Chapter One
I glanced at the computer printout that rested on the
passenger seat of the rental car, a casual picture of a
grandmother and granddaughter, arms linked, faces aglow
with laughter and love. The bright photograph had been
scanned into a computer half a world away and the
resulting crisp picture that had issued from my daughter's
computer was one of the small miracles that no one remarks
in today's technological wonderland. The grandmother, Gina
Wilson, was one of my oldest friends, a shining memory
from the happiest years of my life. The granddaughter,
Iris Chavez, was a child I'd come to know because she
spent much of her growing up time with Gina. Iris was near
in age to my own granddaughter, Diana.
The faces in the photograph were sharply different,
despite their laughter on the day the picture was snapped
on a sunny summer afternoon at Laguna. It wasn't simply a
matter of age. Gina's short-cropped white hair and Dresden
china pale skin and Iris's richly raven curls and creamily
dusky complexion made a lovely contrast. Gina's sharply
planed features were arresting, her light green eyes
curious and skeptical, her smile amused yet with a
sardonic undercurrent, as befitted a woman who'd been one
of the cleverest political reporters of her time. Iris's
face was cherubic, still so young there were no lines. Her
eyes were also green, but there was no challenge in Iris's
gaze. Instead eagerness vied with uncertainty. Iris's bow
of a mouth was marked with brilliantly red lipstick, but
the vivid color couldn't hide vulnerability.
The two sets of green eyes were the only real resemblance
in the photograph. What had Gina once told me? She'd
looked out the window at Iris playing in the yard and
smilingly observed, "Iris is the image of her father,
except for her eyes."
Iris. The name brought to my mind the vision of a slim
blonde with startlingly blue eyes. But not this Iris. Not
Iris Chavez, whom I remembered as a giggling little girl
with a mop of curly black hair and later as a plump, eager-
to-please teenager. A sweet, bouncy, cheerful girl. I'd
not seen his or Gina in several years. Yet when the phone
rang yesterday at my daughter's home in east Texas, I'd
immediately recognized Gina's voice and just, as swiftly
known there was trouble. Or, to be precise, realized
immediately that Gina was terribly afraid.
I hoped that soon, very soon, I could call Gina and say
everything was okay. I slowed for a red light, checked my
map. Although San Antonio streets often change names, I
was finding my way without difficulty. Gina's directions
had been clear and careful. Almost there.
Gina hated to ask for help, but there is nothing you won't
do, no mile you won't walk, no mountain you won't climb,
no effort you won't make for a grandchild. I understand
that. I have two grandchildren of my own.
I didn't blame Gina for being frightened. Even though Gina
was half a world away, Gina in Majorca, Iris in San
Antonio, they kept in close touch by E-mail. At least once
or twice a week, they exchanged messages. It was their
custom to chat on Saturday morning Iris's time, Saturday
afternoon Gina's time in Majorca.
"Nothing, Henrie 0, nothing since last Wednesday. And Iris
never misses E-mailing on Saturday mornings without
telling me in advance that she will skip. I've sent
message after message. I've called and called. There's no
answer. I thought of contacting the police. But what could
I tell them? That I haven't received an E-mail? That I
can't get her on the phone? That's not enough to report
her as missing." She paused. "And maybe she's just out of
town with a friend. Oh, there could be many reasons. I
don't want to embarrass her. But I can't wait any longer."
Gina's voice quavered.
E-mail. It links us to the world no matter where we live.
It was through a casual E-mail that Gina knew I was
visiting my daughter, Emily, and that I was only a three-
hour drive from San Antonio, where Iris lived. And yes, my
days were free. I was no longer teaching, though I'd
decided to keep my home in, the Missouri college town
where I'd been on the journalism faculty for several
years. And yes, I could easily go to San Antonio and yes,
I would do that for my frightened friend.
I'd received Gina's call early this morning. Now, the
answer was near. Perhaps I would find Ids at her
apartment. If I didn't find her, I would go to the store
where she worked and perhaps we'd both laugh andafter
she'd called her grandmother, assured her she was fine-
Iris would offer to buy me a cold raspa, the shaved-ice
confection so dear to San Antonians, and I would stay a
few days in this lovely city-what better place to do some
early Christmas shopping?--then resume my visit at my
daughter's.
I turned to my left, my right, and found the apartment
house at the end of the street. I locked my car and stood
in the shadow of a palm tree. I hated leaving the windows
up. September marks fall in the north. In San Antonio,
sunny warm days continue. Oh, an occasional cold front
will drop the temperature into the low eighties. Sweat
beaded my face. My soft cotton dress clung to me. I took a
deep breath of moist air softer than skin lotion.