214 Palmer Street(27)
The view switched to a shot of the family being interviewed in their home. Dale Pittman asked, “What would you like to say to Jeremy if you could talk to him now?”
Mr. Bickley said, “I’m sorry, son. Come home and give me a chance to make this right. Things will be different, I promise you.”
Jeremy’s mother, tears streaming down her face, said, “You know how much I love you, Jeremy. I haven’t been able to sleep since you left. Please call.”
The parents looked tired and beaten down. Sick with worry, Sarah thought. Even his dad, who was the supposed cause of the trouble. His sister, though, had a stern look on her face.
The clip had been filmed twenty-one years ago and was grainy, as if it had been video-taped from an airing on TV, but even so, it had a powerful effect on Sarah, who could still feel the emotion behind the words. Jeremy Bickley’s parents were worried. His sister was angry, and she was also right. Someone, somewhere had to know something.
Sarah watched the clip over and over again, looking for clues, but it was just a family missing their son, wanting answers. Returning her attention to the website, she read comments from people in the community expressing their sympathies, and saying they were praying that the Bickleys would hear from Jeremy soon. One woman said she was having Catholic Masses said in his name and Mrs. Bickley responded: This comforts me more than I can say.
Another page on the site contained family photos of Jeremy, starting when he was a baby and going forward in time from there. He looked to be about three in the one where he held his little sister, Stephanie, a newborn. The caption said, Jeremy took to her right away, saying, “This is my baby!” In all of the photos of every age, he had the same sweet, unassuming smile. When he reached his teenage years, he wasn’t too cool to hang out with his little sister, posing with his arm around her shoulder. In one of the last pictures, he was with a group of friends. The way they were clustered together was similar to the photo taken in the bomb shelter, but in this case they were sitting on a plaid couch, with Jeremy and Clarice in the middle, Kirk and Gavin on either side. Off in the background, face slightly blurred, Sarah caught sight of Stephanie.
Some newspaper articles had been scanned into the site. Most of them were straightforward, just reporting the facts of the case. She did a quick read, taking note of the statement from the police. Captain William Kramer had said he’d personally interviewed Jeremy Bickley’s neighbors, friends, and relatives. His men had also canvassed the area. “I am convinced that Jeremy Bickley left of his own accord and will be heard from in time. I know this is difficult for his family, but I’ve assured them that we will still be available if need be. Jeremy has not been forgotten.”
The first time Sarah read this she concentrated on the meaning behind the words. Clearly, the police force considered the case closed and was only placating the family. She scanned it again, and the name jumped out at her. Captain William Kramer. A relation of Gavin’s? It had to be. Otherwise, it would be a pretty big coincidence.
Further googling brought up an obituary for Gavin’s grandfather and the confirmation that Captain William Kramer was indeed Gavin’s father. Apparently, law enforcement was the family business. Now that she thought about it, Gavin had mentioned something about growing up around guns and going target shooting with his dad as a kid. It hadn’t interested her all that much so she’d listened politely, not really heeding his words. At the time she’d assumed he was talking solely about hunting.
Odd that Kirk hadn’t mentioned that Gavin’s dad had also been the chief of police.
Sarah went back to the home page and surveyed the text that went from one edge of the screen to another. On the photo page, some of the captions extended to adjacent pictures. She’d designed the Garden Design Landscaping site and knew, with only a few hours’ work, she could improve this one as well. A good hosting site had templates, which would make it easy. If the family didn’t want to pay for it, she was sure Kirk would be happy to finance it. It was his friend, after all.
Impulsively she went to the contact page and filled out the form, leaving her name and phone number. In the message she wrote:
I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m married to Kirk Aden and would like to help update your website at no charge to you (if you’re interested).
She entered her name and phone number and pushed submit.
About an hour later, her phone buzzed while she was emptying the dishwasher. She didn’t recognize the number but stopped what she was doing to answer and put it on speaker phone. “Hello.”
A woman’s voice said, “Sarah Aden?”
“Yes?”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Barely contained anger came through the speaker as clearly as if she were in the room.
“Who is this?” Sarah’s finger hovered over the button, ready to end the call.
“Stephanie Bickley.” And if that wasn’t enough, she added, “Jeremy’s sister.”
Sarah felt her breath stall in her chest. It was clear from Stephanie’s tone it had been a mistake to fill out the contact form. By trying to help she’d made things worse. “You got my message about the website,” she said, her voice trailing off at the end.
Stephanie said, “Yes, I did, and I didn’t appreciate hearing from you. I’m glad my mother didn’t see it first. She doesn’t need more aggravation in her life.”