“Anyone with knowledge of Whitney’s whereabouts, or who may have seen or heard from her recently, is encouraged to call this number.” Craw indicated a large card Masterson held up bearing a toll-free number in bold-block print. “That’s all we have for you today.”
There was an instant tumult. No one believed the press would be dismissed that easily. But as planned earlier, Craw handed off the microphone to Masterson, who would do his best to respond to questions without revealing any more details. Mark didn’t envy the man his task, but he and the other agent were already heading out of the room. Other than a shouted question or two tossed their way, most of the attention remained on the chief.
“You’re about thirty seconds from being the center of a media circus,” Mark murmured to Brian DeVries when he reached his side. Craw flanked Mark, shielding their exchange from the reporters in the room. If the older agent was the master of the press, Mark’s forte was dealing with distressed parents. “If that’s what you want, we can’t prevent it. But open that door, and they’ll never give you a moment’s peace.”
DeVries jutted his jaw. “We have a right to be here.” He was a slight man, maybe five-six with a vaguely antagonistic attitude. As a law-enforcement officer, he should know enough to cooperate with the investigation. But instead, he seemed to think he knew best how to handle it. It was going to be a test of Mark’s patience to maintain a civil relationship with him.
“You do.” He gave a nod. “It’s your choice. But if it’s one you’re going to make, you’ll make it alone. We’re not going to run interference for you.”
Shannon DeVries’s dark eyes were worried as she looked to her husband for reassurance. “Maybe we should leave. I don’t want them following us home. What if they try to talk to Ryan?”
Mark could have told her that the longer her daughter remained missing, the more likely it was that she would have unwanted company camped in front of her home, but that was a conversation for later. If the weather didn’t improve, they might get a reprieve for the time being, regardless.
“I don’t need anyone running interference.” But Brian DeVries scanned the crowd of reporters again and looked uncertain. “We just wanted to hear if you had any details to release.”
Inching toward the door, Mark imperceptibly herded the two along with him. “When we do, you’ll hear about it before the press does.” Craw reached for the knob, and Mark felt a spark of relief when the couple slipped through it ahead of him.
Outside the conference room, he motioned to a young police officer. “Show Mr. and Mrs. DeVries the back exit and follow them home. Make sure they don’t get hassled.” The man nodded, and after a short pause, the couple turned to follow him.
“Now why can’t you be that smooth in front of a microphone?” Ben Craw searched inside his suit jacket pockets for some gum. He fought a continually losing battle against smoking. He’d quit at least a dozen times in the last year. Mark had kept track. Craw found a piece and unwrapped it, popping it into his mouth as he scanned the open space outside the room.
“Then what would you do?”
“Put out fires before they start.” He jerked a thumb at the door they’d just exited. “Did you hear the question shouted out there at the end by the loudmouth from KKXT?” At Mark’s head shake, he continued. “Wanted to know if this was the work of the Ten Mile Killer. Christ on a cracker.” He shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got no forced entry, evidence that the girl left the house of her own accord, and some bozo already has her the victim of a serial killer.”
“One who’s probably died of old age by now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Craw’s blue eyes narrowed, and he jabbed a finger at Mark’s chest. “There’s no evidence linking this girl to the TMK. That case over in West Bend deep-sixed Tom Hannity’s career. He’s a damn fine agent and a good friend of mine. It’s always easy to second-guess, but the guy did everything right near as I could tell but couldn’t catch a break in the investigation. And because of it, every runaway, every Amber Alert, every kid who gets lost in the tristate area has the press dragging that case out again. Anything for a story, right? But mark my words, when the DeVrieses hear it brought up—and they will—they’re going to make your life a living hell.”
He started off toward Masterson’s office. Mark followed more slowly. “Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re good with parents, remember? I’m the guy who handles the media.”
Whitney DeVries
November 2
5:32 p.m.
He was back. She could hear him breathing.
Whitney guiltily scrambled off the blow-up mattress, the chain attached to the manacle on her wrist jangling. Her prison was a large shadowy room with a raised stage at one end, where she was shackled to a long barre attached to the back wall. The place was nearly dark. The only light came from a computer screen and a projector, centered somewhere in the middle of the room. And the flickering, illuminated scene it cast on the white cement-block wall behind her.
“Whitney, dear.”
She hugged her arms around her middle, feeling chilly and exposed in the thin leotard. His voice made her feel that way. Like a fingernail lightly running down her spine. Quickly she made her way to the center of the stage.
“What are rules one and seven?”
Her mind went blank like it did whenever Mrs. Zaner called on her in math because Whitney and a friend were whispering. But this time she knew the answer. She did! But there were so very many rules . . .
“Not to . . . not to . . . ,” she stuttered, buying time. And then her mind cleared, and a spasm of relief shook her. “Not to stop practicing before the film is over.”
“Very good. And rule number one?” The voice was deep and slow and sort of hollow sounding. Maybe it seemed freakier because it always came from the dark. No matter how hard she peered, she could never make out more than a shadow.
Or maybe it was because it never changed. Happy? Angry? Who knew with the freak. It was always even. “I may use the bed from nine p.m. to seven fifteen a.m.”
“Well, now I’m confused. It’s only five thirty. You do seem to know the rules. You just didn’t obey them.”
The flesh on her arms rose. She began to shake.
“I want to be fair, Whitney. I really do. If you have a logical reason for your disobedience, now’s your chance to tell me.”
How could crazy sound so normal? He could have been her dad, telling her for the tenth time to turn off her iPod and do her chores. Except her dad didn’t have that creepiness in his voice. That wet, syrupy evil.
“I . . .” Her throat dried out. When the projector was on, it was impossible to see beyond its beam to the darkness beyond. It was like having a conversation with a psycho ghost.
“I . . . got tired. I couldn’t sleep last night.” Couldn’t because she’d been crying for her mom and dad. For her little brother, Ryan, and her cat, Freckles. She wanted her family. She wanted her room. She wanted her friends. She even wanted witchy Mrs. Zaner.