Copyright © 2003 Randy Rawls. All rights reserved. 

    The phone rang, jarring me awake. Before I could say hello, I heard, "John. Is Billie with you? She’s not here."

    "Jeannie? What do you mean?" Desperately, I shook sleep from my head, focusing on the clock. Two a.m. "Where is she?"

    "I don’t know. Her bed’s empty. I searched the house. She’s not here."

    "Call the police. I’ll be right there." I jumped from the bed and grabbed a pair of jeans. Billie was my fourteen-year old daughter, Jeannie’s and mine.

    We were divorced. We didn’t like one another very much, never had. We’d met, discovered a mutual craving for sex and thought we could build a relationship around jumping in the sack at every opportunity. It lasted long enough for Billie to be conceived in our third year. Eventually, our frolicking grew stale and there was nothing left to keep us together, nothing except Billie. When she was ten, neither of us could take it anymore. Jeannie’s affairs were tiresome to me, as I’m sure mine were to her. We divorced. We weren’t friends but we weren’t enemies either. We were simply two people who shared a love, an all-encompassing love for Billie.

    Jeannie and Billie stayed in the home we’d purchased and I moved five blocks away, far enough so the gossip paths didn’t cross, but close enough for Billie to travel back and forth at will. Also, close enough to be in the same school district. Everything was what was best for Billie. Now Jeannie was telling me Billie was gone.

    When I arrived at Jeannie’s, two policemen were with her. One of them asked, "When did you see her last?"

    "When I tucked her in at ten," Jeannie replied. "We chatted for a few minutes, then I left the room." Her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed when she looked at me. "John, I’m so glad you’re here. I need Billie. I need my daughter." Her resolve broke and tears flowed.

    Pulling her to my chest, I said. "We’ll find her."

    I looked at the policemen who appeared embarrassed. "Do you have anything?"

    "No, sir. We just got here. Maybe your daughter is taking a walk and will return any moment. Has she ever done this before?"

    "Not a chance," I responded, turning Jeannie loose and speaking to her. "It’s going to be a long night. How about some coffee?"

    She nodded and left the room.

    As soon as she cleared the doorway, I concentrated on the policemen. "She’s out there because some asshole took her. Okay, bottom line. How much time do we have to get her back before the bastard hurts her, or——" My voice broke and it took a moment to regain control. "Or kills her."

    "Sir, I’m just a cop on the beat. Save those questions for the investigators."

    Even as he said it, the doorbell rang. Two men in rumpled business suits were on the other side of the door.

    "Mr. Rabel," the taller said. "I’m Detective Carmichael and this is Detective Sampson."

    "Come in."

    "We understand there is a missing girl. Your daughter?"

    "Yes."

    He eyed my attire, jeans, sweater and boots. "You live here?"

    "No. I live a few blocks away. Billie’s mom and I are divorced."

    "I see. Is your ex-wife here?"

    "In the kitchen."

    "Ask her to come in, please."

    "What about my daughter?" I asked, irritation showing. "Have you have heard anything?"

    "We’ve put the word out to our patrols to watch for a young girl. The sooner we talk to you and your wife, the sooner we can activate the Amber Plan. That’ll get the news media broadcasting her disappearance over the Emergency Alert System. Please ask her to join us." His tone was all business.

    Jeannie and I sat on the couch and supplied every piece of information we could think of to help identify Billie. The strawberry-sized birthmark on the back of her head, the small scar on the back of her left thigh from a swing tumble when she was four, the gold fleck that appeared in her eyes when she laughed, her teeth, perfectly straight since the removal of braces last month. I fumbled pictures from my billfold while Jeannie collected photographs from around the house.

    Carmichael and Sampson absorbed every detail, taking copious notes. After forty-five minutes, they called in the data. "Okay, that will turn the system on full throttle," Sampson said. "In less than an hour, every news outlet in the state will be putting out her description."

    "Mr. and Ms. Rable," Carmichael said, a frown creasing his forehead, "my next questions might make you unhappy, but I need the truth. So hold all your complaints until after you’ve answered them. Ready?"

    I looked at Jeannie who nodded. "Okay, ask away."

    "Is your daughter sexually active?"

    "What?" I said, rising from the couch. "Of course not. She——"

    I felt Jeannie’s hand on my arm. "She’s not a virgin, if that’s what you mean. But she is not sexually active. It was one time, her fourteenth birthday. Nothing since."

    I stared at her as Carmichael took notes. "You’re kidding?" I said.

    "John, I’d never kid about something like that. She experimented, told me about it then promised to wait for marriage."

    As I opened my mouth, she added, "She also made me promise not to tell you. She didn’t want to disappoint you."

    I closed my mouth.

    "Does she have a boyfriend?"

    This time I looked to Jeannie who stared at her hands. When she lifted her gaze, she said, "No, I don’t think so. She told me she broke off with the boy who, who ... Anyway, after him there have been no other boyfriends."

    "I see," Carmichael said. "Look, I’ve got everything I need for now. We’ll get these photos into the system tonight. I’d like both of you to come down to the station in the morning, about nine. Call me if she comes home." He handed each of us a business card.

    I let the detectives out and returned to Jeannie on the couch. We sat, not touching, staring around the room where our daughter lived, but which meant little to either of us. I wanted familiarity but it wasn’t there. Most of the things I saw had been paid for by me but they weren’t familiar, just things.

    Billie’s picture stared from the mantle, accusing me. You left me, daddy. You didn’t love me enough to stay.

    I wanted to ask Jeannie about the boy who had violated my daughter but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the courage to learn the truth, preferring to hide from it, wanting to believe it never happened. I could not accept that my little girl was old enough, mature enough to lay down with a boy. It couldn’t be. I was also afraid she’d inherited her sex drive from her mother—or worse, from me.

    There were too many cups of coffee and no one called. No matter how much I fixated on the phone, no matter how hard I willed it to ring, it stayed mute. No news of Billie.

    Jeannie cried, tears pouring in rivers. Her shoulders shook as shudders racked her body.

    I knew I should hold her, comfort her, but I couldn’t. All I could hear were her words telling the policemen that my daughter was not a virgin.

    After an hour, I couldn’t sit anymore. "I’m going to look for her. Contact me if she calls in." I left the house and began to walk the familiar streets. Tonight, they were foreign. Somewhere out there, my daughter was held captive and I had no clues. After walking a ten-block radius, I returned to Jeannie’s and picked up my car to search a wider area. The night passed.

    At nine in the morning, we walked into the police station, and were taken to Detective Carmichael’s office where he and Sampson waited. Carmichael rose. "Ms. Rabel, please go with Detective Sampson. He has a few questions for you."

    When Jeannie and her escort had left, Carmichael asked, "Do you mind if I tape our conversation? It’ll save me from having to write so much. I really hate taking notes, don’t you?" He smiled as he sat behind his desk and flipped on a tape recorder. For him, everything appeared routine.

    I wanted to say no, but wasn’t sure what impression that would give. I told myself the important thing was to get through this so we could find Billie. "Okay, record. What do you want to know?"

    "I noticed that the relationship between you and your wife was, shall we say, not exactly loving. Am I right?"

    "She’s not in my will," I replied, "and I doubt that I’m in hers. Does that make us so different from other divorced couples?"

    "No, probably not. But it’s not another divorced couple that I’m talking to, is it? Does your daughter live with her mother?"

    "Yes, most of the time," I answered, "but she’s free to come and go as she pleases."

    "So you implied last night. I also saw how much you love her. It must be tough to give up your child to an ex-wife."

    "Detective, where is this headed? What are you implying?"

    "Mr. Rabel. We’ve found that half of our missing children cases are simply a matter of the non-custodial parent picking them up and taking them away. Did you do that with Billie?"

    "Are you nuts?" I yelled. "My daughter is missing and you’re playing games? No, I did not take my daughter. I don’t know where she is."

    "I see," he said, cutting my tirade. "Will you take a lie detector test?"

    That shut me down. I was flabbergasted. I struggled to absorb what he’d said.

    "Well, will you?" he continued in his calm voice. "It’s the simplest way to resolve things. We strap you in, you pass the test, and everyone knows you had nothing to do with it."

    "Will it speed things up? Will you get serious about tracking down her kidnapper?"

    "Can’t hurt, can it?"

    "Okay, let’s get it over with."

    Three hours later I was reunited with Jeannie and learned that she’d gotten the same treatment. She took the test and passed with flying colors. Some of my answers were inconclusive.

    "What do you mean, inconclusive?" Jeannie asked. "Didn’t you tell the truth?"

    "Of course I did. I answered all their silly questions. Then we talked about it. I told them I have no idea what happened to Billie, and that’s the truth."

    The look she gave me would have melted ceramic. "That better be the truth. If I find out different ..." She glared then stomped off.

    I watched her walk away realizing that my world had changed. My daughter was missing and somehow I had become a suspect. Detective Carmichael’s last admonishment was to talk to him before I made travel plans.

    Fresh air. That’s what I needed. Fresh air to clear my head and help me think. The one o’clock sun hung high in the sky beaming down brightness that cause me to squint. What I saw caused my world to crash down another notch.

    "Mr. Rabel. Tell us about your daughter."

    "Mr. Rabel. How long have you been away from your daughter?"

    "Mr. Rabel. Did you kidnap your daughter?"

    Reporters crammed microphones into my face as cameras rolled and lights flashed. Each question was more insulting than the previous.

    I retreated into the police station and bumped into Carmichael in the lobby. "Who the hell called those jerks out?" I said through clenched teeth.

    He stared through the glass doors then shifted his gaze to me. "I’m sorry, Mr. Rabel. It’s called freedom of the press. Your daughter is a big story now."

    "Sampson," Carmichael called to his partner. "Get Mr. Rabel out through the back door. I’ll take care of the media."

    Sampson took my arm. "Come with me, sir."

    When I arrived home, I flipped on the TV in time to watch a recording of Carmichael’s press conference. He assured the media that there were no suspects in Billie’s disappearance, but the police were following every lead while actively searching for her.

    One pert young blond asked, "Did Mr. Rabel flunk his polygraph? Did he kidnap his daughter?"

    That set off a clamoring of questions and shoving for position.

    Carmichael was cool in the face of the herd mentality. "Ms. Miller. Why do you ask such a question? I haven’t mentioned Mr. Rabel."

    "We have sources who tell us he blew the polygraph and he’s the number one suspect," she replied smugly.

    "Mr. Rabel is not a suspect. He is a concerned father who deserves to be treated with compassion."

    "What about the polygraph?"

    "No comment."

    "Thank you, Carmichael," I said. "At least you gave me the benefit of the doubt. I wonder if anyone else will."

    Over the next several days, I hovered by the telephone, hoping for a call from Billie or from the creep who had taken her. However, it did not ring with the call I sought. Instead, there were lawyers offering to represent me, the media wanting interviews, psychics who knew exactly where she was, well-wishers and plain-wrapper nuts. I wish I had kept count. I feel certain there were as many from lawyers as from the rest combined. I had no idea there were so many under-employed attorneys in the country.

    Oh, I forgot to mention the sickos who called identifying themselves as Billie. It could have been funny at another time—men with deep voices pretending to be my daughter, women with foreign accents, others whose street talk was so thick it was almost incoherent—but I found no humor in it. At first, I screamed at them, challenged them, attempted to embarrass them, to shame them. By day two, I simply hung up after quietly asking the person not to call again.

    The media did itself proud. Although both Jeannie and I refused interviews, they reported non-stop on Billie’s disappearance. While I knew the publicity would keep pressure on the kidnapper, I was chagrined at the thinly veiled accusations against me. Women I had never met, and a few that I had, stepped forward to report their affairs with me. One of the giggling blondes who pass for anchorwomen called me the new Casanova. Once she named me, the cloning effect took over and every channel echoed the Casanova label.

    One of Jeannie’s neighbors became the spokesperson for the case and granted interviews numerous times about Billie, Jeannie and me. The fact that we had never had a relationship with the woman did not deter the media from reporting every word she said. Jeannie and I cringed at the stories she told, wondering why she invented things that never happened.

    It was chaos. I ran the media gauntlet outside my house to visit my bank and arrange loans for a reward for information leading to Billie’s return. Jeannie did the same and the reward grew. A local corporation jumped in and upped the amount. By day four, the reward had grown to $50,000. Still, no news, no leads.

    Day five dawned with the sunrise offering a view worthy of Renoir. I stared at it with dull eyes, stinging from lack of sleep. My mind whirled furiously, going over the same ground again. I couldn’t shut it down, couldn’t stop from reviewing every conversation with Billie and, especially, every disagreement between us. I held my head in my hands. Let her go unhurt and I’ll let you live, whoever you are. Hurt her and I swear I’ll track you down and kill you.

    The phone rang. I looked at the clock before deciding to pick up. It was too early for a lawyer or a talking head. "Hello, John Rabel here."

    "Daddy. I want to come home."

    My heart accelerated, feeling like the tapping of a hungry woodpecker. "Billie. Where are you?" This wasn’t a hoax, couldn’t be a hoax. I recognized her voice.

    "I’m coming home, Daddy. Is it okay?"

    "Of course. Where are you? I’ll come get you."

"No, Daddy, but I’ll come to your house. Please call Mom and let her know."

    "Billie——" The phone clicked in my ear. "No, Billie, no. Don’t go," I screamed, hurling the cordless across the room. It smashed into a lamp and both fell to the floor in pieces. I breathed deeply, working on my emotions. Billie was coming home. That was what was important.

    Gradually, my heart quit racing, my emotions adopted the profile of a small roller coaster, then leveled out enough for me to talk to Jeannie. I used the cordless from the bedroom and called. She went as berserk as I had. We closed the conversation as she completed dressing, saying good-bye when she opened her front door.

    A few minutes later she walked into my house. "Is she here? Has she arrived yet?"

    "No, not yet. Sit down, please. Should I call Carmichael?"

    "I’d forgotten all about the police," she answered. "Let’s wait until Billie gets here. I don’t want anything to queer this."

    I agreed.

    Today, I wish I had alerted the police. I don’t know if things would have been different, but I should have called.

    Jeannie and I drank coffee and waited, trying to make small talk when all that either of us wanted was to hear Billie’s step on the porch. An hour passed then a second one. As we approached the three-hour point, my spirits sagged. Why had I let Billie hang up? Jeannie’s eyes asked the same question.

    The phone rang and I jumped to answer it. "John Rabel."

    "This is Detective Carmichael. We found your daughter."

    "Thank God," I said. To Jeannie, I exclaimed, "It’s the police. They have Billie." I turned my attention back to the phone. "Where is she? When can we see her?"

    "Calm down, Mr. Rabel. She’s in the hospital. She was riding in a car that was involved in an accident. She’s in surgery."

    "No," I moaned. "Which hospital?"

    "What, what did he say?" Jeannie asked. "Tell me. What’s wrong?"

    I handed her the phone and rushed to find another one. When I clicked in, I heard Carmichael say, "She’s in City Memorial. I’m calling from there. I’ll wait for you."

    Jeannie and I rushed to the car and I was fortunate not to be stopped for speeding.

    Thirty minutes later, we stood by Billie’s bed in ICU. She was swathed in bandages. The doctor explained to us that she had a serious head injury, a broken leg, a broken arm and internal injuries. She was in a coma.

    "All her injuries will heal," Doctor Irvin said. "The coma is another question though. I can’t predict when she’ll regain consciousness. Until that happens, we’ll just have to stand by and give her the best care available."

    Jeannie leaned on my shoulder and I slipped my arm around her.

    "What about brain damage?" I asked, fear crippling my body.

    "We won’t know until she’s conscious. Her head took a serious blow. We’ll just have to wait."

    Jeannie turned her head and sobbed into my chest as I stroked her hair.

    "I suggest you move to the waiting room," the doctor said. "There’s nothing you can do and we don’t welcome visitors back here. Every second is important. We have no time to step around you."

    I steered Jeannie out of ICU and into the waiting room. Detective Carmichael sat flipping through a magazine.

    "Did you see her?" he asked.

    "Yes," I answered. "What happened?"

    "The investigating officer says her car was going through an intersection with the green light when a SUV ran the light and crashed into them. Her car was hit just behind her seat on the passenger side. The SUV totaled the compact then crashed into two other cars that followed."

    "So, the car that Billie was in committed no violation?" Somehow, that seemed important.

    "None that we know of."

    "I assume you got the guy who hit her?" A thought kicked in. "What about the guy who kidnapped her? Did you get him?"

    "Maybe. A young man drove the car she was in. He’s also in ICU, unconscious. We haven’t been able to talk to him yet. He’s banged up pretty good. He lost a lot of blood."

    "Who is he?"

    He took out his notebook. "The car was registered to Michael A. O’Grady and the identification in the driver’s wallet identified him as O’Grady. Do you know him?"

    "No, I don’t," I said. "Jeannie?"

    She stared at her hands, sighed and said, "It may be the boy she dated. She said his name was Mickey."

    "Son of a bitch," I said. "Not only did he rape my daughter but he kidnapped her. I hope he survives so I can pound the shit out of him."

    "Easy, Mr. Rabel. We only know it was O’Grady’s car and the driver carried his identification. We’ve taken his prints and they’re being processed. If he’s on record, we’ll identify him. Otherwise, we’ll wait until we talk to him."

    I seethed as I settled into my chair and picked up a magazine. Jeannie took over the conversation with Carmichael but I blotted it out. My mind was fully consumed with the man who lay in ICU. He was eighteen years old, four years older than my daughter by age and a lifetime by maturity. He was a man. Billie was still an immature teenager. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Finally, I couldn’t sit any longer. "I’m going out. Call me if anything changes."

    I walked the corridors of the hospital, then around the block. My mind refused to clear. Anger and an urge for revenge consumed me. A glimmer of an idea began to form like the first spark in a fireplace. Soon it had matured and blazed, casting heat throughout my body. I went to the parking lot and drove away.

    Forty-five minutes later, I was back with a smile dancing around my lips, feeling good. It was the first time since Jeannie’s 2 a.m. phone call that launched me into hell.

    Jeannie was still in the ICU waiting room. No change in Billie’s condition.

    I excused myself, telling Jeannie that I needed to visit the bathroom. Instead, I entered ICU and walked back to look at Billie. She still lay quiet as death.

    "Has there been any change?" I asked the nurse who followed me.

    "Not yet, but all her vitals are good. She’s a strong girl. She’ll come out of it." She lay a hand on my arm in a comforting manner.

    "I understand that her friend, Mickey O’Grady, is here. Do you know which cubicle?"

    "Number three."

    "How’s he doing?"

    "Quite good, considering his loss of blood. We’re transfusing him and he’s responding well."

    "Can I look in on him?"

    She hesitated, looked over her shoulder, then said, "Okay, but just for a minute. If you get caught, I could be in trouble."

    "Great. A quick peek and I’ll be out of there. I know my wife will want to know how he’s doing."

    The nurse returned to her station and I entered O’Grady’s cubicle. A heavily bandaged body lay in the bed, a plasma bottle dripping its lifesaving liquid into him. Quickly, I checked the nameplate at the end of the bed. It read Michael O’Grady.

    I stood behind the IV pole, shielding it from the nurse’s station. The blood ran at a steady rate through the vinyl tube that led to his thigh. From my pocket, I pulled the item I’d gone home to get, a hypodermic needle.

    As a diabetic, I’d been around syringes all my life. This was a large one I’d found laying in the grass alongside the sidewalk one day about two months earlier. I picked it up out of fear some kid would find it. Upon arriving at home, I took it apart, sterilized it in boiling water and alcohol, protected the point with a rubber eraser and dropped it into my nightstand drawer. Now, I understood the impulse that caused me to keep it.

    I glanced over my shoulder at the nurses and saw one on the phone and the others concentrating on paperwork. Carefully I slipped the needle into the IV tube port and injected an air bubble into the stream of blood flowing toward O’Grady’s body. I shoved the plunger in as hard as I could, my thumb turning white from the exertion. I repeated the process several times. Carefully withdrawing the needle, I checked the port to insure it had closed.

    I walked back to Billie’s cubicle feeling better than I’d felt in days. The bastard who’d stolen my little girl’s innocence, the son of a bitch who’d kidnapped her would soon be dead. A deep feeling of satisfaction settled over me.

    The next day while I dressed after a hot shower, the phone rang. "Mr. Rabel, this is Nurse Roberts. Your daughter is asking for you."

    My feet and the wheels of my car barely touched the ground as I raced to the hospital. My daughter was awake. Everything was going to be all right.

    I rushed into the ICU and almost ran into Jeannie coming out. "She’s going to be okay," she said. "She wants to talk to you."

    Hurrying to Billie’s cubicle, I glanced into number three. It was empty.

    "Hi, Daddy," Billie said in a groggy voice when I walked in.

    My heart soared. "Hi, pumpkin. How’re you feeling?"

    "Tired. Sleepy."

    "Sounds like a good idea. I’ll be in the waiting room any time you want me." I started to walk out.

    "Wait, Daddy. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have run away. But I love Mickey so much and I knew you and Mom would never let me go out with him. You’d say he was too old for me. He’s so much like you, Dad."

    I stared at her, not wanting to believe what she’d said. "You ran away with him? I thought he kidnaped you."

    "No, Dad. He didn’t kidnap me. It was my idea. He made me call you. He said it wasn’t right. You had to know. We’re going to have a baby."