, and he would have seen the missed call.’

  Ruddock nodded. ‘Another thing that’s bothering me is that we’ve gotten reports from some of the neighbors that they heard raised voices coming from the house quite regularly. The father and son. Apparently, mother and son were very close.’