A minute later, my phone buzzes again. It’s Reardon and he says, “Look, Rudd, there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing this matter, asking a bunch of questions, running to the press, chasing cameras, you know, your typical routine. We’ll take care of the press and leak it that you pulled off a dramatic rescue, after an anonymous phone call. Our kidnapping investigation will continue but will turn up nothing. Are we on the same page here, Rudd?”
“Yes, I’m with you.” I’ll agree to anything at this point.
“The story is that someone snatched your kid, got fed up with the brat because he probably acts a lot like you, and decided to ditch him at a truck stop. You got the story, Rudd?”
“Got it,” I manage to spit out as I bite my tongue to keep from unloading every vile word in the book.
The truck stop is awash with lights and crowded with rigs stacked in neat rows. We park by the pumps and I walk quickly inside. Partner stays in the van to watch for anyone who might be watching us. The restaurant is busy with the breakfast crowd. The smell of thick grease hangs in the air. The counter is lined with beefy truckers devouring pancakes and sausages. I turn a corner, see the booths, pass one, two, three, and there in the fourth booth, all alone, is little Starcher Whitly, grinning from behind a large bowl of chocolate ice cream.
I kiss him on top of his head, tousle his hair, and sit across from him. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess.”
“Did anyone hurt you?”
He shakes his head. No.
“Tell me, Starcher. Did anyone do anything to hurt you?”
“No. They were very nice.”
“And who is they? Who has been with you since you left the park on Saturday?”
“Nancy and Joe.”
A waitress stops at the booth. I order some coffee and scrambled eggs. I ask her, “Who brought this kid in here?”
The waitress looks around, says, “I don’t know. Some woman was here just a minute ago, said the kid wanted a bowl of ice cream. She must’ve left or something. I guess you’re paying for the ice cream.”
“Gladly. Do you have surveillance cameras?”
She nods at the window. “Out there, but not in here. Something the matter?”
“No. Thanks.”
As soon as she leaves I ask Starcher, “Who brought you in here?”
“Nancy.” He takes a bite of ice cream.
“Look, Starcher, I want you to put the spoon down for a moment, and I want you to tell me what happened when you went into the restroom at the park. You were racing your boat, you had to pee, and you walked to the restroom. Now, tell me what happened.”
He slowly sticks the spoon into the ice cream and leaves it there. “Well, all of a sudden, this big man grabbed me. I thought he was a policeman because he was wearing a uniform.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“I don’t think so. He put me in a truck that was right behind the restroom. There was another man driving the truck and they drove away real fast. They said they were taking me to the hospital because something bad had happened to my grandmother. They said you would be at the hospital. So we drove and drove and then we were out of the City, way out in the country, and that’s where they left me with Nancy and Joe. The men left, and Nancy said my grandmother was going to be okay, and that you would stop by real soon to get me.”
“Okay. That was Saturday morning. What did you do the rest of Saturday, and all day yesterday, Sunday?”
“Well, we watched television, some old movies and stuff, and we played backgammon a lot.”
“Backgammon?”
“Uh-huh. Nancy asked me what games I liked to play and I said backgammon. They didn’t know what it was, so Joe went to the store and bought a backgammon board, a cheap one. I taught them how to play, and beat them too.”
“So they were nice to you?”
“Real nice. They kept telling me you were at the hospital and couldn’t leave.”
Partner finally comes inside. He is relieved to see Starcher and gives the kid a pat on the head. I tell him to find the manager of the truck stop and locate the surveillance cameras; inform the manager that the FBI will want the footage, so take care of it.
My eggs arrive and I ask Starcher if he’s hungry. No, he’s not. He’s been eating pizza and ice cream for the past two days. Anything he wanted.
Since I’ve never been invited into Starcher’s home, I decide that I will not take him there. I don’t want the drama and theatrics. Half an hour from the City, I finally call Judith with the news that her son is safe. He’s sitting on my lap as we ride up the interstate. She is almost too stunned to speak, so I give Starcher my phone. He says, “Hi, Mom,” and I think she has a complete meltdown. I give them a few minutes, then take the phone back and explain that I got a call and was instructed to pick him up at the truck stop. No, he had not been harmed in any way, except maybe too much sugar.
