I dont want a divorce. I need to find Jake and talk to him.
In that case, Trisha suggested Maggie hire a private detective and steered her to Lyle Billings, a P.I. at Farrow Investigations.
Maggie gave Billings copies of all their personal records and a check for several hundred dollars. Two weeks later, he told her that Jake had not renewed his license in any U.S. state, Canadian province or territory, nor was Logan registered in any school system.
Assume he changed their names, Billings said. Creating a new identity is easier than most people think. It looks like your husband went underground.
The agency needed more money to continue search ing.
Maggie couldnt afford it.
There was just enough left in their savings for her to keep things going with the house for another three, maybe four months. Then shed have to sell. Shed been cutting corners. She still had her bookstore job, but things were getting desperate.
So Maggie held off paying the agency more money. She searched on her own, spending most nights on her computer. She contacted truckers groups and missing kids organizations, pleaded her case to newsletters and blogs. She scoured news sites for crashes involving rigs and boys Logans age.
With each new tragedy Maggies stomach knotted.
Maggie attended support groups. They told her to get the press interested in her struggle to find Jake and Logan. Every few days, then every week, she worked her list: the Los Angeles Times, the Orange County Register, the Riverside Press-Enterprise and nearly every TV and radio station in the southland.
Oh, yeah, we looked into it, one apple-crunching producer told Maggie after shed left three messages. Our sources say that while its classified as a parental abduction, its more of a civil domestic thing. Sorry.
Every newsperson had stopped taking her calls, except Stacy Kurtz, the Star-Journal s crime reporter.
I dont think weve got a story yet, but please keep me posted, she said each time Maggie called.
At least Stacy would listen. Maggie had never met her but sometimes her picture ran with her articles. Stacy wore dark-framed glasses, hoop earrings and a smile that her job was slowly hardening. Daily report ing of the latest shooting, fire, drowning, car crash or variant urban tragedy was taking something from her. Some days, she looked older than she was.
I cant guarantee well do a story, but Ill listen to your case as long as you promise to keep me posted on any developments. Stacys to-the-point manner placed a premium on her time in a business ruled by deadlines.
For Maggie, time was evaporating.
What if she never found Logan? Never saw him again?
Now, here she was standing before the Star-Journal, a paper that covered Blue Rose Creek from a forlorn one-story building on a four-lane boulevard.
It sat between Sids Check Cashing and Fillipos Menswear, looking more like a 1960s strip-mall cast away than the kick-ass rag it once was. A palm tree drooped above the entrance. Weak breezes tried to stir a tattered U.S. flag atop the roof, where a rattling air con ditioner bled rusty water down the buildings stucco walls.
To locals, the Star-Journal was an eyesore in need of last rites.
To Maggie, it was a last chance to find Logan, for, day by day, her hope faded like the flag over the StarJournal. But shed come here this morning, all the same, with nothing but a prayer.
May I help you? a big woman in a print dress asked from her desk, which was the one closest to the counter. The other desks were nearby, situated in the classic newsroom layout. About a dozen cluttered desks crammed together. Most were unoccupied. At others, grim-faced people concentrated on their computer screens, or telephone conversations.
The off-white walls were papered with maps, front pages, news photos and an assortment of headlines. A police scanner was squawking from one corner where three TVs were locked on news channels. At the far end, in a glass-walled office, a balding man with his tie loosened was arguing with a younger man who had a camera slung over his shoulder.
Im here to see Stacy Kurtz, said Maggie.
Do you have an appointment?
No, but-
Name?
My name is Maggie Conlin.
Maggie Conlin? the big woman repeated before shooting a glance at the woman nearby with a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.
No, that is absolutely wrong, the woman said into the phone as she typed, glancing at Maggie at the counter. She held up her index finger, going back into her phone call. No, it is absolutely not what your press guy told me at the scene. Good. Tell Detective Wyches ski to call me on my cell. Thats right. Stacy Kurtz at the Star-Journal. If he doesnt call, Ill consider his silence as confirmation.
After typing for another moment Stacy Kurtz, who looked little like her picture, approached the counter.
Stace, this is Maggie Conlin, the big woman said. She doesnt have an appointment but she wants to talk to you.
Stacy Kurtz extended her hand. Im sorry, your names familiar.
My husband disappeared with my son several months ago.
Right. A weird parental abduction, wasnt it? Is there a development?
No. My husband- Maggie twisted the straps of her bag. Could we talk, privately?
Stacy appraised Maggie, trying to determine if she was worth her time. She turned toward the glass-walled office where the balding man was still arguing with the younger man. She bit her bottom lip.
I just need to talk to you, Maggie said. Please.
I can give you twenty minutes.
Thank you.
Della, tell Perry Im going to step outside to grab a coffee.
Got your cell?
Yes.
Is it on?
Yessss.
Charged?
Bye, Della.
A few moments later, half a block away on a park bench, Stacy Kurtz sipped latte from a paper cup and tapped a closed notebook against her lap. As Maggie poured out her anguish, seagulls shrieked overhead.
So theres really nothing new though, is there, Maggie? I mean not since it all happened, right?
No, but I was hoping that now, after all this time, you would do a story.
Maggie, I dont think so.
Please. You could publish their pictures and put it on the wire services and then it would go all over and-
Maggie, Im sorry were not going to do a story.
Im begging you. Please. Youre my last hope to find-
The opening guitar riff of Sweet Home Alabama played in Stacys bag and she retrieved her phone. Sorry, Ive got to take this. Hello, she answered. Okay. On my way now. Be there in two minutes.
But will you do a story, please? Maggie held out an envelope for Stacy as they hurried back toward the newspaper.
Whats this?
Pictures of Logan and Jake.
Look- Stacy pushed the envelope back -Im sorry, but I never guaranteed a story.
Talk to your editor.
I did and, to be honest, this is not a story for us at this point.
At this point? Whats that supposed to mean? That hes only news to you after something terrible happens? Like after hes killed, or dead.
Stacy stopped cold.
Theyd reached the Star-Journal. She tossed her twothirds-full latte into the trash can and stared at Maggie, then at the traffic. Dealing with heartbroken people every day was never easy, but Stacys experience had forged her approach, which was to be truthful, no matter how painful it could be.
Maggie, I spoke to Detective Vic Thompson. He mentioned something about some incident with your husband and a soccer coach. And that this was all about problems at home. A civil matter, really.
What? No, thats not true.
Im sorry.
Suddenly, the buildings, traffic, the sidewalk, all began to swirl. Maggie steadied herself, placing her hand on a Star-Journal newspaper box. She raised her head to the sky in a vain effort to blink back her tears.
My son is all I have in this world. My husband came back from working overseas a changed man. Its been five months now and no ones been able to find them. I may never see them again.
Stacys phone rang. She glanced at the number then shut it off without answering.
I have to go.
What would you do if you were me? Maggie said. Ive gone to police, a lawyer, a private detective. All in vain. I have nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. I have no family, I have no friends. Im all alone. You were my only hope. My last hope.
Im sorry. Im sure things will work out. Im so sorry. I really have to go. And with that Stacy disap peared through the doors of the Star-Journal.
Maggie stood alone in the street, the flutter and clang of the flagpole sounding a requiem to her defeat. She returned to her car and she met a stranger in her rearview mirror. She blinked at the lines stress had carved into her face. Shed let her hair go. Shed lost weight and couldnt remember the last time shed smiled.
How did her life come to this? She and Jake had been in love. Theyd had a happy life. A good life. She thrust her face into her hands and sobbed until she heard a tapping on the window and she turned to see Stacy Kurtzs face.
Maggie lowered her window.
Listen. Stacy was searching her notebook. Im sorry things ended that way.
Maggie regained a measure of composure as Stacy snapped through pages.
Im not sure that this will help, but you never know.
Stacy copied something on a blank page then tore it out.
Very few people know about this woman. She doesnt ask for money. She doesnt advertise and when I asked to profile her, she refused. She does not want publicity.
Wiping at her tears, Maggie studied the name and telephone number written in blue ink.
Whats this?
I have a detective friend who swears this woman helped the LAPD locate a murder suspect, and that she also helped the FBI find a teenager whod vanished and, I guess, about ten years ago she helped find an abducted toddler in Europe.
I dont understand. Is she a police officer?
No, she senses things, sees them in her mind and feels them.
Is she a psychic?
Something like that. Its up to you whether you go to her or not. I apologize, todays been a bad day at the paper. Please keep me posted. Bye.
After Stacy left, Maggie stared at the name shed written.
Madame Fatima.
She clenched the note in her fist as if it were a lifeline.
4
Fausts Fork, near Banff, Alberta, Canada
Graham hung on to the girl.