A Son's Tale

Oh, God. Is there no hope?

“Calls connect through to the closest tower.”

So they could narrow the search dramatically?

“Not always. And that depends on the phone’s operator, as well. Cars and alerts are already out, Mr. Lowen. Believe me, we’ve got every resource possible on this one.”

“I want more.”

“We’re doing all we can.”

“Then I’ll do it myself.” Her father’s dismissive tone followed him out of the small living room.

Grace and Morgan exchanged looks but Morgan was no longer sure what they were saying to each other.

“You said we wait,” Grace addressed Detective Warner, who was working at a card table set up along the front wall of the duplex. Morgan’s mother was sitting in the armchair where earlier she’d gone through address files, making notes regarding run-ins her husband had had over the years.

George Lowen, when questioned by Detective Martin, had put his wife on that job.

And apparently Detective Martin had been right on cue, looking for people who had it in for Morgan’s father. Now they could narrow the search more. To a male who’d lost a wife—and blamed her father.

“Right now this guy is in control,” Detective Warner was saying. “Until we know more, we have to wait for the next call.”

Caleb Whittier sat beside Morgan throughout the exchange. It was as though he was her hard drive, taking in everything and storing it in meticulous order for her to call upon later.

“What makes you think he’s going to call back?” she asked Warner.

“Because it fits the profile. This man is out for revenge. One phone call isn’t going to satisfy him.”

Okay. There’d be another call. Another chance. She had to make it count.

“The next time he calls, you need to ask to speak to your son the second you pick up. This guy’s playing with you. He’s letting you know he’s in charge. And now he’s going to bait you. He’s going to wait until he knows you’re on the line, give you another one-liner and hang up.”

“And then what?”

“Profiling suggests that he’ll get around to asking for a ransom. Eventually. When he’s satisfied that you’ve suffered enough. Or when the satisfaction of torturing you runs out. For now, the only chance for communication you’re probably going to get is when you first pick up the call.”

“So instead of saying hello, I ask to speak with Sammie.”

“Right.”

Foggy-headed from exhaustion and stress, Morgan studied the detective. “You think he’ll let me talk to my son?”

“I doubt it. Not at this stage, in any case. He’s not out to give you any comfort. Just the opposite, in fact. So we play on his need to make you and your family suffer by letting him hear how desperate you are to speak to your son.”

“Why would she give this guy what he wants?” Grace asked.

“So he’ll give us what we want, proof of Sammie’s existence. He has to get pleasure out of giving us the information or we aren’t going to get it.”

Morgan’s stomach threatened to give back what little she’d eaten. “What kind of proof?”

“He’ll call back with a tape recording, maybe. Or a description of Sammie’s clothing. The idea is to keep him calling back. Every time we get him on the line we have that much more chance of pinpointing where he’s calling from. And every bit of communication gives us more clues to go on in helping us figure out who this guy is.”

“You said he’d be calling back, anyway.”

“That’s right and we want to take control of his plan.”

She nodded. And would do exactly as she was told.