The Beginning of Hope (Challenge #168) - PG-13
Posted: Tue Oct 06, 2015 5:03 am
This is for the Eighth Anniversary Challenge, #168, about beginnings.
The Beginning of Hope
The third floor walk-up in a shady part of town wasn’t very impressive, but it’s not like I had any kind of choice. I clutched the little slip of pasteboard like it was a talisman, feeling it crumple in my hand. It was the last shred of hope, the last chance I had to get back to my life. It might not have been the best life, but it was all I had.
Along about sunrise, night before last, it had finally dawned on me, after the police had spent hours asking me an endless series of questions, that they were less interested in finding Bethie, than they were in figuring out if I’d had something to do with her disappearance. And if that’s not a thought to give any parent nightmares, I don’t know what is. It made me angry.
Only one of the detectives seemed to take everything I said at face value. Detective Bobby Desmond. He was the one who assured me the police would get my little girl back, no question. I could tell he was lying, but I had to grasp what comfort I could from his words. “Look,” he said, “I’ll keep you up-to-date. For now, try get some rest.”
Finally though, the police gathered up and trooped out. When the door shut behind them, the silence that fell on the house was unendurable. All I could think of, all I could see, was my Bethie, in her little white flannel nightgown. She was so innocent, so young. And she was out there somewhere, frightened, maybe hurt. I had to push my mind away from the possibilities. The awful possibilities of what could be happening to her. All I knew was, she was alive. She had to be alive. And I had to get her back.
The police had encouraged me to stay home, to stay by the phone. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I paced the house, leaving a trail of damp Kleenex in my wake. It was the worst day I’d ever spent. And the phone just wouldn’t ring.
Before nightfall, a couple friends joined me, bringing food I couldn’t touch. Cathy insisted on staying the night, and we sat on the couch, mostly silent. I think I might’ve dozed a little from sheer exhaustion, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw my Bethie, crying, cold, hungry, hurt. And I would struggle up from sleep, crying again. Amy rubbed my shoulders and tried to make soothing noises, but, really, what was there to say?
The next day went by the same way. The endless hours blurring into one long, miserable stretch. The sun was sinking before anything changed. It was after five when there was a knock on the door.
Detective Desmond stood on my doorstep, looking as rumpled and sleepless as I was. My heart leapt up with hope until I got a good look at his face. He shook his head. “No news, Mrs. Turner,” he said. “We’re doing everything we can, but we just don’t have much to go on.”
He pulled his card out of a pocket, and flipped it over to scrawl something on the back. “Look, this is off the record, but I think you need more help than the police can give you.” He handed me the card. “Call this guy.” He paused. “He’s a little odd, but he’ll do whatever it takes.”
I nodded, numbly. Those words, whatever it takes, had a slightly familiar ring for some reason, but I was so exhausted I couldn’t place it. I looked down at the card the detective had given me, and brushed my thumb over the raised lettering of his name and contact info. Then I flipped it over to see what he had written. “Mick St. John” and a phone number.
Then it hit me. My friend Cathy had told me an anecdote just the night before Bethie was taken, about a conversation she’d overheard.* Some women talking about a PI named St. John who would do “whatever it takes.” I mopped my eyes with yet another Kleenex, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone. I didn’t have any idea what a private investigator would charge, or how I’d ever be able to pay him, but it didn’t matter.
The conversation didn't take long, just enough for him to tell me to bring a picture to his office and give me the address. I didn't stop to repair my makeup or fluff my hair. I just went. I don’t remember the drive. Night was falling – fall was coming on and the days were getting shorter. It took me a little time to find the place. It wasn’t a neighborhood I had been in before.
My brain was hammering at me. Two days. Two days, and I thought it was only iron control that kept me upright and moving. And I swore that the next cop who insinuated that I’d had something to do with Bethie’s disappearance, or that her father had run off with her, I was going to deck. I didn’t care if I went to jail for it. I’d explained and explained and explained that Beth’s father was dead and I didn’t think he had run off with his little girl. They didn’t listen.
So now here I was on the landing, third floor, outside the office of a private investigator. I'd never even seen one, in real life. I was pretty sure most of the police would disapprove. Screw the police, I was going to get my own help.
I rapped on the door sharply, feeling the glass shudder and rattle under my fist. The place looked like it should’ve had Sam Spade written across it instead of “Mick St. John Private Investigations" in faded lettering.
It seemed to take forever for the door to open. I was on the verge of knocking again, when the knob turned and the door swung open. Distracted as I was I could see that the man - I assumed he was Mick St. John – was tall and handsome, although he hadn’t gotten around to shaving today. In fact, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed; his clothing seemed to have been shrugged on in a hurry.
That didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered. When you’re talking about your child, your kidnapped child, gone for days and the police have produced nothing, iron control is a myth. I almost fell into his arms, sobbing. “Mr. St. John, please help me. Someone took my daughter.”
*see No Such Thing as Ghosts
The Beginning of Hope
The third floor walk-up in a shady part of town wasn’t very impressive, but it’s not like I had any kind of choice. I clutched the little slip of pasteboard like it was a talisman, feeling it crumple in my hand. It was the last shred of hope, the last chance I had to get back to my life. It might not have been the best life, but it was all I had.
Along about sunrise, night before last, it had finally dawned on me, after the police had spent hours asking me an endless series of questions, that they were less interested in finding Bethie, than they were in figuring out if I’d had something to do with her disappearance. And if that’s not a thought to give any parent nightmares, I don’t know what is. It made me angry.
Only one of the detectives seemed to take everything I said at face value. Detective Bobby Desmond. He was the one who assured me the police would get my little girl back, no question. I could tell he was lying, but I had to grasp what comfort I could from his words. “Look,” he said, “I’ll keep you up-to-date. For now, try get some rest.”
Finally though, the police gathered up and trooped out. When the door shut behind them, the silence that fell on the house was unendurable. All I could think of, all I could see, was my Bethie, in her little white flannel nightgown. She was so innocent, so young. And she was out there somewhere, frightened, maybe hurt. I had to push my mind away from the possibilities. The awful possibilities of what could be happening to her. All I knew was, she was alive. She had to be alive. And I had to get her back.
The police had encouraged me to stay home, to stay by the phone. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I paced the house, leaving a trail of damp Kleenex in my wake. It was the worst day I’d ever spent. And the phone just wouldn’t ring.
Before nightfall, a couple friends joined me, bringing food I couldn’t touch. Cathy insisted on staying the night, and we sat on the couch, mostly silent. I think I might’ve dozed a little from sheer exhaustion, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw my Bethie, crying, cold, hungry, hurt. And I would struggle up from sleep, crying again. Amy rubbed my shoulders and tried to make soothing noises, but, really, what was there to say?
The next day went by the same way. The endless hours blurring into one long, miserable stretch. The sun was sinking before anything changed. It was after five when there was a knock on the door.
Detective Desmond stood on my doorstep, looking as rumpled and sleepless as I was. My heart leapt up with hope until I got a good look at his face. He shook his head. “No news, Mrs. Turner,” he said. “We’re doing everything we can, but we just don’t have much to go on.”
He pulled his card out of a pocket, and flipped it over to scrawl something on the back. “Look, this is off the record, but I think you need more help than the police can give you.” He handed me the card. “Call this guy.” He paused. “He’s a little odd, but he’ll do whatever it takes.”
I nodded, numbly. Those words, whatever it takes, had a slightly familiar ring for some reason, but I was so exhausted I couldn’t place it. I looked down at the card the detective had given me, and brushed my thumb over the raised lettering of his name and contact info. Then I flipped it over to see what he had written. “Mick St. John” and a phone number.
Then it hit me. My friend Cathy had told me an anecdote just the night before Bethie was taken, about a conversation she’d overheard.* Some women talking about a PI named St. John who would do “whatever it takes.” I mopped my eyes with yet another Kleenex, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone. I didn’t have any idea what a private investigator would charge, or how I’d ever be able to pay him, but it didn’t matter.
The conversation didn't take long, just enough for him to tell me to bring a picture to his office and give me the address. I didn't stop to repair my makeup or fluff my hair. I just went. I don’t remember the drive. Night was falling – fall was coming on and the days were getting shorter. It took me a little time to find the place. It wasn’t a neighborhood I had been in before.
My brain was hammering at me. Two days. Two days, and I thought it was only iron control that kept me upright and moving. And I swore that the next cop who insinuated that I’d had something to do with Bethie’s disappearance, or that her father had run off with her, I was going to deck. I didn’t care if I went to jail for it. I’d explained and explained and explained that Beth’s father was dead and I didn’t think he had run off with his little girl. They didn’t listen.
So now here I was on the landing, third floor, outside the office of a private investigator. I'd never even seen one, in real life. I was pretty sure most of the police would disapprove. Screw the police, I was going to get my own help.
I rapped on the door sharply, feeling the glass shudder and rattle under my fist. The place looked like it should’ve had Sam Spade written across it instead of “Mick St. John Private Investigations" in faded lettering.
It seemed to take forever for the door to open. I was on the verge of knocking again, when the knob turned and the door swung open. Distracted as I was I could see that the man - I assumed he was Mick St. John – was tall and handsome, although he hadn’t gotten around to shaving today. In fact, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed; his clothing seemed to have been shrugged on in a hurry.
That didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered. When you’re talking about your child, your kidnapped child, gone for days and the police have produced nothing, iron control is a myth. I almost fell into his arms, sobbing. “Mr. St. John, please help me. Someone took my daughter.”
*see No Such Thing as Ghosts
It doesn't surprise me one bit that he treated Beth's mom respectfully. That's the kind of guy he was. 
well done!