Capturing Angels (9 page)

“You cannot bargain with God,” John would tell me. “God can’t be made to owe you anything. He’s not a storekeeper who will give you what you ask for if you just pay Him the price. That’s why these people who attend church services only when they feel like it or only on holidays are even more despised than those who don’t attend at all. You can’t give God five days a year and expect something in return, a little good fortune, a little health and happiness. It doesn’t work that way.”

He quoted more scripture, tried to read passages to me from the Bible or relate some words of religious wisdom that Father McDermott had offered. In fact, it seemed to me that the more time that passed since Mary’s abduction, the more religious John became. It was almost as if he wanted to show me more than he wanted to show his God how strong his faith was.

I stopped mentioning the subject entirely.

Finally, one morning, I rose when John did, and after he had left for work, I decided I would return to the mall and even to the department store and the very place I had stood when I had first realized that Mary wasn’t beside me. I even located the very clothes I had worn that day and put them on. I struggled to remember every detail about what Mary and I had done before we had left to go shopping, and I repeated each and every action I could recall. Then I got into my car and started away. Looking into my rearview mirror, I saw that Margaret had just come out of her house. She looked after me and stood there until I had made the turn and left our street.

Maybe I should have taken her along, I thought. Maybe I could have used her strength. Besides, it wasn’t right to keep rejecting her kindness. She had cried with us and prayed with us, and she knew, as we did, that Mary’s birthday was approaching.

Yes, I would have benefited from her company. I could feel the trembling in my hands as I clutched the steering wheel. When I came to that cross street where I had turned away every time before, I slowed, and then, holding my breath, I jerked into the turning lane, nearly cutting off another vehicle. The driver let me know it with a blaring of his horn as he shot past me.

“Sorry,” I whispered, “but you’ll just have to endure it.” I kept driving.

It was eerie, but I was able to park in the exact same spot in the underground garage. I sat with the engine off, practically hyperventilating. Finally, I got out and made my way to the escalator. When I reached the store level, I felt as if I had truly come up from the dark depth of the nightmare I was living and could breathe clean, fresh air. Maybe if I did this, I would suddenly be brought back to that very day, and I wouldn’t lose Mary after all. Everything since would have been a nightmare destroyed by the morning sun.

I turned toward the department store just the way I had turned that fateful day. Retracing my steps as precisely as I could, I reached the entrance and tried to recall how it was possible that I had not realized that Mary was lingering too long behind me and had not entered the store right alongside me. Where had I let go of her hand? I must have taken it when we were on the escalator. I had to have let go immediately afterward.

I stared at the door. People walked past me, some gazing oddly at me because I was just standing there staring at the entrance. A stout older woman, not watching where she was going, knocked into me. She started to apologize and then, maybe because of something she saw in my face, just walked away. Even people coming out almost paused when they looked at me. I must have appeared quite terrified.
Why did I come here?
I asked myself, and I had started to turn away when I heard someone say, “Mrs. Clark?”

I turned to see Lieutenant Abraham coming toward me on my left. He was carrying a bag filled with a purchase he had made at a men’s clothing store. I stared at him so long that he paused and said, “Lieutenant Abraham. Sam Abraham.”

“Yes,” I said. “Sorry. Of course, I know who you are. I was just . . . shocked to hear anyone say my name.”

He nodded, holding his smile. “You okay?” he asked.

I shook my head. He lost his smile and stepped closer. Then he looked from me to the department-store entrance and back to me.

“Why are you standing here like this? Were you in the store? Did you just come out?”

“No. I wanted to go in, but I just reached this point and couldn’t go any farther,” I said. “This is the first time I’ve returned to this mall. I was hoping . . . I don‘t know what I was hoping.”

“Oh.” He thought a moment. “How about we get a cup of coffee?” He nodded at the café three stores down on our right. “Maybe if you just sit for a while.”

I started to say no and then looked at him. Did he have something to tell me? Was the FBI trying to get hold of me that very moment? I shuddered, struggling to speak.

“They haven’t found her or found any clues or—”

“No, nothing I know about. I’ve kept myself informed on the case,” he said. “C’mon.” He put his arm on mine. “Let’s have a cup of coffee.”

I nodded and let him lead me to the café. We took a table in the far right corner and both ordered lattes.

He pointed to his bag. “I desperately needed some new shirts. When it comes to buying things for myself, I’m the world’s best procrastinator.”

“I can’t imagine when I would even think of something new for myself,” I said.

He nodded. “I wish I could have remained full-time on your daughter’s disappearance, but once the FBI took over, I had trouble defending more time.”

“They have been a great disappointment,” I said. “When you hear it’s the FBI, you think of super detectives or something.”

“Well, they’re pretty good most of the time. They do a lot. I know local police are supposed to resent them coming in and taking control, as if we were inexperienced or incompetent, but they do bring a great deal to the table.” He leaned toward me. “Don’t tell any L.A. cop I said that.”

I smiled. Seeing him there was somewhat shocking, but it didn’t bring the sort of dread I could have associating anything or anyone with that dreadful day.

“I understand what you’re saying, but they’re still a disappointment to me.”

“To themselves as much as to you, I’m sure. They don’t like drawing a complete zero.”

“I doubt their disappointment could be as much as mine,” I said, sipping some coffee. “Nothing came of that Santa Claus thing?”

“I’ve gone over and over that.” He drank some of his coffee and looked at me like someone who had something else to say.

“What?”

“It’s a wild theory. It presupposes so much.”

“What?”

“Santa is quite a distraction for any little boy or girl your daughter’s age. Kids are comfortable around Santa. I mean, we hope every parent warns her children about strangers these days, but you don’t hear of anyone warning them against Santa.”

“So?”

He hesitated and then leaned toward me again. I felt as if I were falling into his eyes.

“So, what if even though this guy didn’t take your daughter’s hand and lead her away, he was responsible for it? I mean deliberately so. What if he was meant to appear and then someone else told your daughter that Santa wanted to speak to her or Santa was leading her back to you? It’s a hard thing for a kid to turn down.”

“Sort of a decoy?”

“Yes, exactly,” he said. “He took her mind off you and whoever was able to get her to go along. It’s crazy to even think of it, I know. Some might call it fantasy police work.”

“Why?”

“It’s too premeditated,” he said. “It presupposes that someone expected that there would be an opportunity. That is, if it was indeed your Mary they were after and no one else. Of course, they might have just been waiting for an opportunity with any child who fit the bill.”

“I see,” I said with some disappointment dripping from my lips.

He shrugged. “That’s how you get sometimes when you’re in my line of work and run up against walls and more walls. You start to envision what a more intelligent thief or killer or—”

“Kidnapper?”

“Or kidnapper might come up with. I’m afraid it would lead us nowhere.”

I stared at him for a moment. The memory of the softness in his eyes, his compassion, and what I felt was extra-special care when he had first come to see about Mary at the mall began to return.

“Did you try the idea out on your friend at the FBI, Agent Joseph?”

“I mentioned it. I can’t blame him for putting it on some back burner or in some file.”

“Suppose you had charge of the investigation, though. What would you have done with the idea?”

“This is wrong,” he suddenly said, sitting back. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Suggesting wild ideas to a woman who is obviously desperate. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I had no business doing it.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

He started to shake his head.

“No, tell me.”

“It was quite a surprise seeing you here just now. I haven’t forgotten you. I mean, your pain and your suffering.”

“Do you always take such a personal interest in the victims of crimes you investigate?” I asked.

I locked my eyes on his.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

“Well, I don’t mean to sound so aggressive. I do appreciate it.”

He nodded, sipped some more coffee, and looked away. I found myself studying him. He wasn’t as handsome as John. Few men were, but there was something more attractive about the lines in his face, something manlier about him. He looked tough, hard, competitive, but he could soften and be tender, too, I thought.

He turned back to me, and we just looked at each other, neither knowing what else to say.

Then he smiled. “How are things otherwise?”

“Well, my girlfriends treat me as if I’m a time bomb. My parents can’t visit or call without crying. I’m practically shriveling up at home, and then, to top it off, my mother-in-law passed away unexpectedly recently.”

“Oh? I’m sorry.”

“Yes. I don’t know how to say this without it sounding unfeeling, but it was only a short period when I wasn’t thinking about Mary, and I was glad when it was over, the wake, the funeral, the burial and period of mourning, so I could get back to agonizing over Mary’s abduction. I didn’t dislike my mother-in-law, but John returned to work rather quickly, so I felt I had permission to put the sadness involving his mother to bed.”

“How’s his father?”

“He’s started playing golf and is so into it that I’m not sure he even knows his wife died.” I paused. “That was a mean thing to say. I shouldn’t have.”

Sam Abraham smiled. “I remember when you told me your father was addicted to golf.”

“John says there are a lot of widows with husbands who fell deeper in love with golf. My mother might agree.”

Sam Abraham nodded. “So, things are okay with you and your husband? I’m sorry,” he added immediately. “That’s out of order.”

“I’m sure you know from experience what often happens when a couple suffers a similar tragedy. They often take it out on each other. Right?”

He nodded.

“John wanted me to go into therapy again. He even located a new therapist, a female who supposedly specializes in my problem and was recommended by our doctor, so that I could get new medication.”

“You never did?”

“No. Maybe I should have, but it just seemed like . . .”

“Like what?” he asked. I could see that he was genuinely interested and not asking questions just to pass the time and get this unexpected meeting ended.

“Like accepting. Do you understand? Can you understand? I want to keep on suffering. It keeps hope alive for me. Drugs, therapists, friends with good intentions, vacations, anything that would mitigate that, seem too much like giving up on Mary.”

“I never heard it put that way, but I do understand. In a funny way, I admire your courage or, rather, your willingness to continue in full-blown suffering and pain.”

“Well, you’re the first to do that,” I said, sipping my coffee.

“It’s also quite understandable for someone to want to go the other way. Don’t misunderstand me.”

“Right.” There was another one of those pregnant pauses between us, both of us struggling to find something else meaningful to say or ask. I nodded at the bag containing his purchases.

“I guess you’re still a bachelor, shopping for yourself.”

“Yes, I’m almost hopeless when it comes to romance and marriage.”

“That devotion to your work?”

“You remember.” He smiled appreciatively. “Yes.”

“My husband has a more traditional devotion, to his church, his God.”

“His God? Not your God, too?”

“We’re not getting the same messages from the Bible these days.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“As I said, John thinks I need therapy. Sitting here with you and telling you these things feels like therapy. I don’t mind it, either.”

“Hey. Sometimes all you need in this world is a good listener, a sincere listener, not necessarily a professional.”

“Yes,” I said. We stared at each other a moment, and I finished my coffee.

“Do you want to try again?”

“Pardon?”

“Going into that store? I’ll walk in there with you.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you should,” he said. “I think you need to do that.” He reached out and touched my hand. “I’ll be right beside you.”

I thought for a moment and then nodded. He paid for our coffees, and we both rose.

“Don’t forget your bag,” I told him. He looked as if he was going to do just that.

“Thanks.”

He took my arm, and we started out of the café. I knew I was moving, but from my neck down, my body seemed to grow numb. It seemed to disappear. I slowed down, nearly stopping completely.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s just a department store.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll see.”

I nodded but leaned heavily on him. He sensed it and put his arm around my waist. I imagined that to other people, it might have looked as if he was carrying me into the store.

He reached out to open the door and looked at me.

Without any prodding, he said, “I’m sure your daughter is still alive.”