getting him back alive?â
There, Will thought. The bottom-line question, asked in an insensitive way by a young man with a fashionably dirty raincoat and a sneering mouth. But the essential question nonetheless.
âI have no way of knowing. It is our hope, above all else.â
âAnd are the boyâs parents good for the kind of money the kidnappers want?â the questioner pressed on.
The agent looked annoyed. Will didnât blame him. No wonder a lot of people think the press sucks, Will thought.
âThe boyâs father is a man of means. He is good for that kind of money, as you put it. At this time, I would like to introduce the boyâs parents, who have something to say.â
A startled murmur ran through the room; no one had said anything about the parents appearing.
A man and woman came through the side door, together and yet not together, or at least not together in the way husbands and wives look together. The manâs face seemed stitched tight, so that no quiver of eyelid or lip would betray his emotions. The womanâs face was swollen and red, and she wore dark glasses.
The man pulled out a chair for the woman, who nodded slightly, as though accepting a favor from a courteous stranger. Then the man took a seat on the other side of the microphone, so that the FBI agent was sitting between them. Had they planned it that way? Will wondered.
The FBI man slid the microphone toward the woman.
âMy name is Celeste Brokaw, and I am the mother of Jamie Brokaw, who is only five years old.â¦â
The woman lapsed into choking, racking sobs. An embarrassed silence seemed to fill the room to overflowing, and Will wished he was somewhere else.
âHe is only five years old,â the woman repeated. âI donât want him to be afraid; I donât want him to be hurt. I donât want him to beâ¦â
There seemed to be no sound or movement in the entire room, save for the motherâs keening and her heaving shoulders.
Suddenly, the father grabbed the microphone. âAll we want is our son back. Can you understand that, whoever you are? You who have him, do you understand? I have the money. You can have it all. Just give me back my son.â
The father slid the mike back to the FBI agent. Then he slumped in his chair, closed his eyes, shook his head as though he couldnât believe such a thing was happening to him.
Will felt soiled and guilty for having wondered fleetingly whether the kidnapping had been fakedâthat is, if the boy had been taken in a custody battle. Now, it seemed impossible to believe that the mother could be faking such heartbreak. And a look at the fatherâs eyes, red-rimmed from tears (or from blinking back tears, depending on the kind of man he was), made it seem certain that he, too, wanted his son back and didnât know where he was.
And yet, and yet ⦠Will would not rule out the possibility of a staged abduction. He gave himself the same lecture he gave his reporters: He would try not to let his emotions take over.
I wonder why theyâre not married anymore, Will thought. Did it matter?
âAgent Graham, are you able to tell anything significant from the notes with the newspaper lettering?â
âYou mean other than where they were mailed from? Not yet. Various scientific tests are being done. Iâm not sure I could give you information on that, even if I had it. Which I donât.â
There were a few more routine questions. Then Graham adjourned the session and said that further briefings would be scheduled as needed.
Will lingered near the back of the pack until the room was nearly empty. He caught Graham just before he left the room.
âJerry? Itâs Will Shafer. Remember me?â
âWill? Will!â Graham smiled broadly and shook hands, showing none of the reserve heâd displayed in the press conference. âGosh, itâs good to see you, Will.â
âSame
Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos