Free Reckoning: A Fallen Siren Novel by S.J. Harper Page A
Authors: S.J. Harper
resolve not to give in to the misery. “I told the police that it was missing. She kept it in her backpack.”
Zack asks, “Could Hannah have let someone borrow it?”
“Or lost it?” I add.
She shakes her head. “No. Hannah was extremely protective of her laptop. I’m sorry I didn’t think to mention it. I figured you were coordinating monitoring with the police.”
Zack pulls his notebook back out. “Monitoring?”
“The computer can be tracked. As soon as I realized it was missing from the backpack, I told the police. They
are
tracking it. Right?”
“We’re going to look into that. Mrs. Clemons, could you give Agent Monroe any information you have about the tracking service?” Zack turns to me. “I’m going to call Mrs. Roberts and let her know we’re running a little late.”
“I have everything written down in my address book. Let me copy it for you,” Mrs. Clemons responds.
I follow her into the kitchen. “I’m sorry to make you go over this again.”
She finishes writing and presses a slip of paper into the palm of my hand. “Find Hannah.”
I drop it into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve a business card. “My office number. On the back is my cell. Call anytime.”
She takes the card and stares down at it. Tears roll down her cheeks and splash onto her hands. She doesn’t look up as we walk to the door. When I glance back, she still hasn’t moved. I close the door quietly behind us.
Hannah, where are you?
CHAPTER 7
“Do you really believe we’re going to find these girls?” Zack’s tone is quiet, introspective, as he starts the car.
He doesn’t want to voice the obvious. Someone took Hannah. She’s been gone more than seventy-two hours. No word from her kidnapper. No ransom demand. Nothing.
The odds are not in her favor.
“I want to believe.” I turn to look out the window.
These girls, young, blond, innocent. They remind me of her. Persephone.
“I’ll call Billings about tracking the laptop.”
As Zack starts the car and throws it into reverse, I call the office.
Billings sounds surprised. “There was no mention of a missing computer in the initial report. You said you have some information about it?”
As Zack drives south to El Cajon, I pull the note from my pocket. I give Billings the Web site for the tracking service, as well as a log-in and password. I also ask him to put in a request with Johnson to find Hannah’s father.
“I can’t believe the PD didn’t initiate the trace right away,” Zack says when I’ve disconnected.
I don’t answer. I keep seeing the faces of the missing girls . . . so young, so full of promise. What could have happened to them?
Our next stop is the home of Sylvia Roberts. They live in a duplex on South Anza Street, close to downtown El Cajon. A chain-link fence surrounds each of the yards. The one on the right has a German shepherd standing guard. When we pull into the shared driveway, the dog goes bat-shit crazy, baring fangs, barking, and running up and down the length of the fence.
I step out of the car and nod toward the dog. “Does Killer here belong to the Roberts family?”
Zack walks over to the fence, hands stuffed in his pockets. As he approaches, the animal locks eyes with Zack, shrinks back. He lowers his head, whining—snarling beast turned cowardly lion.
“All bark and no bite,” I say as the dog slinks back to the porch, tail between its legs, whimpering.
Zack grins at me. “Sometimes having a big, bad wolf on your team comes in handy.”
I smile back.
The only light moment so far in an oppressive day.
The entrance to the duplex is through the gate to our left. No dog rushes out to challenge us. As soon as we step onto the porch, the front door opens.
“Are you Agent Armstrong?” A disembodied female voice from behind an opaque screen door calls out the question.
“Yes, ma’am,” Zack says, he lifts his badge. “FBI. Agents Armstrong and Monroe.”
The screen door is shoved open.
I
Zack asks, “Could Hannah have let someone borrow it?”
“Or lost it?” I add.
She shakes her head. “No. Hannah was extremely protective of her laptop. I’m sorry I didn’t think to mention it. I figured you were coordinating monitoring with the police.”
Zack pulls his notebook back out. “Monitoring?”
“The computer can be tracked. As soon as I realized it was missing from the backpack, I told the police. They
are
tracking it. Right?”
“We’re going to look into that. Mrs. Clemons, could you give Agent Monroe any information you have about the tracking service?” Zack turns to me. “I’m going to call Mrs. Roberts and let her know we’re running a little late.”
“I have everything written down in my address book. Let me copy it for you,” Mrs. Clemons responds.
I follow her into the kitchen. “I’m sorry to make you go over this again.”
She finishes writing and presses a slip of paper into the palm of my hand. “Find Hannah.”
I drop it into the pocket of my jacket and retrieve a business card. “My office number. On the back is my cell. Call anytime.”
She takes the card and stares down at it. Tears roll down her cheeks and splash onto her hands. She doesn’t look up as we walk to the door. When I glance back, she still hasn’t moved. I close the door quietly behind us.
Hannah, where are you?
CHAPTER 7
“Do you really believe we’re going to find these girls?” Zack’s tone is quiet, introspective, as he starts the car.
He doesn’t want to voice the obvious. Someone took Hannah. She’s been gone more than seventy-two hours. No word from her kidnapper. No ransom demand. Nothing.
The odds are not in her favor.
“I want to believe.” I turn to look out the window.
These girls, young, blond, innocent. They remind me of her. Persephone.
“I’ll call Billings about tracking the laptop.”
As Zack starts the car and throws it into reverse, I call the office.
Billings sounds surprised. “There was no mention of a missing computer in the initial report. You said you have some information about it?”
As Zack drives south to El Cajon, I pull the note from my pocket. I give Billings the Web site for the tracking service, as well as a log-in and password. I also ask him to put in a request with Johnson to find Hannah’s father.
“I can’t believe the PD didn’t initiate the trace right away,” Zack says when I’ve disconnected.
I don’t answer. I keep seeing the faces of the missing girls . . . so young, so full of promise. What could have happened to them?
Our next stop is the home of Sylvia Roberts. They live in a duplex on South Anza Street, close to downtown El Cajon. A chain-link fence surrounds each of the yards. The one on the right has a German shepherd standing guard. When we pull into the shared driveway, the dog goes bat-shit crazy, baring fangs, barking, and running up and down the length of the fence.
I step out of the car and nod toward the dog. “Does Killer here belong to the Roberts family?”
Zack walks over to the fence, hands stuffed in his pockets. As he approaches, the animal locks eyes with Zack, shrinks back. He lowers his head, whining—snarling beast turned cowardly lion.
“All bark and no bite,” I say as the dog slinks back to the porch, tail between its legs, whimpering.
Zack grins at me. “Sometimes having a big, bad wolf on your team comes in handy.”
I smile back.
The only light moment so far in an oppressive day.
The entrance to the duplex is through the gate to our left. No dog rushes out to challenge us. As soon as we step onto the porch, the front door opens.
“Are you Agent Armstrong?” A disembodied female voice from behind an opaque screen door calls out the question.
“Yes, ma’am,” Zack says, he lifts his badge. “FBI. Agents Armstrong and Monroe.”
The screen door is shoved open.
I