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  “So things got financially tight?”

  “For a while. But then my friend Margaret Allison found me a job at Concord Realty. I loved the job. I still love it. I was only there for six months before I was promoted to area sales manager. By the end of the first year I was earning three times what Jeff was bringing home.” She shrugged, and then she said, “I guess that made him feel less of a man.”

  “So that’s when the marital disagreements started?”

  “First of all we had endless petty arguments about stupid things like what we were going to eat for dinner, and what color we were going to paint the den. Jeff used to say, “Why bother asking me? You’re the one who pays for it all.” Then our personal life started to suffer. You know. After a while we couldn’t stay in the same room together for five minutes without having some kind of a row.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?” asked Special Agent Kellogg.

  “Two months ago. It was Sammy’s birthday and he asked if he could come round and give him a present. I said absolutely no.”

  “How so? That seems like a pretty reasonable request.”

  “Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I let him come round to Tasha’s birthday party last April, and he went crazy. He ended up pulling the tablecloth and all the birthday food ended up on the floor.”

  “I see.”

  The nurse came in and told Lily that it was time for her meds.

  “Okay,” said Special Agent Rylance. “We’ll leave you in peace. But let me just ask you this: was there any place that your ex-husband ever talked about as being like a sanctuary? Someplace that he had good memories of, where he might possibly take the children to bring back some of his happier times?”

  “If he had a place like that, he never told me about it. He was born and raised here in Minneapolis. Went to school here, got his first job here. Maybe his mother might know.”

  “We’ll ask her. She’s next on our list.”

  Lily said, “You are going to find my children, aren’t you?”

  “Mrs. Blake, the FBI’s child abduction investigation center is the best in the world. We’ll find them for you, and that’s a promise.”

  Agnes came back in. She sat on the edge of Lily’s bed and stroked her arm.

  “Maybe we should say a prayer,” she said.

  But Lily said, “No. I’m only going to say a prayer when I find them.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  Lily thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, there is. Go find some scissors for me, and a razor.”

  “What?”

  “Scissors, and a razor. They’re bound to have some in the hospital store. I want you to shave off what’s left of my hair.”

  Lily sat up in bed with a towel wrapped around her neck while Agnes carefully shaved her head. She kept her eyes closed while the warm soapy water ran down her face and the back of her neck, and said nothing at all, so that there was no sound but the chiming of the hospital paging system in the corridor outside and the soft persistent scratching of the razor.

  When Agnes was finished, she took out her mirror again, and showed Lily what she had done.

  “I feel terrible, doing this to you,” said Agnes.

  But Lily ran her hand over her scalp and said, “You shouldn’t. This is a fresh beginning.”

  She felt strangely empowered by her baldness, as if she were a samurai warrior, or Saint Joan of Arc. Convicted witches used to have their heads shaved, too, and if she was going to be accused of being a witch, then that was what she would be. It was like a symbol of her determination to get her children back, no matter what she had to go through. She was no longer that smart, tousle-haired real-estate salesperson. She had another identity altogether, pure and strong. She was a mother who was seeking her revenge.

  “You should sleep now,” said Agnes. “You need to get your strength back.”

  “You bet,” said Lily. “And the sooner the better.”

  Her boss from Concord Realty came to see her, too—Bennie Burgenheim. He shuffled shyly into her room carrying a ludicrously large bouquet of red roses and alyssum. Bennie was a big man, over six feet four inches, and he was always self-conscious about his size and his weight, which led him to tiptoe around as if he were creeping up on people.

  He had a big face with a double chin and protuberant eyes, and he wore his hair brushed forward in a boyish fringe. He had taken an obvious interest in Lily ever since she had started working at Concord, and he had been even more attentive after her divorce from Jeff. Bennie was a widower himself: five years ago he had lost his wife, Marjorie, when she had tried to warm up her car by running the engine with the garage doors closed, one of the most common causes of accidental death in Minneapolis in the winter months.

  Bennie grinned at her, and blinked, and lifted up the bouquet.

  “You bought the whole florist,” said Lily.

  “Just wanted to show you how much we all appreciate you.”

  “Thanks, Bennie. They’re wonderful. Here—look, put them down on the end of the bed and pull up a chair. Would you like a cup of coffee or anything? The nurse can bring you some coffee.”

  “I’m fine, Lil. I’m much more concerned about you. That was such a terrible thing to happen.”

  “I’m okay now. I just want to get Tasha and Sammy back.”

  “You will,” said Bennie. “I’m sure you will, And listen—we don’t expect you back at work anytime soon. Take as long as you like. And if there’s anything else we can do for you—or I can do for you . . .” He took hold of her hand and squeezed it hard. For a moment she almost thought that he was going to burst into tears. But then he nodded at the green silk scarf she was wearing on her shaven head, and said, “You know what? You look like an elf.”

  “An elf? Oh, thanks!”

  “You know what I mean . . . kind of little and delicate. I guess you bring out my protective side.”

  “I’m okay, Bennie. I’m quite capable of protecting myself.”

  “Sure, course you are,” Bennie told her. “There is one thing, though: I guess the police and the FBI are right on top of things—you know, finding your kids and all. But a couple of years ago my brother Myron found this great private detective when he was going through all of his custody problems with his first wife. He was a little off the wall, this guy, but he was some terrific detective. He saved Myron a bundle, and made sure that he got to see his daughters, too.”

  “Okay,” said Lily. “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.” She paused, and then she asked him, “How’s the Ridge Road development coming along?”

  “It’s fine. Fiona’s handling it for you. I don’t want you worry about work at all.”

  Lily smiled at him. She knew how much he liked her, and she liked him, too, as a boss and a friend. But every time she looked into his eyes she could see what he really yearned for. He wanted to see her sitting on the opposite side of the breakfast table, while he watched her admiringly and blessed the Lord for bringing him such a pretty young wife.

  The last person who came to see her, late in the evening, when all of her other visitors had left, was Robert. He knocked very gently on her open door.

  “Okay if I come in?”

  “Of course it is! I didn’t think you were going to show.”

  He approached the bed in his long camel-hair overcoat, staring at her. “My God, Lil. What did they do to you?”

  She touched her scarf self-consciously and said, “Hey—it’s not as bad as it looks. Half of my hair was burned so I asked Agnes to shave it off.”

  “But your face, too, honey. Your poor face.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his arms around her.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m really and truly okay.”

  She had promised herself that if Robert came to see her she wouldn’t cry, but she couldn’t help it. Tears rolled down her cheeks and then she sobbed so deeply that her chest hurt. Robert shushed her and
kissed the top of her head and waited until she had recovered enough to speak.

  “Oh, Robert, it’s Tasha and Sammy. They must be so scared. How could anybody have taken them away like that?”

  “They’ll find them, believe me. You’re going to have to be brave.”

  Lily sat up, her reddened face wet with tears. “I don’t feel brave. I don’t feel at all brave. But I feel really, really angry. I feel angry with the men who took them and I feel even angrier with myself because I couldn’t protect them. I’ve never felt so . . . powerless.”

  “Do the police have any leads yet?”

  She told him about FLAME, and all the questions that Special Agents Rylance and Kellogg had asked her.

  “Do you think Jeff had anything to do with it?” Robert asked her.

  “I don’t know. I never would have believed that Jeff was capable of being so vengeful. But who else could it be?”

  “People can surprise you,” said Robert. “People you thought you knew real well.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring you any flowers. I came straight over from a council meeting. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to bring flowers. Look at all these. And they’re going to be letting me out in a couple of days.”

  “Okay, chocolates then. Or grapes. Or a bottle of champagne.”

  “I’m on antibiotics. Can’t drink.”

  He looked her in the eyes. He was handsome, in a rather ordinary way, with wiry blond hair and a short, straight nose and a cleft in his chin. Although he didn’t say anything, there was something in his expression that told her that their relationship was over. He was a plain man, with straightforward tastes—considerate, and fun to be with, but without much depth—and she could sense that this kidnapping and this assault were too complicated for him. If he carried on seeing her, he would have to help her recuperate, both physically and mentally, and cope with the possibility that something dreadful might have happened to Tasha and Sammy.

  He checked his wristwatch. “I have to get home now. But I’ll look in tomorrow, around about the same time.”

  He kissed her again, and she very lightly kissed him back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She was allowed to leave Fairview Hospital four days after she been admitted. Agnes and Ned came to collect her in their Ford Explorer and take her back to their home in Wayzata to complete her convalescence. It was a bright, knife-sharp day, and already there were signs that the winter weather was dipping south from Canada. Ned said, “It’s going to be a hard one this year.” Ned wore a Golden Gophers cap and a little ginger moustache and was given to making educated predictions about everything from January’s snowfall to this season’s walleye population in Lake Minnetonka.

  Lily said, “Do you think we could make a detour?”

  “A detour?” said Ned. “Sure. You want to go home and pick up some things?”

  “No, I want to call on Jeff’s mother.”

  Ned looked at Agnes and pulled a face. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea? The police have already interviewed her, haven’t they—and the FBI?”

  “I know. But I need to look her in the eye and hear her tell me that she really doesn’t know where Jeff is.”

  “Even if she does know, do you think she’ll tell you?”

  “She loved Tasha and Sammy. She knows how unhappy they must be without me. And what do I have to lose? The FBI hasn’t come up with any leads yet. Nothing at all.”

  “Well . . . I’m not too sure it’s such a good idea.”

  All the same, Ned drove them to the suburb of Nokomis, to the tree-lined street of small 1950s houses where Mrs. Blake lived. Next door, an elderly man was raking up heaps of red and yellow leaves, while his grandchildren kicked them and rolled in them and chased each other around the front yard. Lily couldn’t help thinking of Tasha and Sammy, running through the leaves around the bandshell at Lake Harriet Park.

  She rang the doorbell while Agnes and Ned waited in the car. At first she didn’t think that there was anybody home, but after a few minutes she saw a shadowy shape through the hammered-glass door, like a fish rising to the surface of a lake. Mrs. Blake opened up for her, keeping the door on the safety-chain.

  Sylvia Blake had once been a very attractive young woman—red-haired, creamy-skinned, with green eyes and a full, generous figure—a young woman who loved to dance and laugh and go to parties. But Jeff’s father had slowly died of progressive supranuclear palsy, taking seventeen years to do it, and gradually Sylvia had been reduced to a weary illusion of her previous self, with white roots in her hair and a small tight mouth that was permanently puckered in resentment.

  “Lily,” she said, without any intonation whatsoever.

  “Hello, Sylvia. I just got out of the hospital and I thought I’d come to see you.”

  “Oh—now you don’t have the children with you? You never came to see me when you had the children with you.”

  “Come on, Sylvia. You know how difficult it was. All I want to do is ask you if you’ve heard from Jeff.”

  “I’ve had the police asking me that. And some agents from the FBI. Don’t you think I would have told them, if I had?”

  “Sylvia . . . can I come in?”

  Mrs. Blake hesitated for a moment and then unfastened the security chain. “I don’t have anything to tell you, Lily, whether you’re in or out.”

  Lily followed her into the living room. Although it was so sunny outside, the windows were draped in dusty net curtains and the room was shadowy and stuffy and smelled of stale food and cigarettes. The furniture was all dark brown, with brown cushions, and over the fireplace was a dark reproduction of an ineffably gloomy fur trapper, roasting a squirrel on a stick.

  “Who’s that outside?” asked Mrs. Blake, peering through the nets.

  “My sister Agnes and her husband, Ned.”

  “I see. Well, I haven’t heard from Jeff. I told the police and those FBI agents. I haven’t heard a squeak from him since September.”

  “Did he ever tell you that he wanted to take Tasha and Sammy away from me?”

  Mrs. Blake raised her gingery, overplucked eyebrows. “Once or twice, when he was really mad at you. But I wouldn’t say that he meant it.”

  “You know that the men who kidnapped Tasha and Sammy tried to kill me, don’t you? They tried to set fire to me.”

  Mrs. Blake shrugged but said nothing.

  “They tried to burn me alive, Sylvia. Look.” With that, Lily tugged off her black woolly hat. Mrs. Blake’s eyes widened and her left arm jerked up as if she was suffering from a nervous spasm, but still she didn’t say anything.

  “Sylvia,” said Lily, “even if you haven’t heard from Jeff—even if you don’t know where he is now—is there anything you can think of that might help me to find him? Was there any special place that he used to like to go to, when he was younger? Someplace he felt happy and safe?”

  “This is my only son we’re talking about here, Lily,” said Mrs. Blake. “You ground him down, and you destroyed his pride, and then you took his children away from him. You can’t expect me to give you any help.”

  “Sylvia, please. I’m not thinking about myself. I’m thinking about Tasha and Sammy. And I’m thinking about Jeff, too. If he’s kidnapped those children, he’s in very serious trouble. He’s looking at a very long jail sentence. If I can find him . . . if I can persuade him to bring them back . . . maybe things’ll go much easier on him.”

  She watched Sylvia’s face go through a whole kaleidoscope of expressions: doubt, anxiety, perplexity, and an odd raccoon-like furtiveness.

  “Come on, Sylvia; he’s not going to be able to hide for ever, especially with two young children.”

  Mrs. Blake said, “You can’t ask me that, Lily. Even if I knew, how could I tell you?”

  Lily took hold of her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “Sylvia, you’re a mother too. You know what I’m going through. Tel
l me.”

  But Mrs. Blake lifted her hands away and said, “There’s nothing to tell, Lily. Life never turns out the way we want it to, does it?”

  Lily spent the weekend in Wayzata with Agnes and Ned. They had three children—Petra, Jamie, and little William, who was only twenty-two months old. Every day was bright and sunny and every day was colder than the day before. The kids spun around the yard in scarves and gloves, and laughed, and chased their cocker spaniel, Red, and all Lily could do was stand by the window watching them, and think of Tasha and Sammy.

  Sammy was his father’s boy; he would probably be getting along okay, doing outdoorsy stuff like fishing and watching sports and playing basketball. But Tasha was much quieter and much more sensitive, and she had been deeply hurt by their marriage breaking up. Lily was worried that all the care she had taken to restore Tasha’s self-assurance might have been scattered and lost forever.

  On Sunday afternoon a gray Pontiac Grand Prix drew up outside and Special Agents Rylance and Kellogg climbed out. Agnes brought them through to the living room, where they stood in front of Lily with the solemnity of Mormons.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Blake. So far we don’t have any progress to report. We’ve had thirty-eight different sightings of children who might have been Tasha and Sammy, seventeen of them here in the Twin City area, but one of them as far afield as Philadelphia.”

  Special Agent Kellogg put in, “We’ve posted pictures on the FBI website, and we’ve sent out bulletins to every police headquarters in the country. This is what happens automatically with missing children of tender years, but we’re doing a whole lot more than that. We have informants giving us inside information on fathers’ pressure groups and any other organizations that might be involved in related acivitities.”

  Lily was wearing blue jeans and a white rollneck sweater but she wasn’t wearing a hat. Neither Special Agent Rylance nor Special Agent Kellogg asked her why she had shaved her head, but she had an idea that they understood what she was going through, without having to be told.