They Disappeared. Rick Mofina

from where his big hands usually held it. Jeff cherished the pickup because it was his connection to his mom and dad.

      Jeff got his learner’s license, and when he drove the truck with his grandfather, it felt like his parents were in the cab with them. Jeff treasured the Ford, washing it and changing the oil himself. With that truck he learned how to fix things, to become self-reliant, to endure the deaths of his parents.

      Then one day the truck was stolen from his grandfather’s driveway.

      Jeff was devastated. They’d reported the theft to police, who’d promised to “leave no stone unturned” in recovering it. But days, then weeks, passed with no news. Jeff convinced his grandfather to let him search for it by driving him to truck stops, auto shops, bars and diners in nearly every town in Yellowstone County.

      Weeks passed. Then, as if guided by fate, they’d spotted a Ford pickup at a mall near Ballantine where they’d stopped to shop for shirts. It was Jeff’s. It had a different plate and was all primed like it was going to be painted but it had the same tiny spiderweb fracture in the rear cab window and the chip in the left rear bumper.

      After police and the court returned the truck, Jeff’s grandfather told him something he’d never forgotten.

      “The truck could never be as important to anyone as it is to you, Jeff. There are certain things in this world that you just have to take care of yourself, or they’ll never be done right. If you don’t trust your gut in these matters, you’ll have to live with the consequences for the rest of your life.”

      A horn blast yanked Jeff back to Manhattan’s traffic and a decision.

      So what am I going to do here, now?

      He had no choice. He would search for his family on his own.

      Where do I start?

      He’d go back to the spot where it happened and start looking there.

      He tried calling Sarah again and again. It rang to her message. Nothing. It had been about two hours since he’d last seen Sarah and Cole.

      Where the hell are you?

      Jeff stared at his phone, then, on impulse, he called the number for Hans Beck and got a recorded message saying the number was no longer in service. That’s strange, Jeff thought, unsure what to make of it.

      After the cab dropped him off, Jeff allowed himself a moment to entertain the belief that Sarah and Cole had returned. That they’d have some wild explanation and they’d all laugh it off. How sweet the relief would be. He’d admit to her that he’d been a fool, that he was wrong for wanting to separate—no, confused, stupid and so sorry.

      He’d tell her that he wanted to keep their family together.

      Hold them and never let them go.

      But his hope was overtaken by reality as he came to the spot. There was no sign of Sarah or Cole. Freddie, the wheelchair panhandler, was gone. Jeff got out his camera, cued the photo of Sarah and Cole and returned to the ponytailed man selling souvenirs at the pushcart where Sarah and Cole had been. Again, Jeff begged for his help, showing him the photos.

      The vendor shook his head, his face a mask of indifference behind his dark glasses.

      “They were right here,” Jeff said.

      “I told you, pal. I don’t remember them.”

      Deflated, Jeff lowered his camera to grapple with a million thoughts, horrible imaginings of what the phantom abductors could be doing to his family at this very moment. Slowly he turned in a full circle in the heart of Manhattan, one of the busiest cities in the world.

      He forced himself to remain calm, to think.

      Retrace your steps. Re-create the scene.

      His attention came to the store where he’d bought the batteries, where it all started: Metro Manhattan Gifts and Things.

      He entered.

      Not as busy as before. A few browsers checking out the knickknacks; otherwise, a lull. Even the music was subdued. He recognized the same girl at the counter.

      A good sign.

      She had her nose in her cell phone, thumbs flying.

      He needed her. Don’t interrupt her. Not yet.

      He assessed the store again, locking in on the security camera mounted on the wall above the counter. It was angled to the door, front window and the street.

      Did it capture Sarah and Cole?

      He had to see the camera’s perspective.

      “Can I help you?”

      The clerk had finished with her phone. Her bejeweled nostril sparkled as she smiled—nice bright teeth, sincere. He sensed a good heart.

      “I was here a while ago buying batteries.”

      “I remember you.”

      “You do?”

      “Your shirt, says Montana. I’ve visited Glacier National Park. It’s gorgeous.”

      “Small world,” he said. “Look, I was hoping you could help me.”

      “Depends on what you need.”

      “My wife and son, we got separated out front, and I was thinking that maybe your security camera—” he nodded to it “—maybe it recorded them.”

      She turned to it and back to him without speaking.

      “I just need to see if it records the spot on the street where they were.”

      “Why don’t you just look for them?”

      “I did and a man who was near them told me they may have been abducted or robbed.”

      “What? That’s a crazy scary.”

      “I’m worried. I need to see where they went or what happened. Can I just have a look at your camera’s monitor, see it if picked up anything?”

      “I don’t really want to get involved.”

      “No, nothing like that. Just let me check it out, it won’t take long. No one has to know and I’ll pay you fifty dollars just to see. Just to have a look. If it doesn’t get the angle, then that’s it. If it does, I’ll give you more money to rewind it back?”

      “I don’t know, I—”

      “Excuse me,” a woman said.

      A middle-aged man and woman approached with T-shirts, key rings, postcards. Jeff stepped aside as the girl rang them up.

      “Can you tell us how to get to Central Park from here?” the woman asked.

      “Go right out front and catch a bus on Eighth Avenue,” the girl said. “Or you can walk north on Eighth, but it’s about sixteen blocks.”

      “Thank you.”

      Once Jeff and the girl were alone again, he pressed his case. He showed her his digital camera and the photos of Sarah and Cole. The girl blinked at them—a typical American family vacationing in New York.

      “We were right out front a couple of hours ago,” he said. “I just need to see what happened. I need your help.”

      “I think you should just go to the police.”

      “I did. I just returned from talking to detectives at the precinct.”

      “There you go.”

      “They said they’re looking, but I’m looking, too. Please, put yourself in my shoes. Wouldn’t you do everything you could?”

      Considering his point and his plight, she glanced around, caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Jeff pulled out two twenties and a ten. She glanced at the cash.

      “Just a quick look.” He gave her his