Chapter Three

Frank filled the gas tank of the Denali in Baltimore before heading out of town. Four hours and two hundred-fifty miles from now, he’d arrive in the town of Philippi, Barbour’s County seat. He planned to enjoy the drive, take his mind off the flurry of questions rattling around in his brain.

West Virginia this time of year lay in a virtual cradle of splendor. Noted for its lofty mountains and diverse forests of hardwoods, the miles sped by while Frank devoured the scenery. Logging and coal mining ranked high on the state’s list of resources, and oh, yeah, lest he forget, the abundant outdoor recreational activities—skiing, whitewater rafting, hiking, fishing and hunting.

He didn’t know where this journey would take him, possibly through rugged mountains or across rivers and streams, but he’d packed clothing for all kinds of weather and terrain. Something told him unless he got a momentous break he’d be searching long and hard for answers, or bodies.

He’d been through the file Hayworth left him a hundred times, and all roads led to Rome—out of the city, or in this case out of town. Studying a map of the local area, the surrounding countryside was littered with small towns—small meaning miniscule and below the poverty level. The girls, if they were alive, could have been transported to Moatsville, Kasson or Nestorville, the three closest towns. Then again, someone could have snatched them and hauled them all the way to Singapore by now. In most respects, hunting them down would be like looking for a turtle with a mustache. He recalled Rueben’s statement, “There are no child-molesters in the area.” Well, Frank had news for Mr. Hayworth. Child-molesters often went outside their own locale to search for victims. Frank catalogued that thought in the recesses of his brain. He had to be open to every possibility. And yet, the waif-like creature and her sweet song could not be dismissed. She had to have something to do with this wayward trek he’d embarked on.

Gut instinct or perhaps his inner eye told him the girls were alive, and that thought conjured up all kinds of nasty images. Why would someone take three girls, all around the age of ten if not for sexual reasons? Frank visibly shivered. A hundred movies, thoughts and scenarios ran through his mind. Without a Trace, a movie where a weirdo son and mother kidnapped a child because, wheelchair-bound the old lady needed help. Nah, if that was the case here, three girls wouldn’t be missing.

He also thought about the infamous Jacob Wetterling case in Minnesota. A masked man had hand-picked the boy, singled him out from his friends. Some said Jacob was chosen for his good looks, others said for human sacrifice. Again, the commonalities between the Minnesota case and the West Virginia case were non-existent.

Thousands of kids went missing at any given time in the country. Although the motives varied, the key to finding them was to uncover the motive. Frank wasn’t just looking for Mindy Kenton, Chelsea Gimmel, and Lauren Brekken, but he’d look for the person who had a reason to take them.

He had one ace up his sleeve right now, Ghost-girl. No one could ever convince him her arrival in his life was coincidental. Although images of the sprightly little urchin were somewhat murky, she looked remarkably similar to the blonde-hair-blue-eyed missing girls.

Frank glanced in his rearview mirror and almost expected to see her sitting in the back seat. He hadn’t heard her melodious voice or felt her presence since Friday night when she damn near froze him and Rand out of the condo. "Make no mistake about it, Frank, my boy, she’s here somewhere, and here for a reason," he said to the mirror.

Another shudder claimed him. God, were ghosts able to observe everything going on around them in the physical sense? Had she seen him and Rand . . .. Oh, he didn’t want to think about it. He felt like the ring-leader of a pornography ring subjecting her to the private licentious acts between adults. Thus, the reason he hadn’t touched Rand for the remainder of the weekend. Not that Rand hadn’t tried everything in his power to seduce him short of holding the Glock to his head again.

Frank laughed and wondered what Rand would think about the note he’d left for him on the kitchen counter. Addressing it to Randy Rand, he gave him a general idea of his itinerary and the number to the Super 8 in Philippi in case an emergency arose. After giving Rand the cold shoulder all weekend, and after the salutation on the note, he doubted Rand would call unless the condo had burned to the ground.

Frank stopped at the halfway mark to stretch his legs and to grab a latté, of which he’d add just a finger or two of Jack Daniels. He had a feeling he’d need more than two shots of whiskey when he met the Honorable Judge Parker Kenton today. He hoped he didn’t end up in Kenton’s court for drinking and driving.

* * *

Judge Parker’s quaint two-story sat at the top of a hill at the end of town, somewhat isolated from the other houses in the town of Philippi. Frank had checked out his coordinates, a habit from his days at the Baltimore Police Department, the moment he entered the small, down-home-feel town. Although he’d ditched the job the moment his best friend and partner, Quinn Brennan, was gunned down, he hadn’t been able to ditch his instinctual watch your back at all times cop attitude.

He’d gone over the events leading up to Quinn’s death a thousand times and relived the horrific images of the man dying in his arms. On that day, both he and Quinn had let down their guards, responded to a routine burglary call at a bank in Baltimore. Ironically, they weren’t required to answer the call, but wanted to watch their comrades in action. Frank had read once that God picks the day and not the way. Until that fateful afternoon, he’d scoffed at the notion. Not anymore. Nothing could have prevented Quinn’s death. It had all happened so fast—the druggie storming out the door of the bank with gun blazing, shooting at everyone and everything in sight. Frank’s best friend happened to be in line of the bullet’s sight—well, actually three bullets.

Quinn left a wife, Emily, beautiful Em, and two kids, Marlow and Rand—the one and only Rand, the Rand who made his heart race and his common sense flit away on a breeze. Lost in thought, Frank shook his head. Damn, he missed Quinn, thought of the man every day of his life.

A blue jay screeched from a nearby pine, jolting Frank back to the present. He glanced at the twin lions greeting him as he walked up the cobblestone path to the house. Oh, not real lions, but fierce-looking statues made from gray slate with eyes of emerald stones. They gave him the willies. He lifted the gold knocker and rapped three times. Moments later, he heard footfalls from the other side and a woman opened the door—middle-aged, tall and lithesome. Mindy’s mother he assumed.

"Good afternoon," she said. "How may I help you?"

"Hello." He extended his hand. "Frank McGuire. We’ve never met, but Rueben Hayworth sent—"

"I know who you are Mr. McGuire. The FBI notified my husband you’d be stopping by." She took his outstretched hand, her long, graceful fingers clasping his. "Please, come in." Leading him down a long hallway, she turned to him." I’m Miriam, Mindy’s mother, and moments later, stepping under the archway leading to the great room, she introduced a man. "This is Parker, Mindy’s father.

The stately man rose from a chair near the hearth to greet him. Lofty like the nearby mountains, and gangly-limbed, the intense green eyes assessed him with the sight of a hawk. His gray hair met the collar of his stiffly starched white shirt. Frank sensed an aura of superiority or at least heightened awareness about the man. Good, he was the first one Frank wanted to question about the girls’ disappearance. He didn’t imagine much got by Judge Kenton in this neck of the woods much less in the man’s court.

Parker stepped forward with outstretched arm. "Thank you for coming, Mr. McGuire. Would you care for a cup of coffee, or perhaps a soda in this godforsaken heat would serve you better?"

"Thank you, nothing right now." To kill any leftover residue of the whiskey, he swallowed the remainder of a mint he’d been sucking on.

The woman directed him into a chair and then took a seat opposite him, folding her pale, white hands and piano fingers in her lap. Parker returned to his chair by the hearth and waited patiently while Frank pulled a pen from his pocket and opened the file. "First off, let me say how terribly sorry I am that your daughter, Mindy, has turned up missing."

"Our daughter has not turned up missing, Mr. McGuire." The Judge snorted; a nuance Frank imagined he used often in the courtroom. "Someone kidnapped her."

Frank paused and drew a breath from the tense air. "Yes, we’ll talk about that in a minute, but first I must rule out several other options. Procedure, you know, Mr. and Mrs. Kenton."

"Please, call me Miriam, and my husband, Parker. You’ll find during your stay here, however brief . . .." During the pause, she dabbed at her eyes with a well-worn hankie. Frank wondered how he’d missed the red-rimmed, swollen orbs when she answered the door. "You’ll find we West Virginians are a social bunch and quite big on hospitality."

"Thank you, ma’am . . . Miriam, and please, call me Frank." Other than her puffy eyes, Mindy’s mother hid her distress well behind the stoic features, the Judge not so well. "Let’s just go over a few questions so I have a starting point." Frank shifted in the chair and placed the notebook on his thighs. "She disappeared June third, ten days ago, is that right?"

Miriam nodded.

"Two questions. Where do you think she disappeared from, the exact location, and the last time you saw her, was she alone?"

The Judge looked at his wife.

"Parker held court that afternoon so I was the last one to see Mindy." Tears welled in her eyes. "We had just finished lunch and Mindy asked if she could go to the park down the street for a spell." Her back stiffened. "Mind you, before children started vanishing beneath our noses, not a parent in Philippi would deny such a request." Her voice rose an octave. "It’s not unusual for our young ones to wander about their own neighborhoods or ride their bicycles from here to there."

"Oh, please, understand, I’m not the law, and not here to point accusatory fingers or judge in any way. I want to help find Mindy and the other girls, so please don’t take offense at my questions."

"Very well. I’m sure you can imagine the guilt I feel piled onto the grief . . .."

"Let’s get back to your questions, McGuire." Parker’s brash tone wasn’t lost on Frank. "The local sheriff and his hooligans have wasted days running around in circles. My wife and I are most anxious to have an outside private investigator take up the case to find our daughter."

Yep, just as he imagined, a no-nonsense-cut-through-the-shit character if ever he’d seen one. "So, Miriam, you granted her permission to go to the park down the street. I’ll drive down there and take a look when I’m finished here. Did she go alone?"

"Why yes, she often went alone and would meet up with other neighborhood children once she arrived."

Frank looked at the Judge. "I can assume the sheriff you spoke of questioned all the children who might have frequented the park that day?"

"He claims he did, and Miriam and I have also spoken to her classmates, friends. I don’t believe she ever made it to the park."

"Why do you say that?"

Miriam rose and retrieved an object from a fancy sideboard against the wall behind her chair. She held it out before Frank. "This is Betsy, Mindy’s doll. The sheriff found her one block from the park next to her bicycle."

He glanced at the doll for a brief spell and then refocused on Miriam. In that infinitesimal moment, all the blood had been siphoned from the woman’s face. Whiter than chalk dust, he thought perhaps she might faint. Coming to his feet in a rush, he took the doll from her outstretched hand. "Please, sit down."

On wobbly legs, she returned to the chair and eased into it with the grace of a ballet dancer. The woman had poise and a staunch moral fiber. Good, Frank thought, she’d need to call on both at the end of the day. "Gone, vanished into thin air," she whispered. "She would never have left Betsy behind unless something abrupt happened, not in a million years."

Frank resumed his seat, and was about to ask the next question when the words to a song took flight.

Go to sleep my dolly. Shut your eyes of blue.

The room spun. He looked at the doll in his lap and expected to see her lips move.

Parker’s voice came to him from a far-off place. "McGuire, are you all right? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a glass of water or something? Mr. McGuire?"

Frank shook his head.

Soon will come the sandman. Bringing dreams to you.

The woman’s voice. "Frank, did I say something to―"

"No, not at all."

Ghost-girl had returned. She’d followed him and he heard her words now just as clearly as he could hear water running over a mountain stream. There wasn’t any sense asking Mr. and Mrs. Kenton if they heard her voice. The answer would be ‘no’. He’d called her forth, albeit mistakenly and only he could hear her.

"Spit it out, man, what do you think happened to our daughter?"

Frank moved the doll aside to jot down a note before answering Parker and his hand met a surge of resistance. Ghost-girl had tried to take the doll from his lap. He clutched the toy with a firm grip and pressed it against his thigh while asking for directions to the park. Again, he felt a solid tug on the doll’s dress. Oh, you want her, do you? I have your attention now. I bet you won’t be disappearing for days at a time as long as I have little Betsy in my grasp, will you? Perhaps we can make a trade, little one. The doll for information. Frank wrote down the directions to the park and turned to the parents, looking at them individually. "To answer your question, I think it quite likely your daughter was kidnapped. Of course, I have no idea by whom or why. My work has only just begun. Unless you have additional information or questions, I’m off to take a look at the park and then I’ll speak with the parents of Chelsea Gimmel and Lauren Brekken."

"The Gimmels live in nearby Kasson; the Brekkens in Nestorville. Would you like directions?"

"Thank you, no." Frank came to his feet again, Betsy clutched in his hand. "I have a map and by the looks of it, I’m sure I could ask anyone in town and they’d know the families." Frank handed Parker his card when the man rose from the chair. "I’ll be staying at the local Super 8 in town. Call me if you think of something, anything at all you might have forgotten."

Parker took the card from his hand.

"One more thing. I’ve looked at the pictures of the missing girls.” Frank cleared his throat. “They are very similar in looks; wouldn’t you agree?"

Miriam’s hand went to her throat. "Why, yes, they do now that I think about it. You must forgive me, Frank. I’ve been so distraught, haven’t been much good to anyone these days."

"Understandable. Does Mindy know Lauren and Chelsea?"

"Yes, of course," Parker said. "Everyone knows everyone around these parts." His eyes misted over. "Thank you, Frank, for not saying did Mindy know Lauren and Chelsea. We appreciate every little scrap at this point. Hope against hope she is still alive."

"Never give up hope. I’ve worked on cases where children have been missing for months, at times years."

A long breath of air left Miriam’s lungs. "Thank you, Frank. Please find our Mindy and bring her home."

"I’ll do my best. Would it be all right with you if I took Betsy here with me? I work best when I have something that belonged to the missing child."

"Of course," Parker said. "Whatever you need to help you in your search, please just ask."

"I’ll be in touch tomorrow, after I get familiar with the area and meet with the other parents."

Parker escorted him to the door and moments later, Frank pulled from the curb, the doll resting in his lap.

Go to sleep my dolly. Shut your eyes of blue.

"What’s your name?" Frank asked the vacant air in the most honey-toned voice he could muster. He didn’t know Ghost-girl’s precise location, but she was in the front seat of the Denali tugging on Betsy’s pink dress. The doll’s long black eyelashes fluttered as if someone had blown a tiny breath over her porcelain face.

Soon will come the sandman. Bringing dreams to you.

"Not ready to tell me your name yet, huh? That’s all right. The doll’s name is Betsy, and she’s going to stick with me like glue while I’m here. You help me find those missing girls and I bet I can make arrangements for you to keep Betsy. Would you like that?”

Frank’s windshield wipers kicked on at high speed and there wasn’t a drop of rain within miles. "Ah, so you have psychokinetic abilities? That’s good, little Ghost-girl, just as long as you don’t try to smash my head in with something."

The wipers stopped and Ghost-girl tried to grab the doll from his hand.

"Oh, I know you want the doll and you want her something fierce. When you’re ready to tell me your name, I might let you hold her for a while. What do you think of that? If you can move objects, you can write your name in the dirt. Are you old enough to write your name?" The wipers started up. "I get it. If the wipers kick in, that means yes. If you stop the wipers, that means no." Frank looked at the wipers working overtime on his windshield. "Did you learn your letters? Can you write your name?"

Click. Click. Click. Click.

"Will you tell me your name?"

The wipers came to an abrupt halt.

"Do you want to keep the doll?"

Click. Click. Click. Click.

"Do you know where the missing girls are?" A long pause while Frank’s eyes bore into the glare of the windshield. "Okay. No answers, no Betsy. Do you know who took the girls?"

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

"I thought so, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want to help me find Mindy, Chelsea and Lauren, don’t you? And when you do, I’ll give you the doll."

Close your eyes of blue. Close your eyes of blue.

Frank looked at the doll and her eyes remained closed. A stillness fell over the inside of the car along with a deep sense of peace. Ghost-girl had fallen asleep.

"Hey, you forgot to turn my wipers off."