Free Long Lost by David Morrell Page B

of the callers on the list the policeman had handed me was from my office, so I had to phone and again explain what had happened. Saying it out loud reinforced the nightmare. Several times, I heard the buzz of call waiting. Twice, I switched to the incoming call in case it had something to do with Kate and Jason, but both times it was a journalist, and after that, I didn’t pay attention to call waiting.
    The moment I hung up, the phone rang again. We had caller ID, but most times I’d found it was useless, a lot of the calls listed as UNKNOWN CALLER or, in this case, BLOCKED NUMBER. But I answered anyhow, and of course, it was another journalist; after that, I let the policeman answer the phone.
    When the lab crew finally left, Webber, Pendleton, and everybody else going with them, the house had never felt so empty. My footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors as I went upstairs. Fingerprint powder smudged furniture, and clothes remained on the bedroom floors. I sat on Jason’s bed, inhaling his boy smell. I went into the master bedroom, picked up one of Kate’s blouses, and pressed it to my face.
    I have no idea how long I remained there. The phone rang again. Ignoring it, I went into the bathroom, took off my borrowed clothes, and tried to take a bath without getting my bandaged hands and my stitched left forearm wet. Dirt and dried blood floated from me. Steam rose, but instead of the water’s heat, what I felt was spreading pain as the effect of the pills the doctor had given me began to wear off. The extent of my bruises was appalling. I did my best to shave, then put on fresh clothes, but I begrudged their comfort, telling myself that I didn’t deserve it, given the hell that Kate and Jason would be going through.
    The doorbell rang. Limping, I needed extra time to get downstairs. Meanwhile, the bell rang again and then again. If this is a reporter … , I thought. When I opened the door, I saw a straight—backed man in a dark suit, with polished shoes and short, neat, slightly graying hair. His lean face was all business.
    “Mr. Denning?”
    Behind him, out on the street, a camera crew started forward.
    “I’m not giving interviews.” I stepped back to close the door.
    “No, you don’t understand. I’m FBI Special Agent John Gader.” The man showed his ID. “I kept phoning, but no one answered, so I took a chance and drove over.”
    “I was … I didn’t … Please, come in.”
    As the reporters neared the house, I shut the door and locked it.
    Gader opened his briefcase and took out several small electronic devices. “These are voice—activated tape recorders.” He linked one to the living room phone. “Is there a phone in the kitchen?”
    He installed a recorder there also. “We’ll deal with the rest of the house later. I’ve already obtained a court order to have your phone tapped and all calls traced, but it never hurts to have a backup system. If the man who took your wife and son phones to demand a ransom, we’ll have a recording of it here, as well as through our intercept at the phone company.”
    “There won’t be a ransom demand.”
    “You never know.”
    “I
do
know. My brother doesn’t want money. He wants my wife and my son.”
    “Your brother?” Gader sounded as if he knew only the general parameters of the case.
    So, yet again, I explained what had happened. Gader pulled out a pocket—size tape recorder and took notes as a backup. He assured me that the Bureau would give my case its full attention. After he left, it was as if he’d never been present.
    Emptiness again enveloped me.
    This can’t have happened, I thought, straining to convince myself. I’m having a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon. Kate and Jason will be back. Everything’ll be perfect, the way it was.
    But when I woke in the night, pain racking my body, I reached next to me and was confronted by the emptiness on Kate’s side of the bed.
    Nothing had changed.
    As the days stretched on, the Butte police