"She wasn't talking much."

Margaret thanked Charlene. We headed toward the door.

"Chasing them down don't do no good. Just wear you out," Charlene said.

"I'm her mother," I said.

"Mamas wear out too."

"My son Conrad used to hang out at that place," Margaret said when we were back in the car. "He made all his weed connections there. I met Charlene when I used to go looking for him. When he moved up to meth, the dealers were on the white side of town. Equal opportunity, my dear," Margaret said.

"Every time Angelica seems to have kicked meth, it turns out she was only on vacation. It's a hard, hard drug," Bethany said.

Maybe I should have fallen on my knees right then and there and thanked God it was marijuana Trina was after and not something that would whiplash her and leave her reeling. But marijuana could do that to her. Marijuana and no meds equaled mania plus delusions plus paranoia. Speed and crack would have been worse, but a trip to hell is a trip to hell, no matter what's taking you there.

Brad, Bethany, and I agreed that it didn't make sense to drive back to Justin's house when he, Angelica, and Trina were either parked somewhere in his car smoking weed or else driving around looking for meth. But Margaret said we should go there and wait, in case they returned.

"They wouldn't smoke at his house, would they?" I asked.

"A lot goes on over there," Margaret said.

After Margaret gave us directions for getting to the bus station, the train station, and a couple of other weed-friendly places that the young local like-to-get-high people knew about, we dropped her off at Justin's house, where she'd volunteered to wait while we drove around. Our efforts proved futile. After about forty-five minutes, we returned. Margaret and Justin were standing on the walkway that led to the house.

I could tell that Justin was high. He wasn't cool enough to disguise his spacy expression and the teenybopper buzz that glazed his eyes.

"Where are our daughters?" I asked him.

"They, uh-I was gonna . . ." He looked from Bethany to me, back and forth, like the branch of a thin sapling being blown by the wind. His eyes settled on Bethany's. "Angelica hooked up with this dude at Woodie's. She left with him."

"Where did they go?" Bethany asked.

"I don't know. I don't know. The guy said he'd bring her right back, but we waited and-uh-"

"Did they go to get meth?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to me, you little shit," Bethany said. "She doesn't have any money for drugs. Do you know what that means?"

He stood there frozen.

"I could have you arrested for possession," she said.

"Take it easy," Brad said. He faced Justin. "Truth, dude." There was something threatening in Brad's tone. Justin didn't look him in his eyes.

"Yeah, they went to score some meth."

"Where?" Brad asked. He moved closer to Justin. Brad's chest seemed to have expanded.

"This dude they call Rocco has a place."

"Do you know where it is?"

"I can't-"

"You don't have to be involved. Just tell us where it is," Brad said.

"Did my daughter go with her?" I asked.

"She left."

"Where did she go?"

"When we were at Mrs. Schultz's house, she asked me if I had any chronic-uh, any marijuana. So I told her I didn't have any but I knew where we could go get some. And she said not to tell you, that we would be back before you noticed that we were gone. So-"

"Where is she now?"

"After we left Woodie's, we-uh, went to the park and . . ." He lifted his hands up, let them fall, scanned my face, and looked at Margaret. "I mean . . . I was bringing her back to your house. We were on our way." He glanced at me. "But we got to the red light and she jumped out of the car. I tried to find her but the light was still red, and by the time it turned green she was gone."

Gonegonegonegonegonegonegone.

I had my hands on him before I could draw my next breath. "Where did she go?"

"Keri." This from Brad. It took effort for him to loosen my grip on Justin's arm.

I let go of Justin, but not before I completely blew his high.

"Where did she go?"

"After the light changed, I drove around looking for her. I saw her get in a car with two dudes. I tried to chase them down, but they took off."

My knees buckled. I caught hold of Justin's shirt where it covered his belly. I held on, trying not to feel the net that was coming down over me, the rope growing tighter around my wrists. Angelica had warned me about the slave catchers. What she didn't know, what I should have realized, was that I'd never left the plantation.

27.

I CALLED HOSPITALS FIRST, PSYCH WARDS. MARGARET KNEW the names of three, and then I had Justin go in his house and bring back a Yellow Pages. There were about sixteen hospitals in the area. None of them had Trina.

"I'll have to call the police," I said, leaning against the car.

"What are you going to say?" Brad asked.

"That my mentally ill child is missing. I am not going to mention the program."

I knew, of course, that there would be a waiting period. Twenty-four hours? Forty-eight hours? No. The magic seventy-two. Nothing would happen until time had passed. Time always had to pass.

I called anyway, and after they put me on hold the officer told me it was too soon for them to do anything.

Justin wanted to give us an address and some directions, and go back into his house to see if he could recapture the last vestiges of his high. Brad persuaded him that it might be better to show us the way. He was not a happy guide, nor, as it turned out, a good one. We drove north on the freeway for at least twenty minutes before he realized that we were going the wrong way; then we drove for forty-five minutes in the opposite direction. The exit we took led to an area that was rural and poor. The houses were spread out. There were no real streets. We passed several trailer parks before turning down a long unpaved road that led to a dilapidated small ranch sitting on several acres of land.

"That's it," Justin said. He looked as though he wanted to flee.

There were cars parked in front of the house on what would have been a lawn. An odd odor hung in the air, sharp and pungent. Something was cooking.

Brad parked about fifty yards away; then he got out and strode to the house. Even through the rolled-up windows, I could hear voices and laughter. Everyone got silent when Brad knocked. Two or three guys came to the door. I could hear Brad talking, explaining things in a forceful tone of voice. They closed the door in his face. A few minutes later, it opened.

We heard Angelica before we saw her. Her curses rent the still air surrounding us. When Brad came out of the house, he had his arm around her waist and was trying to hold her against his side. The guys stood at the door watching, not saying anything. Angelica's arms were flailing, and she attempted to kick him as he dragged her to the car. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt with most of the buttons undone. Bethany got out and ran toward them. Brad told her to go back, but she kept running toward them, yelling and screaming incoherently. She rushed past Brad and Angelica and raced up to the three men, who were watching. "What did you do to her?" she screamed over and over, until the men, who never answered, went inside.

When Bethany joined Brad and Angelica, she tried to grab her daughter by the shoulders, but Angelica shook her off. Then she tried to hit her. Brad had to hold Angelica with one hand and keep Bethany away with the other. Margaret and I tore out of the car and pulled her away. She tried to fight us too, but then she got very still and just stood where she was until she stopped weeping.

By the time Brad got Angelica seated in the back between Margaret and me, sweat was dripping off his forehead. Angelica was wild, more agitated than I'd ever seen her. She was muttering furiously to herself and didn't pay attention to any of us, except Bethany. She vented the last of her rage on her mother, who appeared to have slipped into catatonia, her face was so devoid of emotion. Angelica's curses and threats were wasted on her.

Brad went right to his glove compartment, retrieved his hypodermic, and gave her a shot of Haldol. After a while her curses became slurred and softer.

"Do you know where Trina went?" I asked.

I expected some version of speaking in tongues. Angelica hadn't said one coherent thing since she'd gotten into the car, but now she turned and spoke clearly. "She doesn't want you."

Margaret's house was quiet when we returned, but not for long. When Brad tried to get Angelica to take her regular medication, she spit it out and filled the small bedroom with a stream of curses that echoed throughout the house. Bethany trailed into and out of the room, pleading with her daughter to take the pills. Meth-enhanced psychosis was a powerful adversary.

Margaret began cooking, clattering pans and clanging utensils, which didn't completely shut out the din from Angelica's room. Bethany was smoking on the back patio. When I went out there, several butts were on the ground near her feet, and she was lighting another.

"They should be shot, those guys."

"Yeah."

"And they're supposed to be the fucking normal ones."

"Right."

"Like they couldn't tell that she had a problem. Fucking assholes." She took another drag from her cigarette and began muttering under her breath. "I guess I'll have to get her tested."

I didn't answer that one. I had no comfort to give Bethany, so I went back into the kitchen. Jean wandered in, took a look at me, and hovered. Margaret put a cup of tea in front of me. Maybe she thought it would make me feel better. I stood up.

"I need to make some calls," I said. Jean disappeared immediately and returned with Brad.

"I'd like to speak with you, Keri," he said.

"Okay."

"Regardless of what's happened, the confidentiality of the program must be upheld. The situation will be resolved. We'll find Trina. So, I don't want you to-"

"I have to call her father and tell him our child is missing."

"I just want to impress on you-"

"You don't need to impress a goddamn thing on me. You find my child."

"Keri, you-"

"Brad," Margaret said. He looked at her and then at me.

"The program is everything to him," Margaret said, as soon as he and Jean had left and it was just Margaret and me sitting at the table. "His wife left him less than a year ago. That was his second." She sighed and looked at me. "We'll find her. My son used to run away. . . ." Margaret knew I wasn't listening, but she kept talking anyway.

I left in the middle of her monologue. In the bedroom, I tried to collect myself, to practice saying, Clyde, Trina is missing, and it's my fault. The phone at Clyde's office rang seven times before his answering machine took the message, which I repeated for his home phone. His cell just rang and rang. My arms began to ache. I can't lose both of them.

Orlando answered his phone on the second ring. He said, "Hey, baby, you feeling better?" And he listened when I told him no, no, not better, and explained what had happened, not everything, not the part about the program, just the part where I admitted that Trina was missing.

"Don't panic, baby. You have your cell phone. Maybe she'll call you."

Maybe she'll call me. I thought, She's riding in a car with two strange men. And then I told him everything. While I was talking I could hear him saying Listen to me, listen to me, listen, listen . . . But I couldn't listen. I hadn't called to listen to him. I just wanted to hear my thoughts pitched against his voice. I just wanted to know he was there.

"Where are you? How long would it take me to get there?"

"Isn't opening night soon?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "I have an understudy."

"I don't even know where I am, Orlando. Somewhere outside of Sacramento. I don't know the address. I'll call you back as soon as we find Trina."

"No," he said. "Get the address and give it to me. I'll hold on. Go get the address."

I went inside the kitchen carrying the phone in one hand; with the other I looked in a pile that appeared to be mail but turned out to be school papers. In the family room, there was a stack of magazines on the coffee table. I began going through the pile. Vogue. Mrs. Margaret Schultz, 13899 Villalobos Road, Corinth, California.

"I'll be there in the morning," Orlando told me.

"All right," I said. "Thank you." I could feel myself breathing again and noticed a pinching sensation in my shoulders as they came down a little.

But I wanted Clyde.

After I hung up I thought about the night Ma Missy put my mother out, how she sat on the sofa in front of the picture window in the living room, smoked Salem cigarettes, one after another, and wailed as though something had been cut from her body. The next morning, she woke me up, took me to school, and went to work. We didn't see my mother for nearly a year. And except for that first night, I never heard her crying again.

I cried a lot. I got bad grades that year. I picked fights with my best friends, and mostly I lost. At night I dreamed of my mother, and during the day I cursed her name in little-girl language. A piece of the woman who had groaned me out into the world was better than an empty space at the table. I pushed people far away, to a place where they could never come back and hurt me. I told myself I would show her; she'd be sorry; I didn't need her at all. One night I slipped out of my grandmother's house and wandered through the streets in the dark. I was trying to find her, but I ended up losing myself. I fell asleep in a stranger's backyard; the police brought me home at three in the morning. One look at Ma Missy's shocked face, and I felt like a failure. No wonder, I told myself. No wonder she left me.

And now I knew that that had been the easy part of my life.

"She missed her eight o'clock," I said aloud to no one. The medication hour had come and gone. Trina wouldn't notice the time. She was high, she had missed her medication, and she was with strange men. Are you praying for me now, Mattie?

I put my phone away and went back into the kitchen, where Jean and Margaret were sitting. Angelica was still cursing and yelling from the room where Brad was watching her. I heard her say something about the FBI having her under surveillance.

"Oh, goodness. How come it's always the FBI and the CIA?" Margaret asked. She was opening what looked like an industrial-size can of ravioli and dumping it into a pot. "How about the SEC or the USDA?"