Reed held a hand to his chest.
Pender continued. “That tall, blond hair, newsneakers, school backpack, and interested in model ships.”
Dempsey tugged thoughtfully at his fluffy sideburns.“Ships? Sure, was a kid like that in here a while ago.”
“How long!” Reed stepped to the counter. Pender raisedhis big hand to warmly caution him.
“How long, George?” Pender repeated, softer.
Dempsey twisted his sideburns before guessing. “Hour?”
“An hour?”
“Yes, then he left with that other cop.”
“What?” Reed said. “They found him!”
“What other cop, George?” Pender took out hisnotebook, glancing at his watch. “Think.”
“He was plainclothes, uh, special state investigator,white guy, six foot.”
“He definitely said special state investigator? Yousure?”
“Absolutely.” Dempsey scratched his chin. “Flashed hisbadge, name was Lamer? Lampson? No — Lamont, Randall Lamont.”
“He left with the boy?”
Dempsey nodded.
“Which way?”
“Well, I didn’t see. Say, what’s this about?”
“Tell me exactly how it happened.”
“Not much to tell. Kid walks in, goes to the shelfthere all doe-eyed over the Kitty Hawk, the this Lamont comes in a fewminutes later asking — yeah just like you — asking if I’d seen a kid. Then hegoes to him, they have a little chat, then leave together.”
“What was the boy’s demeanor?”
Dempsey blinked and looked at the ceiling. “Scared,like he just got some bad news.”
Reed felt the first stirrings in his gut. His worryabout Zach’s running off was about to be swallowed by a greater terror.
Pender scanned the shop. “George, you ever do anythingabout your shoplifting problem, like I told you?”
“I did. I got security video installed couple monthsago. It works just fine and — I see what you’re askin’.”
“Let’s run that tape, George.”
Dempsey hoisted a small black-and-white video monitorto the counter, angling it so Pender and Reed could see.
“I was plagued by little thieves until I got this.”Dempsey grunted, squatting to operate the video controls from a low shelfbehind the counter. A montage of ball-capped boys coming, going, and buyingthings, swam in super-fast motion on the monitor. “Glue, paints, scale modelracing cars, electric motors. One kid stuffed the Titanic under hisshirt. It all adds up. There he is!”
Dempsey slowed the tape, Reed watched Zach enter thestore and sit on the floor before a shelf of models. Dempsey advanced the tapeto the entrance of a man in a suit, wearing dark glasses, showingidentification.
“You know this guy?” Reed said to Pender.
He shook his head without removing his gaze from themonitor. “You?”
“No,” Reed said as the man approached Zach. Theytalked, then left together. Reed’s face flushed. His heartbeat quickened. Hecouldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“George, take it back to when the cop walks in,”Pender said.
Dempsey reversed the tape.
“You have any audio?” Pender said.
Dempsey nodded. The tinny sound of homemade videos,with hard noise amplified and monotone voices, hissed from a tiny speaker onthe monitor: “I’m looking for a boy, about ten years old, blond hair, backpack,sneakers. He was last seen in this area within the last half hour.”
“Could be the fella you want, drooling over the KittyHawk there. He just came in. Anything to do with that gang shooting inOakland?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.”
Pender was staring at Reed. A fist covered Reed’smouth, the veins of his neck were pulsing.
“You recognize that voice, don’t you, Tom?”
“It’s Edward Keller.”
Where was Keller’s beard and long hair? Realitystabbed Reed with switchblade suddenness. Keller had Zach. Had his son!
Have you ever lost a child? No. You have children?A son, Zach. He’s nine. My eldest boy was nine when he died.
Pender seized his portable police radio.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Sirens .
Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.
It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. It was a terrifyingdrug-fueled dream. Reed was numb. Detached. Alone in the shop, watchingeverything unfold. Detectives talking to him as models of World War II fightersstrafed them from above.
“Mr. reed, anything you can remember about Keller thatmight…”
His mouth wouldn’t work. What were his lines? What washe supposed to say? My little boy. My son. My only child has been taken. Whatwas he supposed to do? Faces in his face. Dead serious. Faces at the shopwindow. Police cars. Flashing lights. A crowd gathering. A TV news camera, no,two — three. Coffee-breathed detectives who wore strong cologne clasping hisshoulder.
“Mr. Reed, Tom, we need your help….”
Zach needs me. My boy. I did this. Zach. Keller, hishand on Zach’s shoulder.
Sirens. Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.
Sirens — the score of his profession. The choruscueing his entrance upon a stranger’s tragedy. And it was always a stranger, italways happened to other people. It never touched him. Oh, it grazed him in theearly days. But he grew skilled in his craft. He knew the bridges into theirpain, knew his way over the crevasses that would consume you if you failed inyour mission, knew how to cradle their suffering long enough to serve himself.
The city shares your grief. Now is the time to saythe things that need to be said, by way of tribute.
And in virtually every case, they would struggle tohelp. Stunned by their loss, they would recite an inarticulate requiem fortheir son, daughter, father, mother, husband, wife, sister, brother, or friend.Some would scrawl tearstained notes, or show him the rooms of the dead, theiraccomplishments, their dreams, their disappointments, the last things theytouched.
And would you be able to provide the paper with apicture?
Dutifully, they would flip through family albums,rummage through shoe boxes, yearbooks, wallets, purses, reach to the mantel forphotos. Drinking in each image before placing it tenderly in his trusted hands.But there were times a relative would see him for what he truly believed hewas. They knew.
Oh, the years-off-the-street, J-school profs andburned-out hacks could pound their breasts about the unassailable duty of ademocratic free press, safeguarding the people’s right to know, ensuring no onedies anonymously and secretly on American streets. But that constitutional crapturned to dust when you met bereavement face-to-face, took it by the hand, andpersuaded it to expose itself. You steeled your soul with the armor of achampion. The sympathetic, respectful reporter. Democracy’s champion. But atthe bottom of your frightened heart, you realized what you were: a driver ant,leading the column to the carrion, overcoming and devouring the mourners whoopen their door to you, those too pained to flee.
And before he left, they would usually thank him.
That was the joke of it. They would thank him. Forcaring.
He was shoved, prodded, and paid to succeed at this,and they thanked him. For caring.
Don’t thank me. I can’t care. I can’t.
But he would smile, professionally understanding, allthe while fearing he might never find the bridge back, for his ears rang withtormented voices chanting:
Wait until it happens to you. Wait until this happensto you.
Now it had.
He was paying the price for the sum of all hisactions. This was his day of reckoning. The toll was his son.
Zachary, forgive me.
“ — Where is he? You let me go!”
It was Ann. Pender struggling to hold her, failing.She ran to Reed. He opened his arms to take her. A horsewhip crack of her handacross his face.