Expecting my mother, who often called at this hour on Sunday to inquire about my well-being and if I had been to Mass, I pulled out a nearby chair as I picked up the receiver.
“Dr. Scarpetta?”
“Speaking.”
The woman sounded familiar, but I could not place her.
“It’s Pat Harvey. Please forgive me for bothering you at home.”
Behind her steady voice, I detected a note of fear.
“You certainly aren’t bothering me,” I replied kindly.
“What can I do for you?”
“They searched all through the night and are still out there. They brought in more dogs, more police, several aircraft.”
She began to speak rapidly. “Nothing. No sign of them. Bob has joined the search parties. I’m home.”
She hesitated. “I’m wondering if you could come over? Perhaps you’re free for lunch?”
“After a long pause, I reluctantly agreed. As I hung up the telephone I silently berated myself, for I knew what she wanted from me. Pat Harvey would ask about the other couples. If I were her, it was exactly what I would do.
I went upstairs to my bedroom and got out of my robe.
Then I took a long, hot bath and washed my hair while my answering machine began intercepting calls that I had no intention of returning unless they were emergencies. Within the hour I was dressed in a khaki skirt suit and tensely playing back messages. There were five of them, all from reporters who had learned that I had been summoned to the New Kent County rest stop, which did not bode well for the missing couple.
I reached for the phone, intending to call Pat Harvey back and cancel our lunch. But I could not forget her face when she had arrived by helicopter with her daughters’ sweatshirt, I could not forget the faces of any of the parents. Hanging up the phone, I locked the house and got into my car.
People in public service can’t afford the accoutrements privacy demands unless they have some other means of income. Obviously, Pat Harvey’s federal salary was a meager sliver of her family’s worth. They lived near Windsor on the James in a palatial Jeffersonian house overlooking the river. The estate, which I guessed to be at least five acres, was surrounded by a high brick wall posted with “Private Property” signs. When I turned into along drive shaded by trees, I was stopped by a sturdy wrought-iron gate that slid open electronically before I could roll down my window to reach for the intercom. The gate slid shut behind me as I drove through. I parked near a black Jaguar sedan before a Roman portico of unfluted columns, old red brick, and white trim.
As I was getting out of my car, the front door opened. Pat Harvey, drying her hands on a dish towel, smiled bravely at me from the top of the steps. Her face was pale, eyes lusterless and tired.
“It’s so good of you to come, Dr. Scarpetta.”
She motioned for me to enter. “Please come in.”
The foyer was as spacious as a living room, and I followed her through a formal sitting room to the kitchen. Furniture was eighteenth century, Oriental rugs wall to wall, and there were original Impressionist paintings and a fireplace with beechwood logs artfully placed on the hearth. At least the kitchen looked functional and lived in, but I did not get the impression that anyone else was home.
“Jason and Michael are out with their father,” she explained when I asked. “The boys drove in this morning.”
“How old are they?”
I inquired, as she opened the oven door.
“Jason is sixteen, Michael fourteen. Debbie is the oldest.”
Looking around for the potholders, she turned off the oven, then set a quiche on top of a burner. Her hands trembled as she got a knife and spatula from a drawer “Would you like wine, tea, coffee? This is very light. I did throw together a fruit salad. Thought we’d sit out on the porch. I hope that will be all right.”
“‘That would be lovely,” I replied. “And coffee would be fine.”
Distracted, she opened the freezer and got out a bag of Irish Creme, which she measured into the drip coffee maker. I watched her without speaking. She was desperate. Husband and sons were not home. Her daughter was missing, the house empty and silent She did not begin to ask questions until we were on the porch, sliding glass doors open wide, the river curving beyond us glinting in the sun.