Wherever She Goes(4)

He appears, walking out from behind a trash can. That’s a relief. The not-such-a-relief part? He’s heading straight for the parking lot.

Where is his mother?

It doesn’t matter. As much as I hate to embarrass another parent, that’s a busy lot with an even busier thoroughfare beside it.

I kick my jog up to a run.

“You could just say no thanks,” the guy shouts after me, and then mutters, “Bitch,” under his breath.

Aubrey Finch, making friends wherever she goes.

Forget him. The important thing is the boy, and in that moment of distraction, I’ve lost sight of him again.

Tires screech, and my chest seizes as I look about wildly. A vehicle has slammed on its brakes in the parking lot, and I can just make out a roof rack over the sea of parked vehicles.

I spot the boy. He’s still at the edge of the lot, standing on his tiptoes, as if looking for the source of the screeching tires.

A voice calls from the direction of the vehicle. It’s a single word, but I can’t make it out. The boy hears, though, and starts running toward it.

Seeing him dash into that jammed parking lot, I cringe and have to chomp down on a shout of warning. Fortunately, the lot is silent except for the rumble of what I can now see is a big SUV.

Mom must have gone to fetch the car, unable to find a spot in the lot. She’s told him he could swing for a few more minutes while she brought the car around. Not the choice I’d make but— A sharp boyish yelp of surprise. Then, “No!”

I burst into a run as a man’s low voice says, “Get in,” and “Stop that.”

The boy shouts, “No! Let me go!” Then he screams “Mama!” at the top of his lungs as I run full out.

A door slams shut, muffling the boy’s cries.

An engine revs.

I grit my teeth and will my body to go faster, just a little faster, damn it.

The SUV takes off, speeding through the lot, and all I see is that damned roof rack.

Faster! Harder! I hear my father’s bark. Dig deeper. Work harder. You can do better, Bree.

You can always do better.

The SUV has stopped at the roadway, engine idling as it waits for a break in the heavy traffic. If I can just get past the next row of cars, I’ll be able to get a plate number.

I jog across the lane. A solid flow of traffic still blocks the exit. I can do this. Twenty feet more, and I’ll have a clear sight line to the SUV, and there is no way it can pull away before that.

Get my phone out to snap pictures. Even if I can’t see the license plate, I can enhance the photo.

The SUV is just ahead. I lift my phone while fumbling to turn on the camera. It’s fine. Steady traffic. I have time. I— A horn blasts. A long, solid blast.

Tires squeal.

The SUV cuts into traffic and roars off.

I race toward the road. No time for a photo. Just get a look at the license. The SUV is pulling away, the rear bumper visible, the license . . .

The license plate is mud-splattered and unreadable.

The vehicle then. Stop squinting at the plate, and get the vehicle make and model— The SUV cuts into the next lane before I can see the emblem. It’s a large SUV. Dark blue . . . or black . . .

Not good enough. Not good enough at all.

I keep going, but the SUV is already at the next light, turning left and . . .

And it’s gone.

I inhale and look down, feeling the weight of the cell phone in my hand.

Uh, yes. Cell phone?

I hit numbers as I head back toward the park.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Kidnap—” I struggle for breath, like I’ve run a marathon. “Kidnapping. I witnessed a kidnapping.”

“Slow down, ma’am, and repeat that please?”

“I just witnessed a kidnapping. I saw a boy pulled into a car—an SUV. A dark-colored SUV on . . .” Street. What is the street? “On Cliff View. Near Grant Park. The children’s playground. There’s a parking lot off Cliff View into Grant Park, right next to the playground. It happened there. Just now.”

“You witnessed a young man—”

“Boy, child, maybe four or five years old.”

“A child being pulled into a dark SUV in the parking lot . . .”

The dispatcher continues rhyming off the information, and I want to shout, Yes, yes to all of that, now just get someone here.

When the woman finishes, I say, calmly, “Yes, that’s right. Please hurry. They just left.”

“I’ve already dispatched a car, ma’am. Can you remain on the scene, please?”

“I’ll be here. In the playground. I know what his mom looks like. I’m going to find her. You can reach me at this number or just tell the officers I’m wearing a gray sweat suit, and I have a dark brown ponytail. My name is Aubrey Finch.”

The dispatcher signs off, and I’m on the move again.

I pass two mothers leaving with children and I can’t help wishing they could have been five minutes sooner, extra witnesses who might have seen more.

Someone must have seen more. There will be a CCTV camera or a street passerby or maybe even that guy who pestered me about my “form”—he can’t have gone far.

Someone will have seen something.

I reach the playground and scan it for the boy’s mother, expecting to see her anxiously searching. She must have turned her back, maybe talking to another parent or engrossed in a book.