Theresa Herrera stumbled out of her bedroom, fighting
to keep the scream caged in her throat. Screaming wasn’t
allowed; that was one of the rules. The first rule she’d
been told. The most important one.
Oh my God, dear Jesus in heaven, this isn’t happening.
A phone rang. Not the familiar ring of the house
phone or the chiming bells of her cell but a new and
completely different ringtone – a constant, high-pitched
chirp bordering on a screech. She forced her attention
away from the bedroom, away from what had happened
to her husband, and started running down the
long, brightly lit hall, heading for the bedroom off the
top of the stairs – her son’s bedroom.
Ring.
The bedroom door was open, always, and everything
inside was just the way Rico had left it – the posters of
Batman and a futuristic soldier called Master Chief
hanging on the walls, the shelves crammed with assembled
Lego Star Wars ships, books and thick encyclopedias
containing the histories of superheroes and popular
sci-fi characters from movies and video games. The
hamper was still full of his dirty clothes, his desk was
still crammed with his drawings, and his bureau was still
packed with his scruffy and broken toys. Not a single
thing had been moved. Missing did not mean dead.
There was always a chance. Always.
Ring.
Theresa raced into the bedroom, her attention locked
on the red Spiderman quilt. There it was, just as she’d
been told: the disposable cell phone. She picked it up,
nearly dropping it in her shaking hands. In the strong
light coming from the hall she found the TALK button.
She punched it with her thumb and brought the
phone up, her mind and body swimming with a dizzying
mix of excitement and pure terror.
‘Rico? Rico, baby, is that you?’
There was no answer. Could he really be alive, or was
this some sort of cruel trick? Four years ago, Rico had
been asleep right here in this bed while she attended an
awards dinner with her husband. As Barry was being
showered with praise for providing free psychiatric care
to troubled children and teens, someone had used the
aluminium ladder he’d left outside to paint the porch,
climbed up to the first-floor window, cut the window
screen and abducted her sleeping ten-year-old son from
his bed. The babysitter, downstairs watching TV and
talking to her boyfriend on her brand new iPhone,
hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
‘Rico, it’s me. It’s Mom.’
No answer. Theresa pressed the TALK button
again. Spoke his name again. Then she realized there
was no one on the other end of the line. It was dead.
He’ll call back, she told herself. Beads of sweat rolled
down her face and the small of her back, her heart was
beating fast – much too fast. She was terrified, short of
breath and on the verge of throwing up her Big Mac
combo dinner. The only thing keeping the food down
was hope.
Before Rico’s abduction, Theresa had developed a
love of true-crime programmes. The Discovery Channel
played them around the clock, the cases narrated by
veteran detectives and FBI experts. When it came to
child abductions, they all gave the same frightening
statistic: if a child wasn’t found within the first forty-eight
hours, the chance of their being found alive dropped to
zero.
Hope came from the real-life case of Elizabeth
Smart, a fourteen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City,
who, like Rico, had been abducted from her bedroom.
The Utah teenager was found nine months later – alive.
Theresa’s nasty, pragmatic side liked to remind her, too
much and too often, that nine months wasn’t the same
as four years. Still, nine months was an incredibly long
time to hold out hope, and Elizabeth Smart’s parents
had never given up. Theresa had drawn courage and
strength from their example, and now, after all these
long and painful years, her faith was finally about to be
rewarded . . . maybe. Possibly.
The phone rang again.
‘Rico?’
Ragged breathing on the other end of the line, and
then: ‘Mom?’
The voice was slightly older, slightly deeper. Rico
would be fourteen now; he would be going through
puberty.
‘Mom, is that really you?’
It was Rico’s voice, no question. The nasal tone was
still there, along with the slight lisp. She was talking to
her son, her baby.
Theresa felt the sting of tears as that nasty, pragmatic
side chimed in: You need proof.
The photograph, she thought. She’d been shown a
photograph of Rico.
And it could have easily been Photoshopped. You need to be
sure, Terry, one hundred per cent sure.
How? How can I –
Ask him something only he would know.
Theresa’s eyes squeezed shut. She spoke a moment
later.
‘Rico, honey, when you were six, we had your birthday
party at the Build-a-Bear at the mall. We built a bear
together. Remember? You dressed it a certain way.’
‘Sergeant-General. That’s what I called him. Sergeant-
General.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He wore army fatigues and a military cap. We
recorded a message. When you pressed the paw, the
recording said, “I’m an army general, ten-hut.” ’
Theresa covered her mouth to stifle her cry.
‘You recorded the message, Mom. Not me.’
It’s him. My baby. The tears came, a floodgate of them,
raining down her cheeks.
‘Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.’
Rico didn’t answer. On the other end of the line she
thought she heard someone speaking in the background
but couldn’t be sure.
Theresa caught movement coming from the hall. A
shadow moved across the wall and floor, footsteps
heading her way.
Then she heard Rico sobbing.
‘Don’t let them take me back there.’
‘Where? Where did they take you, Rico?’
‘I can’t take it any more. Please, Mom. Please help
me. I don’t –’
Click and then Rico was gone.
Theresa yanked the phone away from her ear, frantically
searching for the redial button. Rico was alive.
Her son was alive and she had just spoken to him and he
was terrified and possibly in pain and she had –
The phone slipped from her grasp. She went for
it, bumping up against a wall shelf. One of the Lego
Star Wars spaceships fell against the floor and shattered.
A scream roared past her lips and she stifled it with
her hands as the woman in the fur coat entered Rico’s
bedroom.
2
seen her before, despite
Clouzot’s intimation that they had met, although
the Clouzot woman refused to say where or when this
introduction had taken place.
This was what Theresa knew for sure: just a few
short hours ago she had told Barry she was heading out
to the grocery store. Ali Karim, a New York investigator
who had agreed to look into Rico’s case, had called
her earlier in the day to ask if she and Barry would be
home that evening. Karim wanted to send over a man
who had considerable experience in abduction cases
and needed to know if they would be home between
six and seven. Theresa said they would. She had spent
the remainder of her Friday afternoon cleaning and
tidying up the house (except Rico’s room; she never
touched anything in there) when at the last minute she
remembered she was out of coffee.
When Theresa returned at a few minutes past five,
Colorado’s winter sky already pitch-black and threatening
snow, she hadn’t seen any cars parked nearby. She
pulled into the garage and opened the door leading into
the mudroom, balancing a vegetable and cheese tray
she’d purchased at the last minute. Offering food to her
guest seemed like the polite thing to do, but there was
another component to this purchase: the need to
impress. To show that she was a good person, that her
son was worthy of Karim’s time and attention.
Theresa set the tray on the kitchen island, startled
when she saw someone sitting in one of the living-room
chairs – an older woman bundled in a rich mahogany coloured
mink. Has to be one of Barry’s hospital or charity
friends, Theresa thought, slipping out of her wool coat.
Since Rico’s abduction, when her husband wasn’t burying
himself in patient work at his practice, he was
devoting the remainder of his free time to all sorts of
charity cases. Barry wanted to be anywhere but home.
He barely spoke about Rico any more, and she knew he
carried a burning resentment at her refusal to get on
with her life. He never said anything to this effect, of
course. Barry had never been good at confrontation,
and he was simply awful at hiding his feelings – he wore
them on his face. But he had voiced his displeasure
when he found out she had enlisted the services of
what he considered to be nothing more than a glorified
private investigator to look into Rico’s case.
As Theresa approached the living room, her first
thought was that Barbara Bush had come to pay the
Herrera family a personal visit. The woman had the
same mannish look – George Washington in drag. But
the woman in the fur coat wasn’t as stout as the former
first lady, and she had jet-black hair that was stretched
back across her scalp and worn in a bun. A black crocodile
Hermès Birkin bag rested on her lap.
One thing was immediately clear: the woman’s plastic
surgeon had screwed her. Her face had been pulled way
too tight, giving her that pale, bug-eyed look Theresa
had seen on a lot of older women trying to fight off
Father Time with a scalpel. And, if that wasn’t bad
enough, the woman had a smile that seemed to run from
ear to ear. Either God almighty Himself had cursed her
with it, or she had specifically asked her surgeon to make
her look like the Joker.
The woman stood clutching her handbag. She was
tall, almost six feet. Her coat was unbuttoned, revealing
a sharp charcoal business suit. Lying against the black
blouse was a colourful, ornate jewel necklace that was
missing several stones.
Why would she wear a broken necklace? Theresa thought,
as she introduced herself. The woman wore diamond
earrings and a pair of gloves made of thin black leather.
Is she leaving? And where’s Barry?
The woman didn’t introduce herself. Theresa said,
‘I’m sorry, have we met?’
The woman smiled brightly. ‘You don’t remember?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ I definitely would have remembered
your face, Theresa thought.
The woman’s smile collapsed. ‘Marie Clouzot,’ she
said, but didn’t offer a hand. Instead, she reached into
her handbag and came back with a photograph, a closeup
of Rico. His head had been shaved and his face was
incredibly gaunt, like he’d been starved, and he looked
so incredibly scared. Theresa felt the blood drain from
her face and limbs as the woman began to speak in a
warm and loving voice about Rico – how he was still
alive and how she had made arrangements for Theresa
to speak to him tonight. Then the Clouzot woman
started in on the rules. Don’t scream. Don’t run or
fight. Don’t try to call the police. Do anything stupid
and Rico would vanish for ever.
Theresa opened her mouth, the questions forming
on her lips. She couldn’t get the words out, overcome
with the same overwhelming dread that had filled her
the night she’d discovered Rico missing from his bed,
the slit x in the window screen; with the same awful
sense of her existence having been split in two – her
former, normal life with her son and now her new life,
this purgatory filled with the constant moment-tomoment
terror of wondering where her son was, what
had happened to him. And now here was this woman
saying that Rico was alive, that arrangements had been
made for her to talk to him. Tonight. When Theresa
managed to speak, all she could produce was a low,
guttural
cry.
The Clouzot woman tucked the photograph in her
jacket pocket and in that same calm and soothing voice
told Theresa to relax. Everything would be fine. There
was no reason to be afraid. Dr Herrera was waiting for
them upstairs, in the master bedroom. The three of
them would talk this out.
Theresa had a vague recollection of moving up the
stairs, holding on to the banister for support in case her
legs gave out. When she entered her bedroom and saw
what had happened to her husband, she remembered
the rules and managed to choke her scream back. She
stumbled out of the bedroom, as Marie Clouzot said a
phone had been placed on Rico’s bed. He would be
calling at any moment.
And he did. Four long and nightmarish years had
passed, and Theresa’s unwavering faith that Rico was
still alive had just been confirmed with a single phone
call. Her son was alive, he was being held somewhere,
maybe even close by. He was scared and possibly in pain
but he was alive.
Theresa gripped the edge of Rico’s lopsided desk to
keep from falling. The room swam in her vision until
her gaze settled on the disposable cell phone lying on
the floor.
Don’t let them take me back there, Rico had said. I can’t
take it any more.
Marie Clouzot slid her gloved hands inside her jacket
pockets. ‘I know all of this is an incredible shock for
you. Just keeping breathing, nice and slow deep breaths,
or you’ll pass out. Yes, like that . . . Good.’ Her voice
was patient and calm and so terribly quiet.
‘We’re going to go back to the bedroom now, Mrs
Herrera. Just remember the rules. No screaming. Don’t
run or, say, try to hurt me so you can call the police. If
you do, I’ll have to use this.’ The woman held up a
Taser. A click of a button and an electric arch of light
crackled and jumped between two prongs. ‘While you’re
lying disabled on the floor, I’ll take my leave, and Rico
will disappear down the rabbit hole again, only this
time we’ll have to kill him.’
We’ll
kill him. How many people were involved in
this? Theresa’s mind was on fire, scrambling to think.
But she couldn’t, she couldn’t hold it together any more.
She broke down, wailing.
‘I don’t want to kill him, Mrs Herrera. I really don’t.
Your son has suffered enough. If you want him to live,
we need to go back to your bedroom.’
‘Why? Why are you doing this?’
‘This is a conversation we need to have in front of
your husband.’
‘Please,’ Theresa said, wiping at her face. ‘Please, I’m
begging you, whatever this is about – if it’s money you
want, I can –’
‘We need to go back to your bedroom. I’ll be right by
your side.’ The Clouzot woman offered her a hand.
Theresa didn’t take it. ‘I want to talk to Rico again. I
want to –’
‘Do you want me to bring you to your son?’
‘Yes. Yes, please, I’ll do anything just don’t . . . hurt
him any more.’
The Clouzot woman put a hand on Theresa’s shoulder,
the tender, gentle way a woman would – It’s okay,
honey, everything’s going to be okay.
‘I won’t hurt him,’ Marie Clouzot said. ‘Now let’s go
back to your bedroom and talk to your husband.’
Theresa didn’t move. A dim voice whispered that
she was in shock. Maybe she was. She hadn’t so much
as flinched when the hand touched her, and she didn’t
fight back when the Clouzot woman lifted her to her
feet. Theresa felt the woman gently wrap an arm around
her. The next thing she knew she was being ushered
forward, her legs numb and hollow.
‘That’s it,’ Marie Clouzot said. ‘One step at a time.’