Gone The Next Read online

“First thing in the morning.”

  A lie.

  “I don’t want to stay here. I want to see my mommy.”

  “I know you do, honey, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. You can do that, can’t you? Spend the night away from home? Like a big girl?”

  And tomorrow he’d tell her the same thing. Just one more day. Tell her that her parents wanted it this way. In fact, it was their idea. Because they needed some time to themselves. So they’d asked him to watch her. See, he was a friend of the family. Like an uncle. Eventually, she would trust him. Even start to like him. Baby steps. Much better to build a relationship on affection rather than fear.

  “Are you hungry? I’ve got a pizza in the freezer. We could make a pizza together. How about that? Wouldn’t that be fun?” Trying to make it sound like a big adventure. “Do you like pepperoni, Emily?”

  “I already told you, that’s not my name.”

  “Oh, I know. But that’s what I’m going to call you, okay? It’s a little game we’ll play. Emily is a pretty name, don’t you think?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll make a deal with you. If you’ll let me call you Emily, I’ll let you make up a name for me. That’s fair, isn’t it? Anything at all. Steve, Ted, Henry, Albert. I don’t care. You pick one. You can even call me Spongebob Squarepants if you want.”

  And finally, he saw the faintest trace of a smile on her face. Like she wanted to pout, or to continue being homesick, but she couldn’t resist this silliness, the very idea that a grown man would let her make up a name for him.

  “I bet you have a name in mind, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Jimmy.”

  “Oh, that’s a good name. I like it. From now on, I am officially Jimmy. And you’re Emily. That’s the deal. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, back to the original question. Do you like pepperoni?”

  Emily nodded her head again. She had an appetite. Another good sign.

  “Well, then, let’s go make a pizza!”

  He took her by the hand and led her into the kitchen. There were windows on either side of the door to the backyard, but he’d closed the curtains and safety-pinned them together, like all of the curtains in the house. He’d disconnected the telephone line, out at the box. He’d also installed deadbolt locks on all the doors — the kind that need a key even from the inside. He’d done that when he was still in the planning stages. The same day he nailed the windows into place. He had a computer on a table in the bedroom, but he’d changed the settings so nobody could log on without his password. Couldn’t be too careful. Kids her age knew how to use computers nowadays. And cell phones. That’s why he was keeping his cell phone on top of the refrigerator, out of reach. Just in case she wanted to call mommy.

  He pulled the pizza from the freezer and showed it to her. “Looks pretty good, huh? You want to unwrap it and put it in the oven?”

  She appeared confused. “I’m not supposed to touch the oven. Mommy says I’ll hurt myself.”

  He smiled at her. “You just have to be careful, that’s all. Here, I’ll show you how to do it.”

  7

  Lieutenant Paul Holland was a big man, maybe six-two, two-twenty. Short, sandy hair and a pale complexion. Possibly a Scandinavian background. Early forties. The other one, the detective, was Hispanic. Built like a baseball player. About my age. Last name Ruelas. I’d missed the first name. Both men wore suits. We were in a small interview room in a substation of the Travis County Sheriff’s Office on Hudson Bend Road, about fifteen minutes from Brian Pierce’s place.

  It had been more than an hour since I’d spotted Tracy Turner and I didn’t know what the hell we were doing. As far as I knew, no action had been taken, other than requesting I come here for an interview.

  I’d called 911 immediately, of course, then waited for a deputy. He had come quickly, I’ll give him that. Pulled in next to me in the church parking lot and asked me to repeat everything I’d told the dispatcher. Ten minutes later, another cruiser showed up, and I was thinking these guys were idiots. Talk about tipping your hand.

  Then the first deputy asked me to follow him here, to the substation. It appeared the other deputy was going to stay put.

  “Can you get an unmarked unit over here?” I said at the time, nodding toward the second patrol car. “Instead of this guy?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Christ.

  “Well, it seems like you ought to keep a low profile.”

  He gave me a patronizing smile. “We run radar along this road all the time. People are used to seeing us.”

  So I went with him. And now I’d just finished telling my story for a third time, to Holland and Ruelas. My heart rate was still elevated. My palms were sweaty. I could hardly sit still.

  Why, then, were Holland and Ruelas so calm? They appeared underwhelmed. Something wasn’t right.

  Ruelas had a notebook on the table in front of him — he’d been taking notes — and now he closed it, saying, “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Ballard. We appreciate it.”

  And that was all. Both men rose from their chairs. Evidently, we were done. But I didn’t get up. Instead, I said, “Can you tell me what’s going to happen now?”

  Holland checked his watch.

  Ruelas said, “Uh, well...”

  Pithy guy.

  And just like that, I knew what was happening. And I knew what was going to happen. Nothing. “Consider the source, huh?” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You know who I am. You know my history. You think I’m a flake. Am I correct?”

  Ruelas hesitated, shifting his notebook from one hand to the other. Yeah, he knew exactly who I was. Holland had already opened the door, ready to move on.

  “Please sit down and talk to me,” I said.

  “Mr. Ballard, I — ”

  “Just give me a few more minutes. Hear me out.”

  He looked at Holland, who said, “I’m going to get some coffee.”

  Ruelas nodded, and Holland left. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

  Ruelas turned back to me, and before he could speak, I said, “It was a little blond girl. Pink top and denim shorts. That’s what I saw. I’m not mistaken.”

  He placed his notebook on the table, slowly pulled out a chair, and sat back down. He seemed to be weighing exactly what to say.

  I continued. “I saw a photo of Tracy Turner on the news last night. I know what she looks like. I’m almost certain it was her.”

  But I could be wrong. I knew that from experience. I had to admit it to myself. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.

  Ruelas said, “She’s been missing for eighteen hours. In that time, since the Amber Alert was issued, do you know how many people have called in, claiming they’ve seen her?”

  “I know how it works.”

  “Fifty-six. All of them positive of what they saw. Just like you.”

  “Brian Pierce doesn’t have any kids. He has no siblings, which means no nieces.”

  “Maybe he’s babysitting a friend’s kid.”

  “Okay, maybe he is. So why not check it out?”

  “How would you propose we do that? Just walk right up and knock on his door?”

  “Well, why not?”

  “What if he doesn’t answer?”

  I sat silently. I knew where he was going.

  He said, “Then...what? We can’t just bust the door down, not without a warrant, which we can’t get, not without probable cause, and we’re not even close to having that. And now — let’s just assume that you correctly identified the girl from more than a hundred yards away through a pair of binoculars, which is a damn big assumption — now we’ve tipped him off. If we knock on his door and he doesn’t answer, we gain nothing and he gains a lot.”

  The door was still open and two deputies in uniform passed by, talking loudly, on their way to the break room.

 
“Are you going to set up on him?” I asked.

  Again, a hesitation, and I knew the answer. Then he said, “Mr. Ballard, I can’t tell you what we are or are not going to do. Let me say that I do believe you saw a girl. I do. But the odds of that girl being Tracy Turner...you know how many little blond girls are running around Austin right now wearing pink tops?”

  “And denim shorts,” I said.

  He didn’t reply. He was done talking.

  I’d already told him what I did for a living, and that Pierce was my latest subject, so now I said, “I still have a job to do. Pierce is suspected of insurance fraud.”

  It was a clever way to force Ruelas’s hand. If he was planning to put Pierce under surveillance, he wouldn’t want me doing the same thing.

  But all he said was, “I understand, Mr. Ballard. Thanks again for coming in.”

  8

  I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life. The mullet I sported in high school. Getting married at twenty-one. Betting on the Astros.

  All of those things are nothing — absolutely meaningless — compared to what I did on a cool spring day nine years ago. A Saturday. Laura had gone to an aerobics class, with plans to stop by the grocery store afterward, so I decided to take Hannah to the dog park near our house. We’d been talking about getting a Labrador, and I wanted to see how Hannah would handle herself around large dogs. Would she be nervous? Excited? Frightened?

  The park was crowded. Maybe thirty or forty owners and their dogs in two fenced acres. No leashes were required inside the fence, so dogs of all sizes and shapes were sprinting and bounding and leaping all over the place. Plenty of barking, too, of course, but no growling, because a sign said that dogs who caused problems weren’t allowed to come back. These were all friendly, playful dogs, and most of the owners were, too.

  Hannah and I sat on one of the many shaded benches away from everybody else and simply watched. She seemed a bit nervous when some of the larger dogs came near us, but she also seemed intrigued. When a tan-and-white pit bull came up and nuzzled her leg, Hannah giggled hysterically.

  “That’s Belle,” said the owner, a woman I had seen a few times in the neighborhood before. A jogger. Slender and very pretty. Great legs. Medium-length blond hair. About my age. Not the stereotypical pit bull owner, that’s for sure.

  “Say hi to Belle, Hannah,” I said. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about it. “Is Belle friendly?” I asked.

  “Oh, God, yes,” the woman said. “She’s a sixty-pound lap dog.”

  “Can I pet her?” Hannah asked. That was a great sign.

  “You bet. She’d love it,” the woman replied. Then, to me, she said, “I’m Susan Tate.”

  “Roy Ballard,” I said, “and my daughter Hannah.”

  Hannah was petting Belle’s head cautiously, and I may be wrong, but Belle appeared to be smiling.

  “What a cutie,” Susan said. “How old are you, Hannah? Wait, let me guess. Are you five?”

  Hannah was too busy with Belle to pay any attention to Susan.

  “She’ll be five next month,” I said.

  “I know this sounds like a standard comment from a parent, but wow, she is really pretty.”

  I’d heard it dozens of times, but I still beamed when anybody said it. Hey, it was true. Hannah was an exceptionally beautiful child. Who was I to argue?

  “We ordered her from a catalog,” I said.

  “You did not,” Hannah said automatically, without looking up, because she’d heard me use that line before.

  “Must be quite a catalog,” Susan said, smiling. Great smile. “Where can I get a copy?”

  “Well, I’m afraid the factory closed down. They ran out of perfect little girls.”

  “Darn it. I would’ve ordered three.”

  Hannah looked up at us both, just for a second, and the look on her face said she thought both of us were as silly as could be.

  “How old is Belle?” I asked.

  “Eight. Got her from my brother. He raises Staffordshire terriers.”

  “Oh, I thought she was a pit bull.”

  “Well...they’re closely related. Some people say they’re basically the same breed.”

  “We’re getting a dog soon!” Hannah said.

  “Oh, you are? What kind?”

  “I want one just like this.”

  Susan looked at me. I’m sure she saw a certain look on my face. No, I did not want a pit bull — or a Staffordshire terrier — but I didn’t want to offend her. “We’re thinking maybe a Lab,” I said.

  “A Lab, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t blame you for that. A good ol’ Lab.”

  “Yep.”

  “A good ol’ predictable Lab.”

  Was she teasing me? She plainly was.

  “I like to push the envelope,” I said. “Set trends. When other men zig, I zag.”

  “Oh, I can tell. You’re a trailblazer.”

  “Absolutely.”

  There was some flirting going on. No doubt about it. Laura had complained in the past about my tendency to flirt, but I never understood the problem. Flirting is fun, and basically harmless, because I never acted on it. I was faithful. Always had been, always would be.

  Meanwhile, Hannah had slid down from the bench and was making herself more comfortable with Belle, who was obviously enjoying the attention.

  “I want a dog just like this, Daddy,” Hannah announced.

  “You know...” Susan began.

  I laughed. I knew what she was going to say.

  “My brother does have some puppies available at the moment.”

  Again, here came the smile. But now there was something more. Something in that smile said Go for it. Don’t be a boring married guy with a Lab and a minivan.

  Then I thought of Laura. A pit bull? Wasn’t going to happen. Not in a million years.

  “Uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Very nice of you.”

  She knew I was ducking the offer, but she simply smiled, then she and Belle wandered back into the throng of people and their dogs.

  A few minutes later, Hannah and I returned to my Nissan Sentra — which is most certainly not a minivan, by the way — and then I began to think, Maybe I should get her number. Just in case. I could at least talk to Laura about it, right? It wasn’t fair for me to assume that she would say no, was it?

  Hannah was in the back seat, already buckled in, so I hurried to speak to Susan. I’d make it quick. Except I couldn’t find her. It appeared she’d already left. So I gave up and returned to the Nissan. I opened the driver’s side door — and then I froze. A panic gripped me so suddenly that I could feel my heart lurch in my chest.

  The car was empty.

  Hannah was nowhere to be seen.

  9

  I left the sheriff’s department substation and headed back toward my apartment. I was tempted to go directly back to Thomas Springs Road and set up on Brian Pierce, but I had to be realistic. It was almost sundown and there would be nothing to see. I’d be sitting on the side of the road in the dark. Better to go home, think it through, and come up with some options. I needed to talk to someone, so I called Mia while I was driving and told her the full story.

  “What are they going to do?” she asked, meaning the cops.

  “Far as I can tell, nothing.”

  “Why not?” She truly sounded surprised. Then she added, “Oh.” So much meaning in that one soft little word.

  See, Mia and I have no secrets. That’s because not only is she a bartender — and there was a time when I spent many hours in her presence, well lubricated, with loose lips and all that — but she has since become a close friend. So we share stuff. She knows virtually everything about me. Probably more than Laura ever knew.

  For instance, Mia knows that, in the year after Hannah disappeared, I more or less came unglued. Aimlessly wandering the street, day and night, just searching. Pointless rambling with no hope of success. Yet there were several times when I wa
s certain I saw Hannah. Saw her in a car passing in front of me at a red light. Saw her in an elevator with the doors just closing. Saw her in a shot of the crowd on a televised baseball game. Situations like that. Called the cops four different times to report these sightings. Made them think I was losing my shit. That’s almost certainly what made Ruelas and Holland so dismissive of me earlier today. They typed my name into a computer, saw my history, and thought, Okay, this guy is a bit of a nut.

  Hence the reason for Mia’s “Oh.” She’d connected the dots.

  Now she said, “How sure are you of what you saw?”

  A fair question. I didn’t answer right away. Being completely honest, I was starting to question myself. That’s what happens. You lose confidence in your judgment. After being wrong so many times, you think you’ll never be right again. “Ninety percent,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything. All I could hear was the background noise. She was at work and it sounded like the tavern was busy for a Wednesday night.

  “You think I’m crazy, right?” I asked.

  “Of course not. I mean, it’s not like you’re claiming you saw Amelia Earhart. You saw a girl and you think it might be Tracy Turner. You did see a girl? Not a shadow or a dog or something?”

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me? It was a girl.”

  “Hey, don’t get all defensive. The eyes can play tricks. Did you shoot any video?”

  “I didn’t have a camera on me.”

  “Hang on.” I could hear Mia talking to a customer. Then she said, “So what’s your plan?”

  “Ha. Plan.”

  “So...no plan yet.”

  “Doesn’t help that his house is stuck in the middle of the woods. I can’t get close enough. Not without being obvious.”

  Now I could tell she was talking to another customer. Then she said, “You want to meet me later and talk about it?” Code for, “I’m too busy to talk right now.”

  “That’s okay. I think I’m in for the night.”

  “Call me tomorrow. My day off.”

  It’s difficult to understand why one missing-person case catches the nation’s heart and soul while thousands more hardly get thirty seconds on the local news. You know the type of high-profile case I’m talking about. The one that gets near-constant play on CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and every other national media outlet hungry for ratings.