“No, I’m all set,” I tell her, and move out of the way.
I find an open spot on the uncrowded beach, stretch out my towel on the hard sand, and watch the waves roll in, the endless ebb and flow. Little kids play tag with the leading edge of the water, build sand castles, present shells to their mothers. Gulls cry, planes cruise by overhead, hauling advertisements. Women intent on tanning lie inert on their towels, like basking sea lions. Teenagers in bikinis squeal as they tiptoe into the water. Behind me, a parade of cars crawls by at the subdued pace of a funeral cortege.
I sit there with the sun beating down on my back and the image of Emma Sandling in my mind. My skin feels too hot, and when I close my eyes, there’s a sort of thudding in my head, like a heavy door slamming shut over and over. By the time I get back to the car, the thudding sensation is gone and in its place is this single depressing thought: It won’t work.
I must have been kidding myself – because how could I ever have thought it would work? Sure I can get close to Emma Sandling, maybe even make friends with her. But what about when I get around to the subject at hand? When her new friend starts talking about the abduction of her sons – an incident she’s gone to such lengths to bury in the past?
The interior of the car is so hot I have to put my sandy towel on the seat. The steering wheel burns my hands. Back in the motel, I take a look at my notebook, reviewing the information McCafferty sent about Emma Sandling’s schedule. I jot down a few questions I want to ask. Then I stare at the ceiling for a long time thinking about how I can get Emma Sandling to talk to me.
Finally, I get into my shorts and T-shirt and head out, running along the sidewalk flanking A-1-A in a trance of heat and motion. Maybe running will spring an idea loose. I go half an hour out and half an hour back, then drag myself back into my icy motel room. Take a shower.
I think about it. I do have some leverage over Emma Sandling. She’s in hiding. I know where she is. I could expose her. She’ll understand that. She’s got a life here; she won’t want to pick up stakes again.
But leverage doesn’t exactly amount to Plan B. Not really. There’s only one thing to do: throw myself on her mercy.
Thanks to McCafferty’s e-mail, I know Emma’s schedule. She’ll close the Beach Bunny at five, then drive to Ormond Beach to pick up the boys from vacation Bible school. Some fast food, I’d guess, and then she’ll drop the kids at the baby-sitter’s in Port Orange, leaving just enough time to get to her seven o’clock class at the Daytona Beach Community College. That goes until nine-thirty, after which she picks up the kids and heads home. A long day.
I could just show up at her apartment, but I sense that I’ll do better if I can talk to her without the kids being around. She won’t feel as threatened. If I had more patience, I might wait for the morning, wait at the Beach Bunny before she opens up. But I’m impatient. If I can find her car in the parking lot at the community college, I’ll wait for her there.
In the meantime, I check my e-mail. There’s one from Petrich, appending the police files about the dimes and the origami rabbit. I read these over, but the only new bit of information is a paragraph- long expert opinion from an origami scholar.
Without destroying the specimen, I cannot examine the folding techniques, but from exterior study, it is my opinion that the specimen is a modified Lang rabbit, a piece of moderate difficulty adapted from one of the many rabbits created by noted origamist Dr. Joseph Lang.
I try watching television, but that drives me crazy – ads and laugh tracks and news bites like fingernails on a blackboard. Turning it off is worse; I’m left with my own adrenalized dread and the glacial passage of time. After a while I head to the beach and walk, somewhat soothed by the crash of the surf. Still, I check my watch every few minutes.
At nine, I’m heading down Clyde Morris Boulevard, the sky a streaky pink above. I turn onto International Speedway Drive, then hang a right into the college’s huge parking area. The lot’s half empty now, but it must have been crowded when Emma got here, because I find her red Subaru way out on the periphery. I’m sure it’s hers because of the Save-the-Manatee plates, but I check the number against the one on McCafferty’s e-mail anyway. Yes.
It’s nine-fifteen. I park a few spaces away from the Subaru. I listen to the radio for a while, but after a few minutes, I have to get out of the car. I’m edgy and restless. But then I feel conspicuous just standing there, so I gravitate toward a small strip of vegetation that separates the parking lot from a service road. This is where I wait, in the midst of palmettos and reedy bushes, muttering to myself as the leaves rustle and clatter in the breeze.
I realize what I’m doing: I’m rehearsing. It’s as if I’m practicing a stand-up before the camera rolls. I know it’s stupid, as if there’s any right way to say what I’m going to say – but I keep trying out different phrases anyway, because it fills my mind.
“Emma – my name is Alex Callahan. We have a tragedy in common…”
“Emma Sandling, I need your help.”
“Emma…”
It’s full dark now. Light fixtures stand at regular intervals in the lot, each creating a cone of light that’s alive with orbiting bugs. More cars depart. In this section, only a dozen or so remain.
A figure approaches, but soon I know it’s not her. It’s a kid, baggy pants and earphones. He shuffles toward his rusted-out Toyota and then drives away.
Five minutes later, I see her, hurrying in my direction. It occurs to me it might seem creepy, the way I’m standing in the bushes, so before she gets too close I walk toward my car. I have the vague idea of opening the trunk, to give me an excuse for standing outside the car. At the last moment I change my mind and open the hood instead. Instantly, this seems like a mistake.
She has her keys out and she cuts a wary glance my way before opening her door.
I feel paralyzed.
She rolls down the window – manually. She turns on the ignition. The car sounds as if the timing is off. It’s idling too fast. By the time I can get myself to move, she’s fastening her seat belt. I approach her, holding my hand up.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really in a hurry.”
“Wait.” And then I blurt out, in my newscaster’s voice: “We have a tragedy in common.”
My rehearsed words sound strange, very strange – even to me. Emma frowns, as if I’ve spoken in a foreign language and she’s trying to translate what I said.
“I’m Alex Callahan,” I say, talking too fast now, my words tumbling over one another. “You’ve seen it on the news. My sons Kevin and Sean have been abducted. Your tragedy’s over, Emma, but mine is ongoing. I need your help. I need-”
It’s the sound of her name, I think, that really does it. Nothing else I said really sank in until I used her name. The name she doesn’t use anymore.
I see the realization hit, recognition followed a nanosecond later by horror. Then she’s gone, driving away in a pebbly screech.
I blew it.
But the truth is I don’t feel panicked because I know she can’t get away from me. Not really. I know where she’s going. But just for this moment, I can’t seem to move, can’t seem to get my breath. The air presses in on me, heavy and dense. I’m still standing in exactly the same place when she comes back.
She stops her car, opens the door. Light spills out the open door and she sits there, in its illumination. “Look – I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t feel good about it. There’s a lot of negative energy – me being the one person who could really sympathize with you, but instead I did everything I could to keep away…”