“Annie,” she spoke quietly, not wanting to wake her husband, who slept in the next room. She walked forward, picking up a discarded sock and the remnants of a popped balloon off the floor, moving to the clothes hamper and then the trash. Always something. Never enough time or enough money. “Annie. I don’t have time for this; we’ve got to get you ready for school.” She moved to the bathroom, opening the door, looking behind the shower curtain. “Annie!” She gave up the attempt to be quiet, irritated and short on time. “Annie! Come out, I’ve got to get you dressed! I don’t have time to look for you!”
She heard a noise, from the back bedroom. Great. Her husband was awake. She moved down the hall, opening the door to their bedroom. “Honey, Annie is hiding. Let me find her and get her dressed, then I’ll come and help you.” He nodded from the bed, and she closed the door, moving past the wheelchair in the hall and headed for the living room, her voice now at maximum volume. “Annie Thompson! I am not playing with you! Get out here NOW!”
Annie was not in the trailer, a fact easily discovered in the five minutes her mother spent searching. It was one of the few benefits of three people living in eight hundred square feet. She moved outside, her stride purposeful, the utility bill forgotten. She was not yet worried.
Henry Thompson sat upright in bed, cursing his useless legs. He had heard Carolyn search the home, heard her calls to Annie, seen her come in the bedroom and search the small space, hoping that she hid under their bed, or in their closet. Now she was outside, her calls increasing in volume and frequency. Something was wrong. Carolyn might not yet realize it, but something was definitely wrong. Annie wouldn’t do this to them. She wouldn’t bring worry to Carolyn, a woman who already carried too much stress. He lifted his legs, sliding his body to the edge of the bed, and reached out for the nightstand with his hand.
Carolyn stood in Georgia dirt, cotton fields surrounding her—the plants small, in early stages of growth, too short and puny to hide a child. And she realized, as sun warmed her back, and gentle wind rustled empty fields, Annie was gone.
He felt her despair, felt the moment that she came to the same realization as him. He heard her inner wail before it left her lips. And in that moment, that breakage, when Carolyn sank to her knees in the Georgia clay, his hand slipped and his body tumbled to the ground, legs helpless to catch him.
Somewhere, in darkness, Annie began to cry.
CHAPTER 38: Annie
The Amber Alert is issued on Monday at 9:14 a.m. The notification is sent instantly to all broadcasters and state transportation officials. It interrupts all regular television and radio programming. The message is instantly displayed on highway signage in Georgia, Florida, Alabama, and South Carolina. In that single minute, over eighty thousand text messages are sent out with the alert, and banner ads pop up on Internet sites everywhere.
I get an email alert at 9:16 a.m. It sits, unopened in my inbox, for five hours. At 2:21 p.m. I sit down on the floor, lean against my door, and log into my email. Peeling back the top of a Savory Chicken with Wild Rice meal, I am mid-chew when I scroll down and see the alert.
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Annie Cordele Thompson
AMBER Alert: Georgia
Last updated: Monday, April 23 09:14:08
An AMBER Alert has been issued in Georgia for 7-year-old Annie Cordele Thompson. Officers say Annie was last seen when she was put to bed at approximately 8:15 p.m. Sunday night. Annie is approximately 37 inches tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. Investigators have no leads at this time, but expect her to be in the vicinity of Savannah, Georgia. We need your help in finding Annie.
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There is a toll-free number listed at the bottom of the email, along with a plea to call if you have any information regarding her whereabouts. I stare at the screen for a long time. Then I reach for my cell and dial the number.
It rings five times before someone answers—a man—his voice clipped and unfriendly.
“I’m calling about Annie Thompson.”
“Yes. Please state your name.”
I hesitate. “Jessica Reilly.”
“And the number you are calling from?”
I give it to him, certain it is showing up on his screen already. My stomach feels sick, tight. This is a bad idea, a threat to my bubble, my carefully cut ties.
“What is your information?” The man’s voice is cold, expressionless.
“You need to look at Ralph Atkins. He is a plumber that lives in Brooklet, Georgia.”
“What is his relationship to Annie?”
“I don’t know that he has a relationship to her.”
“What is the connection between them?”
“I … don’t know.” This conversation is going nowhere, tumbling downhill like an out-of-control skier gathering speed. I hear the weakness in my voice and hate it.
“Why don’t you explain what you do know?” I sense the touch of kindness behind the efficient steel.
“I know that I have had multiple conversations with Ralph Atkins, in which he has been obsessive in his desire to have sexual relationships with a young girl named Annie.”
“Did he provide a last name for Annie?”
I grind my teeth. “No.”
“Why didn’t you report this to the authorities?”
“I’ve been trying to get more information—about Annie—who she is, if she even exists.”
“How long have you known Ralph?”
“I don’t know him really. He’s a client. I’m an Internet sex operator. I have cybersex with men for money.”
“And it was in one of these sex sessions that he mentioned Annie?” I’ve lost him. I can hear it in the tone of his voice, the disbelief that coats his words.
“Yes.”
“What is his address?”
I give it to him, both hope and regret flooding my body. Hope that she will be found, and regret that I won’t be able to kill the monster myself.
We end the call, and I sit on the floor and think. I had long ago lost any respect for the police, for their inability to find the truth, even when it is thrust, front and center, in their faces. My call might lead them to Ralph; it might even lead them to the rescue of Annie. But, in anticipation of their failure, I need to take action.
I open the file Mike sent three hours earlier and start to search the depravity of RalphMA35’s computer and mind. It doesn’t take long to find what I am searching for.