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Ben liked to start his mornings with phone calls, because it set so much of the tone for how he and Natalie would interact over the course of the day.  He was working his ass off, digging for information, and trying to paint a complete picture when the ground under the painting studio was collapsing.  One of the record offices he’d called had promised they’d get back to him in ten business days, then had suffered a blackout, after domestic terrorists had attacked the power station.  Zero ETA on that coming back up.  Another, local to this city, had almost burned down.  Sheer luck the fire department had answered that call.

Today, the one video call and two phone calls he’d lined up for first thing in the morning had fallen through – possibly because of outages and targeted attacks elsewhere..  It left him restless, even though Natalie was happy with him, for now.

He didn’t like to not be doing something.

B-roll of Natalie Teale and Sterling?  No, he had enough of that.

Editing?  That was more a him thing, than a Natalie thing.  Too self-serving.

Pushing papers around and looking thoughtful as he read through stuff didn’t feel like enough, but it kept him busy while he tried to figure out next steps.  The office Natalie had provided him had a bed in the corner, a desk in the opposite corner, and some old material from her Teale/Camellia charity campaign.  There were a few toys that had made their way into the space, put there by Sterling; a scuffed toy car under the desk,  a little plastic figure lying across the tops of the book on a shelf that was only visible when Ben was lying down in the cot.  Ben had commented on one, and now the kid was doing a very good job of trying to get another in there every day, after school.

A corkboard had a timeline and accumulated notes.  Another, half-corkboard, half-whiteboard on rollers had his loose notes on editing on the one side- he kept that side facing the wall.  Contact details littered the other side.

Natalie knocked lightly on the door before entering.

She walked over and stood beside him, arms folded, looking at the board.

“My friend is free this morning.”

Her head whipped around.

“I was going to go with him.  Scope out the situation, pass on a note to the school.  From there, figure out next steps.”

“You mean-”

“I don’t mean anything,” he said.  “Natalie.  Nat.”

The look in her eyes was heartbreaking.

“Can I come?” she asked, repressed emotion in her voice.

“I think that’s a bad idea, for these initial steps.”

“How can I not come?” she asked him.  She motioned toward the photos on the corkboard.  “It’s her.  Cammy.”

“It lines up.  Natalie… can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I’m worried you can’t hold back.  Who could?”

“I can.”

He stared at her, not sure what he could hope to see in her eyes, that would convince him.  Give?  Recognition of the bigger issue?  Something other than raw conviction?

He walked over to his desk, used his foot to send the rolling computer chair sliding over to her, and moved the camera.

She took a second, neck straight, gaze unwavering, before she sat.

Record.  Red light on.

“Natalie.”

“I haven’t even gotten myself totally ready this morning.”

“It’s potentially a very big morning,” he said.

Journalism one oh one.  When approaching an article, news story, or a story in general, start with the broad strokes, then narrow it down.  For a true crime documentary, it could mean stating the very obvious in big, sometimes redundant ways.  The details became the pull, that drew someone to watch to the end, or read to the end of the article.

“It could be the morning, one you want to come attend.”

“Yes.  I mean, who wouldn’t?  What mother out there could stay away?”

She’d spent enough time with him, going down this road, that she knew to elaborate.

“And you’ve looked at the pictures, we think this is Camellia.  Cammy.”

“One hundred percent.”

The occasional short, crisp sentence that could be a soundbite.

“So let’s turn what you said around.  Today, this morning, we’re going to have a chat with the woman who may have kidnapped your child.  Who may have kidnapped multiple children. What mother out there could hold back from screaming, scratching, punching?  If your daughter is indeed there, can you hold back from dragging her away?”

“I already have.  I went to talk to her myself.”

“Something I was not a fan of.”

“I know.  Yes.  I’m sorry.”

“I said it could hurt us, or scare her away.  But you did it anyway.  Now I’m thinking you should stay away again, for similar reasons, but you want to come.”

“We didn’t scare her away.  I stayed level.  Casual.  I looked her in the eyes, I held myself back.  I can do that again.”

“How?  Why?”

“Because the way she carries herself, the way she presents, the… you said she could be a victim, too.  Or mentally ill.”

“Yes.”

“If that’s the case, I can forgive her.  I can think what she did was wrong, but I can forgive her, as someone caught in the cycles of abuse, or someone who needed help but didn’t get it.”

“But what if she’s someone legitimately troubled… and everyone else in the room says hold off?  Wait?  If we say there are steps we have to take, to keep this legitimate and sane, or verification we need to do first, and Camellia goes back to that house?”

The very idea seemed to bring tears to her eyes.  She remained composed, licking lips to wet them, swallowing hard, eyes moving away from him for a second.  He suspected that, in that moment, she’d spotted the toy hiding in the bookshelf.  She smiled, just the tiniest bit, hands gripping one another in her lap.

“Every single day of my life is a horror,” Natalie said, eyes wet.  “We don’t know the story yet.  For me, not knowing means all the possibilities are equally true… and some of them are hard to shake off.  I get vivid mental images, of horrible things.  There are no good days, like this.  It can be the brightest, sunniest day, and- a piece of my daughter is out there, being tortured.  Another piece is being emotionally abused, or taught scary religious things.  Another piece… it’s-”

She took a deep breath.

It took her a second.

“Sexual abuse.  There aren’t a lot of reasons to take a child and keep them, are there?  So as far as I’m concerned, every second that passes is a second all of those things could be true.  I have to-”

She stopped herself.

“But you’re telling me you can hold back now?”

“I-I- I’m getting caught up, but my point is, I’m always holding back.  I’ve had more than ten years of practice, holding back.  You’ve gotten us this far, I’m so grateful, so if you say I need to hold back, I need to do something else… if that’s the best way to get my daughter back, I think I could.”

“You’d trust me over motherly instincts?”

Her expression twisted.  It looked like disgust, before she pulled herself back together, wiping at a tear.  “My crap instincts might be why we’re here.  I turned my back for fifteen seconds, and I didn’t… hear her cry, I didn’t sense it.  I didn’t…”

Again, that expression change,

She got up.

He almost went to turn the camera off.  Maybe a few years back, he would’ve.

She went to the bookshelf, collecting the toy, and then returned to the chair, sitting.  “Sterling’s?”

“He hides stuff around the office, and in other places.  I tell him when I spot them.  He gets a kick out of it.”

She smiled, teary-eyed.  “I’ve tried to do better by him.  I’ve tried to reflect, grow.  I’ve thought a lot about all of this.  About- about kids, about media, and law, and parenting, and about you.  Always with the shadow of a thousand horrible possibilities of what might be happening to Camellia in the back of my mind.  I’ve had reasons to be jaded.  The charity.  I’ve had reasons to be disappointed in so many people.  But you’ve been good to us.  I trust you.”

“You can hold back.”

“I have to.  And speaking of have to…” she held up the toy.  “I need to finish getting Sterling ready for school.  With a momentous morning after, right?”

“A possible momentous morning.”

“Yeah.”

Recording ended.

She’d rehashed the ‘horror’ stuff a few times.  He’d have to figure out the moments to best give her that monologue.  It might be here.  Which was a shame, because it made the other dialogues choppier.  But that was a concern for the editing phase.  Longer cuts, as they drew closer to the moment?  The reunion?

He waited while she dried her eyes.

“Turn it back on,” she said.

“What?”

She motioned.

He turned it on.

“I, Natalie Teale, give permission for that clip to be used,” she pronounced, gesturing with the toy, eyes still wet.  “That work?  Spare us the paperwork?”

He stopped the recording.  “I think that’s for later.  That’s a clip you may want to rewatch, before signing off on it.  It’s raw.”

“I don’t want to rewatch it.  I want my beautiful daughter back, and then I can start putting that horror behind me.”

“That’s a whole other discussion.  Maybe for later this morning, while we’re waiting for a go-ahead.  Or this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“Will you wanting to put stuff behind you be an issue?  If this pans out and you get her back, will you start wanting space, to rebuild?  What if she needs therapy after?  What if you do?”

“I don’t believe in therapy much.  Maybe if she’s been through a lot.”

“Still.  Question stands.”

“I owe you, still.  So much.  That’s the deal I made.  You get to tell and sell the story.  I might get her back, but there’s a chance the story gets put out there and I’m made out to be the villain.”

“Sure,” he said.  “Audiences are fickle.”

“It’s okay.  I’m made of tough stuff.  But since the camera’s off, and the usual interviewer-interviewee balance of power is broken, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“If you could have this documentary succeed, but the outcome is… middling to bad, or have the documentary fail, but my daughter comes home to me, which would you choose?”

“It’s not down to that, though.  Audiences like a win.”

“But if it was.  If you had to choose.”

He drew in a deep breath.  Picturing both.  “I got into this to help people.  Maybe I could console myself with a niche audience of fans?  I’d want to get your daughter home.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could?” Natalie asked, looking at the pictures he’d taken outside the school.  “I thought, we might be about to finish this, and since I’ve known you a while now, I might be able to tell if you were being honest or not.  But I can’t.  You’re right,though, we can have a successful documentary, and get her home.  I should do like I said and get Sterling to school.  We’re going to be late.”

“Yeah.  Sorry I can’t come.”

After the parents had called him out and he’d gone into the school, he’d explained everything to the head faculty, even laying out some of the facts, as they’d outlined them.  And he’d called his friend.  They understood, they believed him.  But he’d still caused a stir, and they thought it would be best if he stayed away.

The pictures he’d taken were up on the board.  Natalie’s eyes kept going to them.  Her eleven year old daughter, with friends.

She had to tear herself away.  And he couldn’t blame her.

Okay.

That gave him things to do.

He plugged the camera in, and began copying over the two new video files.

Easier to print paperwork and have her sign off on it than have two different kinds of permission- paper and recorded.  He put the second file aside.

The door creaked.

Sterling.

“Aren’t you off to school?”

“She’s fixing her makeup real quick,” the boy said.

Sterling was shy, with platinum blond hair that was just wavy enough to puff up a bit, and very dark eyebrows.  He was skinny, with a wide forehead and pointed chin.  They were features that would no doubt even out as he got older, but… it made the little dude look a bit like one of those little gray aliens.

“Heya,” Ben said, spinning a quarter-circle in his chair.

“Putting this back.”

“But your mom and I already spotted it.”

“He goes here,” Sterling said, with a funny little bit of seriousness, putting the hard-molded figure, non-articulated superhero, into the space in the bookshelf, lying across the top of the books.

“Making any friends at school?”

Sterling paused, as if that merited thought, then shook his head.

“Give it time.”

“Okay.”

“Is your teacher nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Shoes on, honey, we’re out the door in two minutes!” Natalie called out, as she hurried to get herself sorted.

Sterling looked down at his shoes.

“All tied?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I check?”

“Yeah.”

Ben bent down, checking the laces.  “Nice work.  Fist bump?”

Sterling stuck out a fist.  He smiled after the moment of contact.

“Oh my gosh, I am not thinking straight,” Natalie announced, as she jogged to the opposite end of the house.

“She was crying before,” Sterling noted.

“Yeah.  Talking about tough stuff.  It’s okay.”

Sterling looked over at the wall, where the art, done professionally by an artist, showed Camellia, baby photo mingled with the face they’d digitally predicted she’d have at the age she’d been then- Sterling’s age, about.  Dark teal mingled with Camellia pink.

“When I was little, I thought that was a monster,” Sterling said.

You’re still little, little dude.  “That picture?”

Sterling nodded.  “Because she always cried when looking at it.”

“Makes sense.  It’s not a monster, though.”

“I know.  It’s my sister.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think about that?”

“Ben,” Natalie said, stepping into the doorway.  She paused, looking serious.  “Sterling, can you go get your bag?”

She was mad.  She hid it well, but she was mad.  She brushed Sterling’s hair with her hand as he went to get his bag.

Ben remained silent.

“No interviewing Sterling without my say-so and being there,” she said.  “You know that.”

“Camera’s off.  It was a regular, normal conversation.”

“Okay,” she said.  “Good.  I’ll drop him off, talk briefly to the school to make sure things are smooth, then come straight here?”

“Sure.  Then we meet my friend.”

⯁

Camera on tripod, set in place.  Lighting set.  Recording.

“Alright, we’re rolling.  Hi, Roderick, but you go by-”

“Rider.”

“To get it out of the way, we know each other.”

“We do.  We were friends, then we moved to different cities.  We still do some work together.  You call me about things.  If you’re not busy, you sometimes help me look things up.”

“Walk us through this.  Who are you, why are you here?”

“The real question is why others aren’t here.  What we’re dealing with today is a suspected abduction and kidnapping across state lines.  That’s a federal issue, it would normally go to the F.B.I., kidnappings and missing persons.  But federal agencies were mostly defunded, and what remains is rightfully preoccupied with terrorists, both domestic and those from abroad.  State police are on strike, and have been for a year and a half.  In better circumstances, they would assist.  Today, they cannot.”

“What’s your label?  What do they call people who do what you do?”

“It’s funny you ask, Ben.”

“I know, it’s a weird process, but answer the question.”

“The technical term is licensed marshal.  Parapolice.  People with licenses like mine have taken up some of the roles that police and federal agencies cannot, operating independently, as requested or required, depending on how the individual states handle it.  I specialize in human and drug trafficking, and am licensed in nine states.”

“Like bounty hunting, but focused on other crimes.”

“More official, I’d say.  If you’d stuck with it, you’d be working alongside me, Ben.”

“It had a different tone, a few years back.  Wild west law.”

“Still is.  But I’ll tell you what I’ve told others, the only other option is that this stuff doesn’t get handled.  We’re pretty good on average, I’d say.”

“Alright, and how does this process work today?”

“Today we are going to interview a suspect in the abduction and trafficking of Camellia Teale.  I have extrajudicial authority to handle the situation, including the right to shoot others at my discretion.  If I fuck up, I have to answer to a judge, and might have my license suspended or have to re-test.”

“Speaking of.  The judge is already a part of this, right?”

“Yeah.  The judge knows the loose outline, thanks to your work.  You’re on the sidelines, providing information, handling the interview.  I’m the authority.  I’ve talked to the school and the judge, coordinating, and the judge sent the paperwork to the school.  The girl isn’t to be released to anyone, even her supposed parents, until the judge signs off on it.  If the suspect gets spooked and tries to run, she can’t take the girl with.”

“With the idea being that we interview this morning, get the afternoon free to discuss, deliberate, and run things by the judge, if necessary.  The girl might go from school to foster custody if it takes longer than this afternoon, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“These things can drag on.  Especially if there’s a situation like there is here.”

Ben could imagine a clip of the ongoing riots, cutting into the scene-setting interview.

“I’ve heard from another licensed marshal that this judge works fast, gives a lot of leeway.”

“Alright.  Let’s hope.”

Recording off.

⯁

They were this close.  It made waiting hard.

Natalie had dropped off Sterling.  She and Roderick -Ben hadn’t been able to take the nickname seriously since Roderick had started trying to make it a thing- were watching the target.

Leaving Ben in front of the house, restless.

He preoccupied himself, putting things together in his head.  The licensed marshals were a controversial subject.  Was it better to acknowledge the abuses of the given power that had littered the news, or the lopsided application of the law, then talk about how Roderick was different?

Or was it better to… let that be background noise.  Let people make their own determinations?

Maybe he’d run that by the studios he was hoping would pick up the true crime doc.

He ran his eyes over the notes for the interview he was about to conduct.

The funny thing was, he’d started to study to become a licensed marshal, way back when.  But he’d found it too… dishonest?

It was, or it had been, a job that existed by necessity, getting powers and the ability to take shortcuts that a lot of the public were unaware of… and as long as that lack of awareness continued, things were peachy.

Ben hadn’t liked that.  He’d told Natalie at one point that the key was to bring things into the light.  That things might be bad out there, but finding the truth and putting it out there would vindicate her, make evil back off.

If that was true, the licensed marshal stuff existed in the dark.  Or it had, when he’d been considering it as a career path.  Now he was potentially at the end of this long journey, and he was taking steps to bring it into the light.  Had it been made stronger by time, and by the people doing it right?  Or by people hearing about and getting used to the wrong?

He dug for his notebook underneath a pile of the things he’d taken down from the corkboard, found an empty page, and wrote that down, about the light, shadow, and licensed marshals, noting the questions and telling himself to expand on it and find good answers.

It could be good framing, for the documentary.

He’d been the kid who mugged the most for the camera, wanted to tell stories, dance, do plays, and who wanted praise and all the good attention.  He’d ended up being someone who existed in perpetual limbo.  He was in limbo, now, sleeping in Natalie’s office, possibly moving out in a matter of a week if Natalie took her daughter home.  Or staying longer, if not.

Always mindful of who was looking, who the audience was.

Being barred from the school bothered him, because it meant he’d failed in that.  He could frame it in his head, imagine how the documentary could highlight the little event as a moment of dramatic failure, before the triumph.  Still, he’d fucked up, too focused on getting the necessary photos for verification and for Roderick and the judge.

He watched the empty house now, wondering if he could catch himself midway through making the same mistake again.  Mom was out, probably dropping Camellia off at school.  The same mom who now used a fake name.  The mom who’d lied about the circumstances of her daughter’s birth.  Who had driven a light-colored Craft Monchek, seen around the abduction site.  Who had lived near Trorough, where the abduction had happened, and had ended up here.

Her daughter was eleven, now, and did not resemble her.  According to Natalie, she resembled her husband’s mom.

Catherina Grant, supposed mother of Maya Grant, turned onto the street, drove to her house, and parked.  She was followed by the car that had Roderick and Natalie in it.  She seemed to know she was being followed, and was agitated from the moment she got out of the car.  Heavyset, wearing a colorful jumper with spaghetti straps, hair styled and tumbling down her shoulders.  The carefree image jarred with the look in her eyes.

Ben got out of the car as the other two pulled up, his bag with the camera in hand.  Roderick and Natalie followed suit.

There was terror in Catherina’s eyes.

⯁

Natalie wailed.  In a way, she was losing her daughter all over again.

It was a ragged, keening sound that made every awful feeling he’d been experiencing magnify, pushing to the surface.

A neighbor had knocked, worried.  He’d fielded that.

The interview with Catherina Grant had been relatively brief.  Catherina had escaped a bad case of domestic abuse.  Her husband was a man with friends in the police.  Catherina had sought help from a domestic abuse support organization, packed up the essentials while he was at a friend’s, moved states, and started anew from nothing but what the group could provide her.  She had the messages she’d exchanged with the group, in a scrapbook she was going to show her daughter, when she was a bit older.  She even put one of the contacts on the phone.  Ever since escaping, she’d volunteered time and effort for a related, more local group.

Natalie had held on until Catherina had let them go through her photo albums of Maya as a baby, growing up.  Too many photos, over too many years.  Moles visible in the negatives.  She didn’t like using digital photos because she worried it would get accidentally uploaded to the cloud and dug up.

Catherina had even been nice about it, after the initial wariness and fear.  Her initial thought had been that they had been sent by her husband.  After that, she’d been sympathetic.  She had asked Ben not to film, but she’d let him record the interview, on the condition he altered her voice and obfuscated details.

He’d made sure to apologize for disturbing her hard-fought peace.

But there was nothing he could do about Natalie’s.

Think, he told himself.  The sound from the other end of the house was like hot pokers, prodding him forward.

Cammy Teale had been abducted from her car while Natalie had an argument with her boyfriend.  He’d visited the scene and rented a car to get a sense of how it was laid out. The car had been parked partway out into the street, because the driveway was too short for two cars.  She’d been worried about an accident from an incoming car, so she’d been glancing back constantly.

From the front door, Natalie could see through the windshield, into the car and into the back seat, where the baby was.  Walls around the yards of each of the neighboring houses limited the view of other vehicles on the narrow road, but she could see most, if they weren’t small cars, parked or driving along the left side of the wall, going west to east, which would mean hugging the wrong side of the street and the wall, implying intent.

Suggesting they’d seen the baby through the door that had been left open for ventilation, hugged the wall, darted forward to snatch her, and drove off.  That was a tough move for the timeline and framing Natalie had given- it was a bit of a squeeze past the back end of her car.  So Ben had posited that they’d reversed along that wall, staying close, so they could drive out faster.

Police had canvassed the area.  It was five or six years too early for doorbell cameras to be widespread, and nobody had security cameras that covered the immediate area.  After the initial effort, the police had mostly dropped the investigation.  It remained a case on file with some detectives, but they had a full caseload.

Natalie had pushed for media attention, which had spurred on a bit more effort from the authorities.  They’d gone wider, and found some video footage from places entering and exiting the neighborhood.  There hadn’t been much traffic, so it was possible to count the cars that came and went, and then try to account for each.  There were places a culprit could have entered or left the Trorough neighborhood without being spotted, either because no cameras covered that street, or because too much time had elapsed.  They did what they could.  The police had put volunteers on the task of poring over videos, and had run a tipline.

Nothing had come of that.

Ben had, using Roderick as a partial authority, gotten his hands on all the video and voice messages from the tipline.  He’d run through hours of video, across all the different cameras.  Natalie had helped.  Only a few cars had come and left in a meaningful timespan.  One by one, they’d eliminated them.  They belonged to residents, or relatives of residents.  Or they could be tracked by going to cameras that were even further out.  Or there were license plates in plain view of a good quality camera, and they could track those down.

He hadn’t spent a lot of time around Natalie, then.  He’d gone to interview people, scout locations, and, in exchange for Roderick running down license plates and some obscure details, he’d helped Roderick with some of his work, too.  Days of surveillance or digging for info, with the hundreds of hours of messages and back-and-forths on the tip line playing when his ears weren’t otherwise occupied, or video footage of traffic cameras on his screen while he was on calls.

Natalie scream-cried in the other room, still.

One off-white Craft Monchek had driven into Natalie’s neighborhood at 10:21am.  It had exited between 10:45 and 10:47, by a route that avoided most cameras- but was caught by a camera from a Wag’s Dog Sandwiches a little further out.  The vehicle did not take the main highway where there were cameras around the toll booths, and instead took a side highway, more rural.

No license plate.

No good shot of the driver.

The back seat was dark in the distant view, making it hard to see if there was a baby seat inside it.  There were things in one back seat keeping the sunlight from coming through, or there was a second, very large person sitting there, or there was a window covering.  The baby seat would have been blurry pixels, at best, but it was frustrating, still.

A window covering, if that’s what it was, implied more premeditation.

He was left to wonder what had happened in that timeframe.  If the timeframe was what Natalie said it was, did the abductor know someone in the neighborhood?  Had they stopped somewhere to check the street views, to see where there might be less maps?

Was Natalie wrong?

He’d interviewed her, checking.  She was adamant.  There was a flicker of doubt as he’d asked if the play of light and shadow on the windshield might have created the illusion that Cammy was in there and animated, and the intensity with which she’d rejected that left him more dubious.

Any communication with Natalie’s boyfriend had to be sparing, effective, and to the point.  He hated this whole business, drank to numb the loss and wanted to move on.  He treated every attempt by Natalie to revive the case or change things as a personal affront.  Or like she was desecrating their daughter’s memory.  It was an emergency thing, calling him, because it might mean he wouldn’t pick up the phone for weeks or months after, for more important things.

But Ben had deemed it important, and he’d gotten a noncommital response.  One he had to take with a grain of salt, because the boyfriend might want the investigation to fail, if it meant things would be left alone.

The boyfriend only said it had been longer than fifteen seconds.

It was like Natalie needed to believe it.  Or she’d edited her own memories, because the alternative was too horrifying.

So Ben had carried on.  Natalie had tried to revive interest in her daughter’s abduction by going to media, only for others to kick up a stir, because she’d already received far more help than many abducted children of color.  She’d pivoted, worked to start up a charity, raising awareness for those children, in addition to her daughter.  It had been a full time job, she’d taken full time pay, and then in a month there had been a downturn in donations, with her pay not scaling down accordingly, someone had written an expose.

It had killed things before they were fully underway.  The income stream had died, and then the entire fucking thing had followed.  All for a cheap shot of an article.

But that campaign had drawn more attention to the tipline.  If it had been ninety nine messages for every one with something even remotely relevant before, it was nine hundred and ninety nine after, a bulk of that being people calling in to verbally shame Natalie and the Teale/Camellia campaign, with its distinctive teal and pink image, that Sterling thought was a monster.

He’d waded into that, out of stubbornness, if nothing else.  He’d worked for Roderick some, wrote smaller articles, did a few interviews about an older, less successful project, and, sitting in a motel room on the outskirts of New York City, other end of the country, he’d heard one.

CALLER: My daughter has a baby now, and I’m certain she wasn’t pregnant.

TIPLINE: I’m sorry?  Your daughter has a baby?

CALLER: I don’t want to get involved in this mess, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say anything.

TIPLINE: We need more details.  Anything at all.

CALLER: A friend saw her, let me know.  She had a baby with her.  Took a picture.  I could have said something right then.  But I didn’t, I told my friend I’m not in contact with my daughter, she didn’t contact me and I didn’t contact her, and it would be best if they respected that.

TIPLINE: And you believe this baby was the abducted Camilla Teale?

CALLER: I don’t know.  I thought about it after.  The size of the baby- my daughter’s a big girl, so the size shouldn’t be a shock, but it’s not a newborn.  It’s been eating at me.  So I’m calling.

TIPLINE: Can you give us a name or any details at all?

CALLER: My daughter’s dangerous.

TIPLINE: Okay.  That’s important, that’s good.  Physical details?

CALLER: I think there’s something wrong with her.

TIPLINE: There’s something wrong with the baby?  Or with-

CALLER: No.

TIPLINE: Physical description?  Hair color, height, ethnicity?

CALLER: This was a mistake.  I don’t want to say anything that gets me involved.  I shouldn’t have said she was my- I’m hanging up.

TIPLINE: We can promise not to release any details to authorities, keep you out of this.  If you don’t want to share details, can you answer a question?  We have to ask, to corroborate, or they’ll write this off as a prank call.
TIPLINE: It’ll be for nothing.  Please.  What car does she drive?  It’s a detail the police never released.

CALLER: A white Craft Monchek.  It yellowed some after my ex used the wrong product and left it in the sun.  I hated that car.  So I gave it to her.

Call ended.  The transcript was posted in the corner of the corkboard.  Beside it were the notes. The person handling the tipline had panicked, they wrote.  They described the voice as sounding white.  Natalie, listening to the tape, had thought she sounded fat.  Ben wasn’t sure how much stock to put in that.

It wasn’t true the police never released the car details, but it hadn’t been widespread.

Ben had put out feelers.  To Roderick and the various licensed marshals, to private investigators, to true crime podcasters and filmographers, and to true crime fans on a private chatroom, with only two instructions: to not put anything online, in case it tipped off their culprit, and to take a photo of any white or off-white Craft Monchek.  He’d send money to them.  Twenty bucks if they found a unique one.

That was around the time Natalie had offered to let him stay with her.

All leading to a call, two months ago, from a private investigator who was looking in a junkyard for parts from his boat.  A black Craft Monchek, towed in with a bunch of other scrap.  Wrong year- it had trim the other didn’t.

Except it was burned all to hell, the trim coming off, and the black paint and primer had trouble adhering because something had gone wrong with the coat beneath, made more pronounced by the fire, causing separation.  The paint beneath?  A slightly yellowed white.  So the guy had gotten more interested.  No paperwork inside, made sense, but all the VIN numbers, inside and out, had been filed away.  Part of the seats had been cut up and torn out before the burning.

The trim was false, disguised by the fire.

They’d taken the entire thing apart.  They’d gone to the scrap in the surrounding area, that might have been brought in with the car, and dismantled that.

The seats had been cut up, but when he brought out the car seat Natalie had bought and kept for display, when telling people what to watch out for, early in her appearances to the media to get help for her daughter, it had fit a slight depression.  Nothing actionable, but it made him more sure.

Needles from conifer trees, ash from wood fires, serious amounts of natural clay in the undercarriage, baked on by the heat in places.

Lying in bed at night, Ben had been struck by the thought.  That trim.  He hadn’t slept that night, thinking about how it might have been obtained.  Bought online?  He tried to buy some, and ran into issues.

He’d gone hunting, and he’d found it.  A Craft Monchek 2020, with trim carefully removed, in a junkyard outside Camrose, which was mostly suburb, bounded by forest, predominantly conifer.  There had been recent forest fires near Camrose, and Camrose had heavy amounts of clay along the dirt roads, especially in the valleys around the mountains.

He couldn’t find who had owned or registered a white Craft Monchek, but Camrose had three schools.  Between them, 210 girls of about the right age.  He could eliminate nearly half, because Camrose had a fair-sized Asian population, being west coast, and a heavy Hispanic population, being southern-ish, and Cammy was neither.

Six people were up on that board.  He had photos of the mothers, and of the daughters.

He removed Catherina Grant and Maya Grant, who had checked every box.

Alice Loveless and her daughter Ellison were hard to fit to the timeline, moving to Camrose late, and both were petite.   The caller had said the abductor was a ‘big girl’.

Tamara Pankey-James and her daughter Shae had a resemblance that was hard to look past, both in appearance and the fact they were… incurious, Ben’s colleagues might’ve called it.  After Tamara had spent a full minute believing Ben was talking about alien abductions, Natalie had said, “room temperature IQs, shared between them”.

Geneva Greeson fit a lot of the possibilities, but had apparently never been anywhere near Trorough, and had been deathly ill with something autoimmune around the times of the abduction and when the car had been disposed of – and on and off in between.  Nothing suggested she had an accomplice.  He’d entertained a narrative where her grappling with her own mortality had led to her wanting a child, but the entire thing was hard to imagine.

Mia Hurst was similar.  A ‘big girl’ in a different way from the others who fit that bill.  She wasn’t heavy or obese- she was tall and athletic.  She checked a lot of the boxes, except timeline was off.  He’d chased the details down, but there was a birth record, birth certificate.  He’d talked to the hospital, and they wouldn’t share patient details, but the secretary who’d been on that night had opened up to him, remembering the rather grim scene of the tall, haggard woman limping in.  She’d given birth to her baby on her own, and, having had issues with hip dislocation throughout her pregnancy, had focused her attention on the baby, at first, not feeling comfortable going anywhere.  She’d gotten to the hospital late, carrying a freezer bag with the placenta and other afterbirth, which had gone a bit rancid, so they’d disposed of it.  She’d been dehydrated and not doing very well.  They’d given her fluids, attention for her hip, which had indeed dislocated several times, apparently, with residual inflammation making it prone to slipping out again.  They’d also cared for Ripley Hurst, the baby, who was in excellent health.  Odd situation, but her story lined up, and the timeline of her move hadn’t fit what they had- she’d been in Camrose around the time of the abduction, verified by the dating of the birth certificate, timing of her renting the space, and her sparse social media presence.  She’d had the newborn in her arms before the abduction happened.

Marta Taylor had lost three children to child services over child abuse, videotaping herself encouraging the older children beating and torturing the younger ones.  It had led to Ben and Natalie paying more attention than the details warranted.  Things didn’t line up that great, but there was a mean spiritedness to her that fit a child abductor, and she had romantic partners in the picture who, if they’d been helping her, might have helped details fit.  Their second most likely culprit.  One that had haunted Natalie, until they’d verified Marta had been at an event two days before the abduction, and couldn’t have gotten to the abduction site without a plane, which she was legally forbidden and financially incapable of taking.  One of the calls he had that was still pending was a social worker who’d worked with the kids.  Someone reluctant to share information with a stranger.

Catherina had lined up.  Their number one most likely to be the abductor.

He could hear running water in the other room.

He put Catherina and Maya’s pictures into the waste bin.

Natalie was bent over the kitchen sink.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s still so early,” she said.  “I made myself get up because I thought Sterling might be out of school.”

It was still morning.

He didn’t say anything.

“I need space,” she told him.  “I need you to not be in the next room.”

“Okay.  I can go out, look into things.”

“Do we have any leads?  Is anything looking good?”

She sounded almost robotic.

“Nothing stands out.”

“I won’t push you out, but…”

“Okay.”

“I’m not making any big decisions while I feel like this,” she said, staring down into the sink, water running.  “But if this is the end of the trail, nothing standing out… might be time.”

She looked over her shoulder, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“I’ll stay on this.  You giving me a place to stay isn’t- it’s not required, for me to be invested.  I’ll follow up on phone calls, keep digging where I can dig, ask certain people to keep an eye out for anything.  I can be out in a few days, if that’s okay?  I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible.”

“Thank you.  I know it’s a strange ask, when I’m kicking you out.  Can you grab Sterling after school?  Take him to a movie or something?  I’m worried I’ll lose track.”

“Okay.”

“Gives me time to pull myself together,” she said.

“Okay.  Yeah.  Text me if you need anything.”

“I won’t.”

The beginning of the end.

He went to get his laptop and jacket, put on his mask for the smoke, and got in the car.

He could hear her inside as he closed the door.  He shut his eyes, forehead against the top of the steering wheel, momentarily grateful for the silence.

She hurt so much it hurt him.  He felt responsible, because he’d let her believe it.

The documentary needed a wrap-up.  It couldn’t end here, and there was a lot of interesting material, even with everything.

He had no idea how he’d do it, but he’d have to find a way to get her on video, to give things a conclusion.  Maybe he’d pitch it as a way to get renewed interest in the case, get some details out there.  See if their suspects got antsy or made mistakes.

Was there a fundamentally flawed assumption, somewhere down the line?  Was there another place that matched as well as Camrose, with the trim-less car acquired and deposited here to throw off the trail?

Had the abductor moved out into the mountains, only emerging to handle other things?

One possibility was that Marta had earned money from the videos of the child beatings, somehow.  There was no record of it, but, as with so many things to do with Marta, a boyfriend could’ve handled it.  Which would give her money for the plane… and she’d slipped through I.D. verification and watchlists?

Thin.

Could Geneva, the ill one, have had help?  Or had she played up her illness for cover?

He wanted to challenge the basic assumptions, look at things from new angles.  He drove, turning the cases over in his head.

In the process, he ended up parking a short distance away from Mia Hurst’s house.

He opened his laptop to refresh himself.

Timeline and details hadn’t lined up.  Half the reason he’d paid any more attention to Mia after cross-checking everything was that her child went to the same school and was in the same grade as Maya, so it was trivial to take some pictures of Mia’s kids when scouting out what Maya was doing.

Nobody home.

A nice little house, in a neighborhood where all of the houses seemed to have started from the same basic look, but were freely renovating, remodeling, and changing things up.  Mia’s was the same- there was some tarp and waterproofing rigged up around one window.

She was married to Carson Hurst.  They’d had a kid together, Tyr.  She worked in hospitals, something in admin, while Carson was a stay at home dad who stayed busy doing odd jobs with friends when the kids were at school.  Not the most picturesque of the suburban families, but they did fine.

Better than Ben was doing, anyway.

He was a man in limbo, again.

He would’ve thrown away their pictures too, but something held him back.  The mom.

He just couldn’t get hold of Mia’s mother.

If he was leaving at the end of the week, he’d have to abandon this.  It wasn’t just the default assumptions about each of the suspects- the women who’d moved into Camrose in the right timeframe, where details were fuzzy.  He’d have to cast the net wider.  Past Camrose, to other places that fit the bill.  Or to the possibility the abducted kid didn’t go to school at all.

He had no idea how to chase that thread down.  Maybe other circles?  Gun enthusiasts?  Or supply stores?  Would someone living in the woods panic around the time of the fires?  What would they buy?

His phone dinged.

His assumption was Natalie.  Or Roderick.

Anonymous.  The marker put the email down as an anonymized, encrypted service.

The email subject read:

Subject: Sending only to people who aren’t connected to this

Text files and images.

Ben opened them.

They weren’t ordered.  It was a mess.  Memes mingled with raw data.

Cavalcantis.

He sorted by name, first- that just reversed the order.  Then by date.

That brought it into alignment.  Screenshots of text messages sat neatly next to other text messages between the same people.  There were memes and images in batches.  All coming out of school accounts for… a private school the next state over.

The image of an eyeless corpse with arms and legs removed startled Ben.

Sending only to people who aren’t connected to this.

He did a search across all the text files for key names.  Natalie Teale.  Camilla Teale.

Catherina Grant.  Mia Hurst.

Nothing related to this case.

But as he searched up the Cavalcantis, going by the most common names in what he’d seen so far, an image with the Cavalcanti organization’s structure came up- the names were in the very long filename.

According to that image, the Cavalcantis were very thoroughly involved with local government, media, and law enforcement.

He looked around, wondering if this was an elaborate prank.

As one case dried up, another provided itself?  If others had this same information, this would be a race to capitalize on it.

If he could find others, he could get them on board, work with them.  All of this had to be verified.  It would be very dangerous to assume it was all true.

The infographic was part of a series of images.  Like a spreadsheet, intended for someone called Tom.  The other images spelled out the broader plan.  Everything that was happening behind the scenes.  A timeline.

This would have national ripples, if true.

This would win a Pulitzer, if he could get ahead of it and get it out there.

Again, he looked around.

He drove.

God, where was he meant to go?  His first thought was the library, just to have a desk, a place to plug in his computer, and an internet connection.  There’d be resources there.

The weird feeling of giddy relief was familiar.

He’d felt the same way leaving the school, yesterday.

Accused of something horrible, everything lost… and then he’d slipped the noose.

The Catherina Grant thing falling through.  Nothing else panning out, no idea where to take his life.  Now this.

It felt too… unfair?

He stopped for a bite to eat, knowing he’d get underway with work and then he wouldn’t eat for a while yet.  Sitting in line at the drive-through, the feeling sat uneasy in him.

What was it Natalie had asked?

If he could have a winning story, but Cammy didn’t get a good outcome, or if he could secure a good outcome, but not get his story… which would he choose?

This marked the second occasion he’d been turned away by something massive, in as many days.

First with the stick- an accusation of the worst sort.  He had been taking photos of kids, but he’d needed something recent for the judge to bring the kids in.

Now with a carrot?  A story so big it could alter the trajectory of his life?

The moment the way was clear, he drove past the drive through window, hurrying back.  No food or drink.

Both times, he’d been in close proximity to the Hursts.

He didn’t turn down onto the road, but he did slow down some.

Three black Chevron Midases had parked in front of the Hurst house.

Mia and Carson Hurst were stepping outside.  Mia had blood on her arm.  Carson had a bloody nose.  Both were… dirty?  It was hard to make out.

They jogged forward as a car approached, slowing rather than stopping, and climbed in.

Driving away at a fast clip.

Ben drove forward enough he could pull over, out of sight of that street.

He dialed Roderick.

“Ripley and Tyr Hurst.  Call the judge.  Keep them there.  No pickups.  Something’s up with Mia Hurst.”

“You’re shouting a lot of names at me all at once.  I need more.”

“Call the judge, Roderick.”

“Rider.”

“Fuck you.  Call the judge.”

“If I call, pushing for this with no evidence-”

“Call!  If you don’t, they get to the school in eight minutes and the kids are gone.”

“Right.  Trusting you.”

He hung up.

Ben did a u-turn, then turned onto the street.

The big black vehicles with their gold grilles kept him from parking at the side of the street closest to the house.  He parked opposite, driving past a mom who’d stepped out of one house, approaching the Hurst’s, unsure.

Even from the street, he could see maimed bodies lying on the floor of the house.

There was shouting from elsewhere in the house, muffled.

Some tattoos.  Some gold jewelry.  Two wore black jackets, despite the heat.

He thought of the laptop.  Cavalcantis?

Three hours ago, I thought I was close to getting answers.

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