Caught

In the early days, Marcia had tried to busy herself by offering the various officers coffee and cookies. There was no such pretense anymore. Frank Tremont sat across from them, these clearly suffering parents, in their lovely suburban home, and wondered, she knew, how to tell them, yet again, that there was nothing new to report on their missing daughter.

“I’m sorry,” Frank Tremont said.

As expected. Almost on cue.

Marcia watched Ted lean back. He tilted his face up, his eyes blinking back tears. She knew that Ted was a good man, a wonderful man, a great husband and father and provider. But he was, she had learned, not a particularly strong man.

Marcia kept her eyes on Tremont. “So what next?” she asked.

“We keep on looking,” he said.

“How?” Marcia asked. “I mean, what else can be done?”

Tremont opened his mouth, stopped, closed it. “I don’t know, Marcia.”

Ted McWaid let the tears flow. “I don’t get it,” he said, as he had many times before. “How can you guys not have anything?”

Tremont just waited.

“With all the technology, all the advancements and the Internet . . .”

Ted’s voice trailed off. He shook his head. He didn’t get it. Still. Marcia did. It didn’t work that way. Before Haley, they’d been a typically naïve American family whose knowledge of (and thus faith in) law enforcement was derived from a lifetime of watching TV shows in which all cases get solved. The well-groomed actors find a hair or a footprint or a skin flake, they put it under a microscope, and presto, the answer comes to light before the hour mark. But that wasn’t reality. Reality, Marcia now knew, was better found on the news. The cops in Colorado, for example, still hadn’t found the killer of that little beauty queen, JonBenet Ramsey. Marcia remembered the headlines when Elizabeth Smart, a pretty fourteen-year-old girl, had been abducted from her bedroom late one night. The media had been all over that kidnapping, the whole world transfixed, all eyes watching as the police and FBI agents and all those crime scene “experts” combed through Elizabeth’s Salt Lake City home in search of the truth—and yet for more than nine months, no one thought to check out a crazy homeless man with a God complex who’d worked in the house, even though Elizabeth’s sister had seen him that night? If you’d put that on CSI or Law & Order the viewer would toss the remote across the room, claiming it was “unrealistic.” But sugarcoat it as you might, that was the kind of thing that happened all the time.

The reality, Marcia now knew, was that even idiots get away with major crimes.

The reality was, none of us are safe.

“Do you have anything new to tell me?” Tremont tried. “Anything at all?”

“We’ve told you everything,” Ted said.

Tremont nodded, his expression extra hangdog today. “We’ve seen other cases like this, where a missing teenage girl just shows up. She needed to blow off steam or maybe had a secret boyfriend.”

He had tried selling this before. Frank Tremont, like everyone else, including Ted and Marcia, wanted this to be a runaway.

“There was another teenage girl from Connecticut,” Tremont continued. “Got caught up with the wrong guy and ran away. Three weeks later, she just came back home.”

Ted nodded and turned to Marcia to have his hope bolstered. Marcia tried to muster a rosier façade, but there was simply no way. Teddy turned away as though scalded and excused himself.

It was odd, Marcia thought, that she of all people could see clearest. Of course, no parent wants to think that they are so clueless as to miss the signs of a teenager so desperately unhappy or unhinged that she’d run away for three months. The police had magnified every disappointment in her young life: Yes, Haley hadn’t gotten into the University of Virginia, her first choice. Yes, she hadn’t won the class essay contest or made the AHLISA honors program. And yes, she may have broken up with a boy recently. But so what? Every teen had stuff like that.

Marcia knew the truth, had known it from that first day. To echo the words of Principal Zecher, something had happened to her daughter. Something bad.

Tremont sat there, not sure what to do.

“Frank?” Marcia said.

He looked at her.

“I want to show you something.”

Marcia took out the Mickey Mouse photograph she’d found at her daughter’s locker and handed it to him. Tremont took his time. He held the picture in his hand. The room was still. She could hear his wheezing breath.

“That picture was taken three weeks before Haley vanished.”

Tremont studied the photograph as though it might hold a clue to Haley’s disappearance. “I remember. Your family trip to Disney World.”

“Look at her face, Frank.”

He obeyed, his eyes resting there.

“Do you think that girl, with that smile, just decided to run away and not tell anyone? Do you really think that girl took off on her own and was savvy enough to never use her iPhone or ATM or credit cards?”

“No,” Frank Tremont said, “I don’t.”

“Please keep looking, Frank.”

“I will, Marcia. I promise.”

WHEN PEOPLE THINK OF NEW JERSEY’S highways, they think of either the Garden State Parkway with its mix of shattered warehouses, unkempt graveyards, and worn two-family dwellings, or they think of the New Jersey Turnpike with its factories and smoke-stacks and mammoth industrial complexes that resemble the nightmarish future in Terminator movies. They don’t think of Route 15 in Sussex County, the farmland, the old lake communities, the antique barns, the 4-H Fairgrounds, the old minor league baseball stadium.

Following Dan Mercer’s directions, Wendy took Route 15 until it became 206, turned right on a gravel road, drove past the U-Store-It units, and arrived at the trailer park in Wykertown. The park was silent and small and had the kind of ghostly look where you half expect to see a rusted child’s swing swaying in the wind. The lots were divided up in a grid. Row D, Column 7 was in the far corner, not far from the chain-link fence.

She got out of the car and was amazed by the quiet. Not a sound. No tumbleweeds blew across the dirt, but maybe they should have. The whole park looked like one of those postapocalyptic towns—the bomb dropped and the residents had evaporated. There were clothes-lines, but nothing on them. Foldout chairs with torn seats littered the grounds. Charcoal barbecues and beach toys looked as though they’d been abandoned in mid-play.