Holly hadn't thought of that. She remembered Gabe playing peacefully with his toys on the floor. He wasn't taken by force. He'd been lured out of his home by someone he knew. Holly set her drink on the coffee table, and put her feet on the floor. "He goes to daycare, and I bring him to the park sometimes."

"We have an agent checking his daycare. Do you remember seeing anyone with the same size and build interacting with Gabe at the park?"

"I don't remember."

She tapped on the keys of her laptop. "What about the other residents in your apartment building, do any of them have regular access to your son?"

"Mark does. He lives down the hall. He watches him sometimes, but he would never do this. He's always volunteering at places downtown, helping people in need. He would never do this."

"What's Mark's last name?"

"Phillips."

"Would you say he's the same size as the man in the video?"

Holly stammered. "He's maybe... I don't know. I couldn't tell how tall the man in the video was."

"Does he move like him?"

"I don't know."

"How long has he been your neighbor?"

"Seven months." As the words came out, a chill ran down her back. If he was the killer, he would have had time to finish his business in the last place, and travel to Maine. There would have been plenty of time for him to get Gabe in his sights and to hatch a new plan.

She didn't want to believe it was Mark, but how well did she really know him? She did know that he volunteered with needy people-but he could have made that up. She had left her son hours and hours with a man she hardly even knew. How could she have been so careless?

"Do you know where he is now?"

"At work, probably. He does construction. I don't know where."

Grant flipped her phone open and pressed a few b.u.t.tons. "We have a lead on a suspect. I want you to find everything you can on the neighbor, Mark Phillips. Yes. Then we'll go have a chat with him. b.u.mp him to the top of the list. He works construction, find out where. Okay. Thanks." She closed the phone and slid it back in her pocket. "Is there anyone else like Mark, someone Gabe felt comfortable with, perhaps a relative or a friend?"

Holly felt so helpless. She wanted to spill her guts, because if anyone could save her son, she believed Agent Grant could. But the truth was a minefield. Her friends were not the type of people who would exactly appreciate a visit from the FBI.

"I can't think of anyone," she said, disengaging from the conversation.

"No one at all?"

"No." She looked out the window with cold, dead eyes. "Do you mind if we take a break? I need a smoke."

Agent Grant quietly a.s.sessed her chances of successfully continuing the questioning. The result must have been a low percentage, because she set her laptop on the coffee table. "Go ahead, take a break. Clear your head."

Holly stood awkwardly and shuffled to the front door. A uniformed officer stood guard in the hallway, and there was one on the front steps of the apartment house as well. Three cruisers and two dark blue government cars lined the street.

Holly crouched down on the stairs and lit up. She wanted something much more powerful, something to make it all go away, but she couldn't leave her son when he needed her most-not like her mother had done so many times. It disgusted Holly to see how much she was like her mother. But she was not going to run away this time. She would fight the ache in her head and stomach, and bear through the sweats, to turn over every rock to find her baby. He was all she had left to live for.

Chapter 8.

When Jake pulled onto his sister's road, he saw her sitting on the stairs with a police officer looming behind her. She looked like their mother: dirty blond hair dangling down in coils, fair skin, dark eyeliner used generously around the eyes, and a black silk choker with a silver cross. Her dark clothes made her look like an off-work prost.i.tute: a short jean skirt and two torn black t-shirts.

To see her like this grieved him. She had been his sunshine for most of their childhood. When she was little she used to wake him with a kiss on the nose, and had always been the first to hug him when he was sad. She was his golden-haired angel-until she fell from heaven.

Jake parked on the street, and he and Dan headed up the sidewalk toward the apartment house. She saw him from a distance, but kept smoking her cigarette and staring at the ground.

"Mom called me," he said when they reached the stairs. "How are you holding up?"

She looked up at him and scowled. "Why did you bring him?"

"Nice to see you too, Hol," said Dan.

Jake got between them. "Dan came because he wants to help."

Her laugh sounded more like a spit. "Yeah, I bet he does."

Jake grabbed Dan by the arm and pulled him away. "Do you and my sister know each other?"

Dan looked over his shoulder, then whispered to Jake, "I may, or may not, have sent your sister a love letter extolling my unending love and adoration for her-in the eighth grade."

"And you didn't think this was something I would want to know?"

His face scrunched up. "It was a non-event, Jake."

"It doesn't feel like a non-event."

"Why? Do you think she likes me?" he said, raising his brow.

Jake punched him in the chest. "This is serious, Dan. My nephew has been kidnapped."

Dan rubbed the spot. "I'm sorry I had a thing for your sister in the eighth grade. I didn't think she would even remember it. Do you want me to go sit in the car?"

"I want you to be serious for once in your life."

"Humor is my self defense mechanism. I didn't mean anything by it."

Besides his weird compulsion to clean and order junk, Dan also had a peculiar need to make light of stressful situations. His own family had once disavowed him for making an insensitive remark at his aunt's funeral. He was asked to say a few words and had taken the opportunity to note that the body in the casket could not possibly be his aunt's-because her makeup was on straight.

Dan's problem was not a complete lack of empathy but an uncontrollable compulsion. Jake understood that, and under normal circ.u.mstances, was quicker to forgive, but today was anything but normal.

Jake stabbed Dan in the chest with two fingers. "Just keep your crazy thoughts to yourself and be helpful. Okay?"

Dan nodded solemnly.

Jake turned back to his sister. "Do you want Dan to leave?"

Dan piped in with, "I'm sorry about the whole 'undying love letter' thing in eighth grade, in fact, I'm sorry about eighth grade in general."

She took a drag off her smoke. "What letter?"

His eyes darted left and right. "You're not mad at me about the letter?"

Her mouth pinched at one end. "I'm just not in the mood for your weird sense of humor. It's been a rough morning, Dan."

"Fair enough," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Jake put a foot up onto the bottom step. "Look, we just want to help. Is there anything we can do?"

She shrugged.

"Have you heard anything positive?"

"Not yet, it's been mostly interrogations."

On cue, a slightly heavy, blond, blue-eyed woman in a white dress shirt and dark blue dress pants stepped out onto the front porch. On her belt was a holstered gun and in the center of her chest hung her FBI credentials. She was looking directly at Jake. He acknowledged her with a subtle nod of his head.

"I'm Special Agent Angela Grant. You must be Jake."

"Yes ma'am." He climbed to the top of the stairs, shook her hand, and stepped back. "FBI, huh."

"Yes. We're brought in on cases like this when incidents occur in several states."

"Is there any news about Gabe?"

"We're working leads, but no arrests have been made."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You haven't been around in over a year, is that correct?"

Jake glanced at his sister. "Yes, ma'am. My sister and I don't see much of each other-because of our schedules."

"Then we're all set for the moment." She handed him a card. "Call my office if you see or hear anything suspicious."

He took the card and stared at it. The weight of her words, and her posturing, made it clear that his presence was not required. He was an absent brother, and as far as the government was concerned, he could continue to stay absent-even though he was here now, willing to be available for his sister in her time of need. He had made the effort, but it didn't matter.

A revving engine caused everyone on the porch to look up and watch as a television news van stopped in front of the building.

The uniformed officer climbed down the stairs and met an attractive woman hopping out of the pa.s.senger side. Her voice had a timber of urgency. "We have a few questions we'd like to ask."

The officer blocked her way, and Agent Grant swung open the door to the apartment building. "Why don't we step inside where we can all have a little more privacy?"

"Are you investigating the Cape murderer?" the reporter hollered. "Miss! Miss! Has he taken your son?"

Jake saw the fire in Holly's eyes. "Come on," he said, "you don't need this right now." He gripped her arm. She resisted for a moment, then stood and turned toward the door. As fate would have it, he was going to get to be a big brother after all.

Agent Grant guided them down the old worn out hallway to Holly's apartment. The way was made narrow by stacks of old tools, banana boxes filled with junk, and a rusted ten speed. There was also the lovely odor of cat box hanging in the air like a cloud.

Agent Grant opened the apartment door. Inside were men and women, some in suits, some in uniform, and all gathered around an official-looking man with a dress shirt and black vest with the letters FBI in white.

The noise of the debriefing simmered to an awkward silence when they entered; and Dan was quick to pick up on the awkwardness of it. He scanned the room, and the hint of a grin bowed his lips. "Looks like I picked the wrong day to go on the lamb."

Jake shoved him.

"What?"

The officers stood like the statues of Easter Island, observing them silently as they pa.s.sed. Agent Grant guided them through to the kitchen and gestured for them to take a seat around the kitchen table which was covered with a table cloth Holly had picked out of the trash when she worked at the Ramada Inn. The spots where she had sewn up the holes were only noticeable to someone looking for them.

It had been awhile since Jake had been at his sister's place, but not much had changed. For a ratty two-and-a-half bedroom apartment with wallpaper dating back to the seventies, and kitchen cabinets missing all but one handle, she kept the place surprisingly nice. She had a knack for making old things look less like junk and more like antiques. It might have been the way she decorated the place with dried flowers and old trinkets, but the absence of anything modern, apart from the television, gave the mystique that the grunge of old age was a purposeful art decision, rather than a regrettable financial constraint.

The only room in the apartment that looked even remotely modern was Gabe's half bedroom, which was really just a large closet off the living room. His twin bed sat on stilts above a st.u.r.dy dresser and brightly colored toy box, and the floor was usually littered with cheap plastic toys.

Holly did a masterful job of separating this breach of visual continuity from the living room with a door made of thick beads threaded on strings. She never had to worry about him leaving the door open, and having the two eras collide in a distasteful fashion. Entering or exiting the room was only a temporary disruption of the bead barrier. As gravity quickly returned it to a sheet of brown stained wood, the living room was thrust, once again, to its proper place in the past.

The debriefing in the front room started up again, but the officer spoke lower, and Jake could only catch every few words. They were discussing evidence and plausible suspects to track down. Jake struggled to listen, but Agent Grant's voice drowned them out. "Please have a seat. We'll ask you a few questions then get out of your hair." She leaned her back against the kitchen counter.

"Are you leaving?" said Jake, sitting down.

"Yes. We'll leave an agent to keep watch out front, but we've gathered all we can at this location." She looked at Holly. "Here's what we know so far. There are no signs of struggle in your son's room, which leads us to believe he left his bed willingly, for what purpose, we don't know. It could have been to grab a gla.s.s of water or use the bathroom, anything really. All we know is, he wasn't dragged from his bed."

Jake studied his sister. Holly's eyes were fixed on Agent Grant, but her eyelids drooped. There was also a trace of perspiration on her forehead and temple.

"We don't know if he was taken in the apartment or outside, but there are no signs of forced entry. Who else has a key to your apartment, besides you?"

Holly blinked. "Just me, the landlord, and Amber."

"That's your roommate, correct?"

"Yeah. But she's hardly ever around. She works for the airline-as a flight attendant."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Maybe a week ago."

"When do you expect to see her again? We would like to speak with her."

"I don't know her schedule. She just comes and goes whenever."

Agent Grant looked at Jake, "Do you have a key?"

He gave her a surprised look. "No."

"Where were you last night, between eight p.m. And this morning?"