My Wife Is Missing(59)

“You’ve come up as a missing person,” the trooper said matter-of-factly. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Natalie went cold inside. It felt like there were two hands wrapped around her throat. She looked back at the children.

“Can we talk in private?”

The trooper opened the door for Natalie to get out. She followed the trooper to the passenger side of her vehicle where they’d be safe from oncoming traffic.

“So, talk.”

The trooper didn’t look like she knew how to smile.

By this point, Natalie’s thoughts were churning wildly. Her name must have come up on some screen with big red flags waving.

“I’m on my way to my mother’s in Indianapolis,” Natalie said. “I’m leaving my husband. He’s horribly abusive and—it’s not safe for me at home.” She put in a dramatic pause for effect. “He’s the one who filed the report, but I’m not missing. I’m in danger.”

Tears sprang to Natalie’s eyes. Mustering the emotion wasn’t hard because what she’d said wasn’t exactly a lie.

“If you report me to him, I’ll be forced to go back there. Something terrible could happen to me, to the kids. Please, please,” Natalie said. Her voice came out raw, thick with fear. “You have to believe me.”

“Okay, just relax,” said the trooper. “Nobody is going to put you in harm’s way. I just need to call this in. I’m going to have to hold you for a time until I get further instructions.”

No, thought Natalie. This was a worst-case scenario. Detention. Holding. Reporting. Michael would find her for sure.

The trooper was about to speak, offer assurances most likely, when the radio latched to her belt crackled to life.

Natalie couldn’t make out all the words, but she heard: “OSHP, respond to I-70. Gratiot. Multi-vehicle accident. Injured parties.”

Having thought so much about places to stop en route, Natalie had a good portion of the Ohio map stored in her brain. Gratiot was a village not far from their current location. The trooper’s face went slack. She took off her glasses, revealing brown eyes that held more than a modicum of compassion.

“I’m going to put a call into the agency, let them know you’re fine. Since I found you, you’re technically no longer missing. I laid eyes on you, spoke to you, you seem fine to me, not suicidal, not a danger to yourself or others, so no reason to keep you detained. Closest patrol car to that accident is twenty miles away, so I’m going to have to hurry. I suggest you call your husband. Tell him you’re alive and well. Then, get to where you’re going safely.”

With those parting words the trooper raced back to her patrol car, turned on the lights, gunned the engine, and was gone in a flash, her siren blaring. Natalie felt the pressure leave her body like an air leak.

The word “safe” flashed through her thoughts, but she knew better.

Safe was nothing. Safe didn’t exist.

Just like that bed in the Fairfield Inn and the rest that was finally within her reach, safe was a mirage.





CHAPTER 26





MICHAEL


There was a four o’clock direct flight from Boston to Ohio with two available seats. From his home, Michael paid for the tickets while Kennett made a call to the hotel. He confirmed that there was not a Natalie Hart registered at the Fairfield Inn in Zanesville. Getting an employee to identify a family of three would be better done in person, so to Ohio they’d go.

“She could be registered under a different name and sleeping soundly,” said Kennett, offering up an encouraging note.

“I agree she could be there,” Michael replied, “but I highly doubt she’s sleeping.”

The flight itself proved uneventful. Kennett spent most of the time in the air reading a Michael Connelly novel he’d bought in the airport bookstore.

“Cops read about fictional cops?” Michael asked.

“Connelly gets it right,” Kennett replied matter-of-factly.

“He does, eh? So tell me, would Harry Bosch get on a plane with a virtual stranger to help him track down his missing wife and kids?”

Kennett chuckled at that.

“Everyone counts or nobody does,” he answered wryly, reciting a familiar Bosch refrain.

“Hmmm,” said Michael, sounding doubtful. “Can’t help but think I might be counting a little too much. You have so many cases, why are you paying so much attention to mine?”

“What is it that they say about gift horses?” asked Kennett.

“I believe that expression is about gratitude, not trust.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust me, Mike?” A deceitful twinkle slipped into Kennett’s eyes—good cop or bad cop, it was hard to say.

“Not really,” said Michael, jostling as the plane hit a bump of turbulence.

“Well, what if I told you that a long, long time ago my wife disappeared, ran off like yours did, and I’ve been looking for her ever since? In my own fractured mind, you’re a chance at some kind of redemption.”

Michael sent Kennett a sideways glance.

“I don’t think I’d believe you,” he said.

Kennett smiled fully and broadly.

“You keep that skepticism of yours, Mike,” he said. “It’ll serve you well down the line.”