A sigh. “Yes. That’s one of the negatives.” Another weary sigh. “But on balance, Alex, going on the air is way more plus than minus. Believe me, the tips, the calls to the hotline, volunteers, you name it – all these things get a big bounce after parental pleas.”

“Hunh.”

“The thing is, it can really help the investigation. And these guys – sometimes they just can’t resist calling in. In which case they might say something that gives the police a lead. It’s like pyromaniacs coming to watch the fire. They want to be a part of it.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “We’ll do it.”

“And just, you know… speak from the heart. Don’t try to write out a speech and read it. It’s better if you… if you just do it. The more emotional, the better.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Some parents choose to do it in a studio, but that means granting an exclusive – that’s up to you. It can be somewhat less intimidating, and the lighting will be better… but… naturally it irritates the other reporters.”

“Hunh.”

“And it can come across as too… composed. I think just outside the house works best. Incidentally, do mention them by name – that’s important. ‘Kevin and Sean.’ Not ‘my sons’ or ‘my children.’”

“Right. Okay.”

Her final advice is unsettling. “I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention this,” she says, and then hesitates.

“Yes?”

“Some families hire public relations advisers,” she tells me. “It’s become quite common with victims groups, you know… the various disease associations, relatives of airline crash victims, that kind of thing. It’s kind of segued over from that sector.”

“You mean…”

“I know it sounds strange, but I’m told it can be a huge plus to have someone to interface with the media, and I am talking about a professional firm, Alex, not a friend. They can also help to maximize your exposure. I mean if the case drags on – they can help keep it in the news.”

“I don’t think…”

“Look, as I said, I’m only mentioning it because it’s something to consider. It’s how the Smart family kept Elizabeth’s case front and center for so long. Even when everybody thought she was dead. Anyway, if you decide to go that way, I can give you a list of firms.”

I thank her, but when I hang up, I feel as if I’ve stepped through a looking glass. My children are missing and they want me to do stand-ups and get a PR rep?

Shoffler calls to tell us that there’s no news from the search parties, but that the switchboard is swamped with volunteers. The plan is to broaden the search.

“Great,” I say, “that’s great.” If my voice lacks enthusiasm, it’s because when I try to remember an instance of one of these big efforts actually locating the target of the search, I can’t think of a single one.

“We’re canvassing people who work at the festival, looking for anyone who saw your boys yesterday. So far, we’re not getting very far.”

“Oh?” This from Liz on the extension in the family room. “That’s strange. Everybody notices the boys.”

It’s true. Identical twins hold a universal fascination. Now that they can tell time, the boys sometimes bet on how long they can be out in public before someone asks the inevitable question: “Are you twins?” Sean went through a stretch last year when he liked to answer no. He thought his deadpan denial hugely amusing, but it irritated people. We were all glad when he got tired of the game.

“Probably just haven’t talked to the right folks yet,” Shoffler says. “Anyway, there is something we’ve learned.” He hesitates just long enough to unnerve me. I feel it in my chest, a little whir of anxiety.

“What?” Liz demands, with a note of panic in her voice. “What is it?”

“We ran the fair employees through a bunch of databases,” Shoffler says. “Computer kicked out one thing of interest – although right off I want to tell you I don’t think this is going anywhere.”

“What?” Liz says in a tight little voice.

“There’s this fella runs a little shop – does face-painting, sells candles and magic wands, that kind of thing. Computer turned up a pedophile conviction.”

“Who?” I demand. “What’s his name?”

“Whoa,” Shoffler says. “Just because he has a prior doesn’t mean the guy’s culpable here. We’re checking out his account of his time and whereabouts, and so far it’s holding up solid.”

“Is he in custody?” Liz asks. “Does he know where the boys are? Can we talk to him?”

“We’ll know for sure about him real soon,” Shoffler says, “but like I said, Mrs. Callahan, I don’t think he’s involved. I just didn’t want the press to spring this on you. Wanted to make you aware.”

I know from the snuffling sound that Liz is crying again.

“I’ll be by sometime today,” Shoffler tells us.

“Jesus,” Liz’s father says as he plunges through the front door. “They’re like a pack of vultures. Where’s my daughter?”

She comes through the door from the kitchen, gives a little cry, and then he takes her clumsily into his arms, patting at her shoulder. “Liz,” he says, “it’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

After a minute, they separate and he extends his hand to me. “Alex,” he says. “Hell of a thing.”

“Thanks for coming, Jack.” It’s an effort to address my father-in-law by his first name. What comes naturally is “Mr. Taggart,” a form of address that the man himself, with his parade-ground posture and stiff manners, might prefer. Jack is a high-school principal. He’s conditioned to expect deference from anyone younger than he is.

It is Liz who either mistrusts or fails to grasp her father’s profound sense of formality, Liz who insists on the tokens of chummy intimacy. On their own, the boys would call Jack “Grandfather” and greet him with handshakes, but when Kevin and Sean were toddlers, Liz decreed that they should call him “Poppy.” She insists on this, and also mandates hugs and kisses. To please her, everyone complies – but only when she’s present. She looks on now, frowning, as her father and husband engage in something that – were it not so brief – might be called an embrace.

“Marguerite – this thing was just too much for her,” my father-in-law says, stepping out of our statutory hug. He shakes his head, disappointment with his wife clear on his strong features. “High-strung,” he mutters, “but” – he claps his hands together – “she’ll be fine.”

Marguerite Taggart is a sweet and warm woman, the yin to Jack’s yang. Now she’s under sedation in the MidCoast Medical Center in Rockland, Maine.

Liz may have wanted her dad to stay with her mother, but I can see that she’s buoyed by Jack’s presence. Jack Taggart is one of those supremely self-confident men who believes he can do anything. This clearly includes finding his grandchildren. He truly believes that once events have been placed in his capable hands, he can promise a positive outcome. It’s irrational to put faith in Jack’s can-do attitude, but Liz is not alone in finding comfort in his presence. I feel it, too.

My own parents are scheduled to arrive about an hour after Jack. I’d pick them up at the airport, but Shoffler and the search unit are due to come by and I don’t want to leave Liz here to deal with them. On the other hand, although Jack blew through the crowd with no problems, my folks lack his imperious presence. They’ll be swallowed alive.

When Dad calls from baggage claim, I suggest he tell the cab to come the back way. All these old blocks in Cleveland Park have service alleys that run parallel to the streets. “I’ll unlock the gate.”

“Okeydoke,” my dad says. “Hey, I see the bags. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”

The plan doesn’t work. My parents’ arrival is heralded by a stampede from the front of the house to the end of the block and then down the alley and into our backyard. From inside we can hear the pounding feet, the ruckus of shouted questions. Jack and I rush out the back door, finding my mother – whose manners do not permit hanging up on a telemarketer – engulfed by reporters and microphones. A blonde with a predatory smile has seized Mom by the arm and wields her huge microphone like a weapon. With a deer-in-the-headlights expression, Mom’s doing her best to answer questions. A few feet from the gate, Dad, grim-faced and tight-lipped, is trying to get through the crowd with his suitcases.