Page 32 of John’s Yearning

“You’re going to work extra fast, aren’t you, just so you can wake me? Isn’t that right?”

“I’m very good at this kind of work, you’ll see.” She patted the envelope. “But you know you need to bring me in on the other stuff too, right?”

“What other stuff?”

“When you find the bad guys and are ready to take them down. I want to be there. I want to help destroy the assholes who’re trafficking kids.”

John rose. “Don’t worry. When we get to that point—and I hope it comes soon—I’ll make sure you’re there and armed to the teeth.”

Deirdre rose and pulled the belt around her robe tighter. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now get out of here so I can get dressed.”

He nodded at her and left.

He knew he could trust Deirdre. She was a well-trained warrior, a woman who’d fought for her race for many centuries. She was no stranger to investigations, but first and foremost she had experience in reading people. She’d sat on a council for many decades, making decisions about life and death, and though one of these decisions had ultimately led to her exile, John wasn’t going to hold this one decision against her.

Just like he hoped that Savannah wouldn’t hold it against him that he was investigating her. It was only for Buffy’s sake. Savannah was in no frame of mind to tell him everything about her life that could have something to do with the kidnappers. It wasn’t even her fault. She wasn’t trained to see connections the way he was. Certain things would seem too insignificant to her to bother mentioning them. But he and Deirdre would see those tiny grains that could lead them to Buffy and the people behind the disappearance of all these girls.

13

Savannah dried off after her shower and slipped into her robe. The warm water had soothed her somewhat, though it couldn’t take away her worries or her fear. After the early morning phone call from John, she’d been at her computer, looking through pictures of Buffy to remind herself of the places they’d visited together in San Francisco. She’d made a list of those places, some of which she’d forgotten. After breakfast, which consisted of coffee and a cracker, her appetite still not having returned, she’d jumped in the shower.

Now, as she reached for the hair dryer, the ringing of the doorbell interrupted her. The sound sent her heartbeat into the stratosphere. She’d never been as jumpy as she’d been in the days since Buffy’s disappearance.

Quickly, she wrapped a towel around her wet hair and rushed to the door. She hurried down the stairs and looked through the peephole at the man who stood outside. She didn’t know him, but she noticed the messenger bag slung across his body. One of the many bicycle messengers businesses used to courier important documents around the city. Had Alexi sent her something from the office? Something she’d forgotten to sign?

She ripped the door open.

“Ms. Rice?”

She nodded. “That’s me.”

He handed her an envelope. “No need to sign anything. Have a nice day.” He turned on his heel and rushed down the front steps to where he’d leaned his bike against the wall of the building.

Savannah closed the door, and walked upstairs into her flat, staring at the envelope. Her name and address were neatly typed on the front, confirming that the letter wasn’t from Alexi: there was no typewriter in the office, and the smudges inside the occurrences of the letter a in Savannah wouldn’t have been made by a printer.

Her heart beat faster now. There was nothing else on the envelope, no indication who might have sent it. But instinctively she knew who the sender was. Felt it in the drum of her pulse, the pounding of her heart in her chest. With trembling fingers, she ripped the envelope open and reached inside.

There were only two items in it: a folded sheet of paper and a smaller piece with a glossy surface on one side. She turned it over and froze. Her hand shot to her mouth to smother a scream.

“Buffy!” she choked out.

The photo depicted her little girl, eyes wide and frightened, sitting on a mattress, holding up a newspaper. Savannah narrowed in on it. It was today’s San Francisco Chronicle. Proof of life, the police called these photos. The thought sent a chill through her. Even before she unfolded the sheet of paper, she knew what it was: a ransom note.

Two emotions collided within her: relief that the kidnappers were finally contacting her, and pain for what she saw in her daughter’s eyes, the look of fear and desperation, the look of lost hope. Buffy didn’t believe that her mother was coming to find her.

“Oh, baby, please hold on for me. I’m coming. Mommy is coming to bring you home.”

Through the tears that started streaming down her cheeks, she read the letter. It was typed.

If you want your daughter Buffy back, bring two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars in cash to the entrance of the Trocadero Clubhouse at Stern Grove at 7:30pm tonight. After you withdraw the money from your bank, don’t go back home. Leave your cell phone at home. Come alone. Do not take a taxi, an Uber or a Lyft. Don’t take your own car. Take public transportation to 19th Avenue, then walk. Don’t tell anyone. If you involve the police, I will find out, and Buffy will die.

I trust you understand these instructions and will carry them out to the letter.

PS. Don’t bother contacting the bicycle courier. The delivery of this letter was charged to an account that leads to a dead end. You won’t find any fingerprints either except for those of the bicycle courier. So don’t try to be smart, Savannah.

And before I forget: Don’t contact that private investigator with the fancy Mercedes you hired, or I’ll make sure he dies, too. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?

She was shaking now. The kidnapper was watching her. He knew about John. He knew about her life. She hurried to the living room window and looked outside. Was he out there right now, watching her, making sure she was complying with his demands? The way he’d addressed her by her first name, as if he knew her, as if he had a right to call her by her first name, sent another shiver down her spine.