Out of Range: A Novel by Hank Steinberg Page B

car, his daughter’s legs bouncing against his ribs.
    “Daddydaddydaddy!”
    The Prius was parked ten yards from the wall at the end of the cul-de-sac. No crumpled fenders, no buckled doors, no obvious damage. Charlie’s heartbeat began to slow. There’d been no accident. And it occurred to him that there were no paramedics or ambulances here. That had to be a good sign.
    Then he saw them, poking out into the street. A pair of Nike sneakers. Red and black. Size nine, boys’. Above the sneakers was a pair of knees, the left one covered by a Band-Aid with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it. Ollie’s face was blocked by the hood of the Prius, but Charlie was quite sure now that he must be all right.
    Maybe the car had just broken down. Maybe Julie had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost and maybe the head gasket had blown. Maybe her phone had stopped working when the car died and she’d freaked out a little, scaring the neighbors, who’d called 911. Maybe it was a slow day for the cops in Norwalk. Maybe . . .
    Charlie felt a burst of elation as he rounded the front of Julie’s car and saw Ollie looking up at him. The boy was holding the hand of a tall, beefy man in a blue LAPD uniform.
    Then Charlie saw the tears. Streaming down Ollie’s face. But it was the eyes that arrested him. Pure terror. Whatever had just happened here, it wasn’t a blown head gasket or a wrong turn.
    That was when Charlie noticed the broken glass next to the car. The driver’s-side window had been shattered.
    “Who are you, sir?” asked one of the cops.
    “Dad!” Ollie whimpered, reaching toward Charlie.
    A cold sensation clamped around Charlie’s chest as he grabbed his son.
    “I’m their father,” Charlie whispered. “I’m their father.” Then his eyes found the big policeman’s face. The officer looked at Charlie with the cool, contained expression of a man who knew how to keep his distance from other people’s pain.
    Charlie’s pulse roared in his ears as the question barely escaped his mouth:
    “Where’s my wife?”

Chapter Nine
    T he central bureau of the LAPD was a windowless bunker of a building with an unattractive mural painted on the front.
    Charlie and the kids had been sitting in a waiting area outside the detectives’ bullpen for nearly three hours and it was well after midnight. The children were exhausted, and Charlie wanted answers, but nothing indicated that they were getting out of here anytime soon.
    “What’s taking so long?” Oliver asked.
    “I don’t know,” Charlie answered.
    “Do you want me to tell you again?”
    Charlie’s heart nearly melted as he regarded his son and gently brushed back his hair. “That’s all right, kiddo. I think we’ve got it now.”
    Ollie had told his tale so many times to the patrol officers at the scene, but when they first got to the police station, Charlie had wanted to go over it one last time—to see if he remembered anything new. In a slow, halting voice, the boy had recounted the nightmare . . .
    Julie had pulled off the freeway as soon as she had hung up the phone with Charlie. At the gas station, Julie had taken a thrashing Meagan out of her car seat and walked her around until she had calmed down. Julie had then started gassing up the car. Suddenly she got back in the car and tore away. Ollie said they drove “really fast and the tires screeched a bunch” until the car came to a stop. Julie then told Ollie she was going to get out of the car and lock the door behind her. No matter what Ollie did, he was not to open the door for anyone.
    Finally, Ollie said he heard some voices outside the car—angry male voices—but he couldn’t make out any of the words.
    “Did Mom scream or yell?” Charlie had asked.
    Ollie shook his head. He heard doors slam, then a car drove off and then everything was quiet. After that, he just waited. “Mom told me not to open the door for anyone. That’s why the police had to break the window. But I swear that’s what