Legally Dead Read Online Free

sob. “We love you very much. We miss you and want you home.”
    The child’s father roughly cleared his throat. “Be brave, honey. We’re coming to bring you home. Just be brave.”
    Venturi clenched the steering wheel in a viselike grip as the newsman said there were no new leads and asked anyone with information to call a special police phone line.
    At dusk, they drove down Main Street in Flemington, the picturesque little New Hampshire town where bad things were happening to good people.
    Main Street’s solitary traffic light blinked red. Few cars were on the road.
    He found the innocent-looking neighborhood where the Brownie scout, age nine, had disappeared like melted snow, at precisely this time of day. He watched the foot and vehicular traffic around him for joggers, delivery trucks, or motorists routinely arriving home. Anyone who might have seen something suspicious during that window in time.
    He drove slowly past Gino Salvi’s small neat house. There was a light in the kitchen. The living room pulsed with flickering shadows from a television screen. He parked several doors down the street and watched the rearview mirror.
    Shortly after 8 p.m. Salvi emerged and stood for several moments. The big man looked up and down the street as though sniffing the air like a wild animal before climbing into the Ford in his driveway. He backed out and drove to a neighborhood tavern a mile away.
    Venturi followed. Salvi had demanded a Cadillac, claimed he always drove one, and had exploded in a red-faced rage when Venturi explained that it was exactly why he must not drive one now. In his new life, his image, his habits had to change.
    His baseball cap pulled down, Venturi strolled by the tavern with Scout on his leash. Salvi sat alone, an amber-filled shot glass and a sweaty beer on the bar in front of him. Thirsty, Venturi went back to the car, ate a chocolate bar, and drank bottled water from a small cooler.
    Twenty minutes later Salvi emerged alone, carrying a large cardboard pizza box.
    When Venturi parked near the house minutes later, he saw through binoculars that Salvi appeared to be settled in front of a computer screen with his pizza and a six-pack.
    While Salvi ate, he found a fast-food drive-through. He and the dog ate burgers in the car, then explored nearly empty streets, enjoying the cool night air.
    A strange, unearthly sound, a high-pitched howling, rose in the distance. The dog’s ears pricked up and he whined, tugging at the leash. The sound grew louder, coming closer on the evening breeze. Chills rippled up and down Venturi’s arms. He’d heard something like it before, in Africa, the high-pitched keening sound of women wailing as his unit came upon a burned-out village in the aftermath of a massacre.
    What he’d seen there flashed back in a shock of memory that nearly staggered him. The dog paused and gazed up at him, eyes unflinching, as though he understood.
    They forged toward the sounds, turned a corner, and saw them. Hundreds of flickering lights, men, women, and children marching slowly toward a small park.
    Their singing or chanting carried like a funeral dirge on the night air. Soon, he could make out the words.
    â€œâ€¦once was lost but now am found. ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”
    The two couples in front had to be the parents—supported by friends, relatives, and neighbors. Some wore T-shirts with pictures of the lost girls.
    A little boy held a handmade posterboard: WE MISS YOU, SAMANTHA AND HOLLY .
    Half a dozen marchers carried a long banner bearing a painted plea: BRING THEM HOME .
    Venturi, the dog, and several other pedestrians fell in behind them, following into the shadowy park. Flashlights aglow, candles flickering, they assembled at the base of a statue, a swordsman on horseback.
    â€œCome home, come home…,” they implored. As the voices soared, Venturi searched faces in the