Page 78 of No Kind of Hero
Evan was moving on the sound, because it didn’t sound one bit normal. Henry was growling, barking furiously, a dog who’d snapped.
Evan was through the house, bursting out the door to see Henry standing rigid, his tail straight out behind him, the fur standing up in a line down his back. Barking and barking, and now, running.
Evan was running too. Running toward the pale-haired figure who was climbing into an old blue Dodge Dakota, a quilt trailing out behind her, and slamming the door.
The truck had been idling rough, and now, the tires spun as it took off with the roar of a badly tuned engine and a cloud of black smoke, a flapping triangle of pink still stuck in the door. Evan was running, and so was Henry. Henry was faster, almost catching up. When the truck stopped at the sign, Henry would make it. Evan’s legs were pumping. Pumping.
The truck didn’t stop. It blew right through, an oncoming driver hitting the brakes, skidding out, and laying on the horn.
“Henry!” Evan shouted it, still running. The dog had dodged the car, was on the other side of the intersection. Evan kept going, called again, and Henry stopped, turned, and came running back. Panting, his tongue hanging out.
Evan raised a hand to his face, scrubbed it over his jaw. The hand shook, and then his legs started in as well.
He didn’t let that stop him. He turned around and ran with Henry. Back to the house. Back to call.
“Nine-one-one,” the dispatcher said. “What is your emergency?”
“I need an . . . an Amber Alert,” Evan said. The hand holding the phone was still shaking. He willed it to stop, but it wouldn’t. “My daughter’s been kidnapped. My baby.”
“Can you tell me where you are, sir,” the dispatcher asked. Completely calm. “Do you have a street address where she was taken?”
Evan gave it. His name, Gracie’s name. The vehicle, the time. The license plate, what he’d seen of it through that black smoke. “Dodge Dakota, blue, maybe a ’95, ’96. Washington plate, started with AA. She took her and jumped inside, and they took off headed east.”
“I’ve dispatched a unit,” the woman said. “Did you recognize the person?”
“Yeah. My girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. The baby’s mother.” His legs were still trying to shake, trying to give out. He was still holding the bottle of pink medicine, too. He went and set it on the porch. He set it down for when they brought Gracie back. And when he hung up, he called the number he should have dialed first. He called April.
Beth was probably speeding. She didn’t care. Ever since Evan had called her, she’d been numb. And when she turned the corner and saw the flashing red-and-blue lights of two squad cars, pulled to the curb and saw Evan, two police officers, and Henry standing next to an empty stroller, it was worse. She was barely aware of tumbling out of the car, and then she was hustling over there.
Evan glanced at her like he didn’t recognize her, and she looked into his empty eyes and was afraid.
The older cop looked at her. She didn’t know him, but then, she didn’t know most people. “Who are you, ma’am?” he asked.
“Beth Schaefer. Don Schaefer’s daughter,” she added, because right now, Evan needed all the help she could give him.
The cop nodded, then turned back to Evan. “You saw the baby’s mother take her. What does the custody agreement say?”
Beth recognized the look on Evan’s face now, because it wasn’t blank anymore. That was fear. When he spoke, the words came out tight, like he had to force them out. “We don’t have one yet.”
Beth saw the cop’s attitude shift, his stance becoming less rigid, saw the look the two cops exchanged. Evan must have seen it too, because he said, “We’re in the middle of it. I have proof that she hasn’t seen the baby for over seven months.”
“A petition for custody has been filed,” Beth put in. “With supporting affidavits. From Blake Orbison, among other people.” Name-dropping again. Whatever might work.
The cop put his notebook away, and Beth didn’t have to look at Evan to know what he was feeling. “I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said, “but without a judge’s order on a custody decision, it’s not a kidnapping. It’s just a mom with her kid.”
“You telling me she can just grab my baby?” Evan’s voice was rising. “She’s sick. She needs her medicine. There was somebody else in that truck, too. Somebody who’s got my daughter. And she’ssick.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the cop said again. He glanced at Beth, and Beth knew why.Don Schaefer’s daughter.
“Washington plate,” Evan said desperately. “Crossing state lines.”
“You need a judge,” the cop said. “You need a decision. Then we can go after her. Have you tried calling her, asking her what’s going on?”
“Of course I have. She’s not answering. And yes, I’ve left messages. What do you think? I’ve left three. I’ve called her parents and told them. I’ve called everybody. What the hell do you think?” His voice had risen, and Beth had her hand on his arm. He lifted an unsteady hand, ran it through his hair, and exhaled. “Just run that plate, then,” he said, his voice a fraction calmer. “Run it for me, give me everything it matches. How many mid-nineties blue Dakotas can there be with those first two letters on the plate? I’m not even asking you to do it. I’ll do it. Run the plate, give me the list, and I’ll do your job. I’ll do it, since you won’t.”
“Sir,” the older cop said, while the younger one shifted his weight like he was preparing to jump in. Physically. “I understand that you’re upset, but I’m going to advise you not to try to take the law into your own hands. You’ll wind up in trouble if you do. You say you’re going after custody. Work on that.”
Evan was about to snap. Beth could see it. She squeezed his forearm and said, “Evan. Wait. We’ll talk to Joan, and we’ll talk to my dad. We’ll see about an emergency hearing.”
