Water Walker: Episodes 1-4 Part 2

Eyes blinking against the patchwork of shadows that blanketed her studio apartment, she lay still, shirt soaked through with sweat. No, it wasn't Mich.e.l.le. Her daughter was dead. Had been for many years.

She leaned over, picked up her phone and stared at the familiar name on its bright screen. Todd Benner. She thumbed the Talk b.u.t.ton and brought it to her ear.

"Tell me you have a good reason for calling at this hour," she said.

"Sorry to drag you out of bed."

"I was up anyway. What've you got?"

"Abduction case was just called in. They've asked for the Bureau's consult."

"Who? Where?"

"Hour away, Greenville. A thirteen-year-old girl was taken from her foster home."

Silence.

"Liv?"

"What's her name?"

"Alice. Alice Ringwald."

She could feel the sudden surge of her pulse. Her own daughter would be thirteen if she were still alive.

"Liv?"

"I'm still here." Her mind shifted. She was already on her feet and halfway across the room, s.n.a.t.c.hing a robe from the back of a chair. "When did it happen?"

"Between seven and eight o'clock last night. I'm still waiting on the full report so details are sketchy. The abductor, a single middle-aged male, fled the scene in a truck with Tennessee plates."

She glanced at the clock. "He's got ten hours on us . . . they could be halfway across the country by now."

"Which is why we're being called in."

"Any of our people on scene yet?"

"Forensics will be there at seven. I told them we'd be close on their heels."

"What else do we know?"

"The local detective talked with the mother. He'll be on scene when we arrive."

"She was there?"

"She's the only witness." A beat. "Liv?"

"Yeah," she said, swapping the phone from one hand to the other.

"Listen, if you're not up for this . . . I know this week is tough for you every year."

"Come on, Todd. You know me better than anyone else."

"Which is why I'm saying it."

"It's also what makes me one of the best."

"I'm just concerned about you. That's all."

"Just get what you can from Murphy. We'll brief on the way. I'm headed out the door in twenty. I'll swing by and pick you up."

Olivia ended the call and sat in silence. Glanced at a framed picture of her daughter that hung on the wall.

It's what makes me one of the best.

It was the truth. Her pa.s.sion bordered on personal obsession. If her superiors knew how close she stood to the brink they might rethink her a.s.signment.

Seven years had pa.s.sed and the wound was still raw. It had been a perfect afternoon. Her husband, Derek, was away on a business trip so she'd taken off work for a girls' day out, just like the old days when Mich.e.l.le had been younger-pancakes at Dominy's, then to the zoo, then a Disney movie marathon at the local dollar theater.

At six o'clock that night Mich.e.l.le had fallen asleep on the couch while Olivia set about whipping up a batch of her daughter's favorite: peanut b.u.t.ter cookies. But a quick look in the fridge revealed that they were out of milk to go with the cookies.

Milk. Just a quick trip to the store down the street to buy a quart of milk. Five minutes tops. Problem was, she'd been in such a rush to get there, get the milk, and get back that she'd forgotten to lock the door on her way out.

When she returned, the door was ajar and Mich.e.l.le was gone.

After three days of frantic searching, the detective delivered the news she'd dreaded. A utility worker had stumbled across Mich.e.l.le's dead body in a field three miles from their house.

The life Olivia had known ended that day. Her daughter was forever gone and within six months, so was everything else. Sleep was the first to go. Then her job. Then her friends. Then her husband, who might have coped with his own loss if not for her unrelenting depression.

Why? Because of her. Because she, and no one else, had left the door open.

Three years later, she'd found a new home with the FBI. Mich.e.l.le's case had gone cold and remained so to this day, but there were a thousand Mich.e.l.les out there, and Olivia made every one of them her own.

Olivia s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle of Xanax that perched on the nightstand, emptied one into her hand, and grabbed the half-filled water bottle on her nightstand to wash it down.

The clock was ticking.

Forensics was already processing the house when Olivia arrived at the Clarks' residence. They'd been briefed by the local supervisory detective, Randy Smith, on the drive. A dozen protocols were already in full motion, teams of people already engaged in the search-dispatchers, patrol officers responding to the Amber Alert, detectives, CSI, citizens now being informed of the abduction on the news. Evidence was being compiled, a case would be quickly built based on that evidence, searches would be made. What could be done was being done by caring, very capable investigators.

But for Olivia, only one question really mattered now: Why?

"I want to talk to them alone," she said, staring at the front door, now open. Benner knew both her penchant for connecting emotionally to a case, and her preferences for how to do so.

"I'll join you in a bit. Smith is with the witness who saw the vehicle."

She nodded, watched him depart, and stared up at the house. They were all the same, really. Every crime scene would offer up its evidence: the where, the when, the what, the process, the means. But it was the why that kept Olivia awake at nights.

Why do you take children?

Why did you choose her?

Why did you take her?

Her mind skipped tracks.

Why did I leave the door open?

Why did you kill my daughter?

Alice wasn't Mich.e.l.le and there was no evidence that she'd been killed, but Alice was a Mich.e.l.le and if they didn't find her in time . . .

Why? To understand that single question, Olivia had to connect with Alice's parents and to her environment.

She took a deep breath and walked up the sidewalk, through the front door, and into the home from which Alice had been taken.

A middle-aged couple stood in the middle of the dining room, watching two technicians combing for fibers. Neither looked like they'd slept.

She approached them and extended her hand to the mother.

"John and Louise Clark?"

Louise took her hand.

"My name's Olivia Strauss. I'm the special agent in charge of the FBI's investigation." She offered Louise a smile as she looked into her swollen eyes. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm so sorry you're going through this. I know it's hard."

"Thank you." A fresh tear slid down the mother's face.

Olivia took a tissue from her pocket. Offered it to Louise. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

John cleared his throat. "We've been asked a lot of questions. Truthfully, we could use some answers."

"I understand. You can be a.s.sured that we're doing everything we can. A whole set of procedures were set in motion last night."

"What procedures?"

"Local authorities sealed off the immediate area and issued a statewide Amber Alert within an hour of the abduction. That turned a lot of eyes-local and state police, as well as the public-our way. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children was immediately notified and Alice's information was entered into the National Crime Information Center's database. A leads management system is in place-every tip will be followed up. The team has already processed more than two dozen. It may not look like it, but the search for Alice is in full swing out there."

Louise softened. "They asked for some of her clothes."

"For the scent. The local K-9 unit established an active search grid of a half-mile in every direction and detectives started working door-to-door last night, talking with anyone who might've seen anything out of place. They'll pick it up again this morning. We've also cross-checked criminal and s.e.x-offender databases to determine if any might be princ.i.p.al suspects or possible partic.i.p.ants in the crime."

"They said our neighbor reported the truck," John said.

"Yes and she got the plate number too. We already know that the truck was reported stolen several weeks ago in Nashville. We'll find it."

They stared at her, no less concerned, but at least she'd given them something to hold on to.

"We're going to do everything we can to find Alice, I promise you. This isn't just my job. It's my life."

"Thank you," John said.

She gave him a nod and turned to Louise. "I understand you were here when he took her."

"Yes."

"I know you've already told the detective everything you remember, but I need to hear it from you. Walk me through it. Beginning with the first encounter at the front door."

"Alice answered the door first."

"Show me where you were standing when you first saw him."

Louise walked to a spot about eight feet from the front door and stopped. "Here."

Olivia sized up the door from Louise's vantage point. "The report said the man was wearing gloves when he entered the house. What about when he first came to the door? Did you notice whether or not he wore gloves?"

Louise thought a moment then shook her head. "No, I don't think he was. I would've remembered."

"You're certain?"

She nodded. "Yes."

No gloves the first time. Why?

Because he didn't expect to have to use force.

Olivia caught the attention of a CSI tech in a blue windbreaker. "We need to double check the work-up for this area, especially the doorbell-prints, fibers, skin. The abductor had exposed hands."

"Will do."

Back to Louise: "What happened next?"

Louise led her through the house, starting at the living room and ending at the closet. She recounted in detail the terror she and Alice had experienced. The man. The way he forced her to the ground. Everything she could remember.

Olivia stood at the foot of the stairs, mind churning. Why come into the house? Why not wait for a better opportunity, when Alice was away from the house? Why risk a home invasion in daylight, and while the mother was home?

He was desperate. Inexperienced. He hadn't come for a girl; he'd come specifically for Alice.

"Can you show me her room?"

Louise led her upstairs. Four doors flanked the short hallway. To the right, a hall bathroom and the entry to the master bedroom. To the left, two other bedrooms.

Olivia angled into the bathroom. "This is the bathroom Alice used?"

"Yes. John and I have our own."

She scanned the countertop. A pair of hairbrushes sat on top of a neatly folded hand towel. A pump bottle of Burt's Bees hand soap. A red toothbrush next to a half-used tube of toothpaste.

Alice's, but in Olivia's mind they were as much Mich.e.l.le's.