I also talked to a kind woman named Shelley at the Center for Missing and Exploited Children, scanned a photo of the boys into the computer so that the organization might begin its national poster campaign. Another woman – Shelley’s superior – is supposed to call later to discuss other options and to offer advice.

Now I’m reduced to staying out of the way. I want to scour the earth for Kevin and Sean, but instead I’m immobilized.

We glide along on the moving sidewalk toward the parking garage. Behind me, Christiansen jingles the keys in his pocket. In front of me stands Liz, rigid with the effort of suppressing her terror.

When Christiansen turns the corner onto Ordway, Liz gasps. The little knot of reporters that began gathering early this morning has ballooned into a crowd. Two communications vans jam the alley on either side of the street, another sits in the Hokinsons’ driveway, wedged up against their red Explorer. There are light towers, cables snaking across the lawns and sidewalks, camera and sound crews. A couple of well-dressed figures stand solitary within little established zones of space, prepping light and sound equipment for the stand-ups they’ll do later. Neighbors stand in their doorways, too, gaping at the sudden occupation of the block. As the crowd catches sight of the squad car, there’s a rush for position.

“Oh, shit,” Christiansen says. “Pardon my French, ma’am.”

From Liz, a little moan.

I feel a jangle of dread, a weird sense of exposure. I’ve been part of scenes like this plenty of times, one more reporter in the press conference crush, or in a mob waiting to waylay some key figure in a story. With cable and satellite and the increase in venues for news, the size of these media mobs is getting out of hand. A couple of years back, I was part of the team covering the D.C. sniper case for the station, one of the more than nine-hundred badged for the press conferences held by the Rockville police chief.

I think – too late – that I should have warned Liz. And it’s probably going to get worse. The story is going to be the top of the news, front page, lead story. The fact that I’m in the business, that I appear on TV, that my face is familiar to some, that I am (as Liz and I used to joke) “a third-string celebrity,” will just stoke what is going to be a firestorm of coverage.

Liz cringes against me as the crowd begins to engulf the car. I know it would be a mistake – because a person shielded from the camera is automatically guilty of something – but it’s all I can do to keep from throwing my jacket over Liz’s head to protect her. She’s weeping against me, really losing it.

“It’s all right,” I murmur. She takes deep shuddering breaths, trying to compose herself.

It’s not working. Her hands are balled up into fists and she screws her knuckles into her eyes. “Just get us into the house,” I tell Christiansen.

“How?” The tips of the officer’s ears glow bright red.

“Walk fast, no eye contact, don’t talk to anybody. Say ‘excuse me.’ Nothing else.”

And that’s what we do. I follow Christiansen as if he’s a blocker on a punt return, yanking Liz left, then right into the momentary gaps the police officer creates. We somehow get through the blizzard of flashes, the mechanized chatter of camera shutters, the cacophony of shouted questions and comments.

“Excuse me!”

“Can you comment-?”

“Excuse me.”

“That’s the mother; she looks-”

“Excuse me.”

“… know if there are any suspects?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, can you tell our…?”

“… parents of the boys have been separated…”

“Excuse me.”

“… possible the twins were trying to run away?”

“Fuck,” Christiansen says, once we’re inside the door. He’s panting for breath, his ears on fire.

Making it inside and closing the door on the madness feels like a victory, but the sense of triumph lasts only a few seconds. Liz looks up at me, her eyes wet and out of focus. “Alex,” she starts, but then she just stands there, swaying.

“Liz-”

“Alex!” she shrieks. She pummels my chest with her fists. “Where are they? You have to find them!”

We sit in the kitchen. “So there’s no news…” she starts, and then her voice fades out.

“I’ll call Shoffler – the detective. I told him we’d check in after we got back from the airport.” I head for the phone. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

But Shoffler is in conference. I leave a message, then make Liz some tea. She sits like a rag doll, slumped and loose-limbed. I wonder if I should get her to a doctor.

“Did you call your parents?” she asks in a listless voice.

“They’re on their way.”

“My mom sort of… broke down,” Liz says. “She’s in the hospital.”

“Oh, Liz…”

“She’s all right, just – you know, she’s sedated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I begged my dad to stay with her, but he’s coming. I couldn’t stop him.” She draws a sharp intake of breath.

She stirs the sugar into her tea for so long, I finally put my hand over hers.

“Oh,” she says, without inflection.

Despite the crowd outside, it’s so quiet I can hear the white noise of the appliances: the hum of the refrigerator, the whine of the air conditioner. It feels almost as if we’re hiding.

She rests her elbows on the table, holds her face in her hands.

“We’ll find them,” I hear myself say. She draws a deep, jittery breath, lifts her face up toward me.

“We will,” I tell her, my voice fervent. “Liz, we’ll find them.”

She searches my face, but whatever she sees doesn’t reassure her. Her face compresses into a red knot of torment. She lowers her head to the table, rests it on her crossed arms, and begins to sob. Inconsolable.

Liz is in the shower when the call comes from Claire Carosella.

“I’m returning your call,” the efficient voice says. “I’m with the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I think my colleague mentioned…”

“Right. She did mention that you’d call.”

“At the Center,” she begins, “we realize parents don’t know what to do when this sort of thing happens, so… someone like me usually calls to offer advice.”

“Right,” I say, not knowing where this woman is going. Advice?

“First things first,” she says. “The media. I’m sure they’re already camped on your doorstep.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’ll drive you crazy,” she says, “but really, they’re your biggest ally. As soon as possible, you and your wife should go on the air and plead for the children’s return.”

“My wife – she’s really…”

“I’m sure she’s a mess. Believe me, I know…” A pause. “But you’ve absolutely got to do it. It humanizes you as victims, both to the viewing public and to the abductor. Lots of these guys watch, you know. Sometimes, they even get involved in the search for the victim.”

“Polly Klaas,” I say, mentioning the name of a girl abducted from her bedroom in California and later found murdered. A man prominent in the effort to find the little girl, a guy who’d printed and distributed thousands of circulars and was appointed by the girl’s grateful father to run a foundation dedicated to the search for her, had turned out to be a registered sex offender with a history involving young girls.

“Well, yes,” Claire Carosella says, “that’s one example, but-”

“It wasn’t him,” I interrupt, remembering the details. “It turned out to be a different guy.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.”

“Yeah.”

My homework. In a couple of hours online, I’ve already learned more about abducted children than I ever want to know. Including the somber fact that most of them – more than half – are dead within three hours of their disappearance.

“Isn’t there a chance these guys get off on the media coverage? The grieving parents, all that?”