“Any word on the boys’ welfare?”

“Were the boys upset over their parents’ separation?”

“What about the suspect?”

“Was it a contentious separation?”

Once they spot me, the crowd of reporters abandons my parents and converges, circling in fast and instinctively cutting off exit routes, like a pack of dogs. The four of us barely avoid being trapped, blocked from reentering the house.

“Good Lord,” my mother says once we’re inside, letting out a weird little giggle. Her eyes are slightly out of focus, and when we hug each other, I realize she’s out of it, so zonked on Xanax she feels boneless in my arms. Dad gives me a buck-up abrazo, but looks terrible. “We’ll find them,” he says firmly, but his voice is tinny and unsubstantial.

“We will,” I say. “We will find them.” Listening to myself, my voice forced but full of conviction, I realize I’m falling into a weird form of magical thinking. If only I can get the right tone and – like Jack – speak with unassailable assurance, what I say will come true.

Late that afternoon, we stand just outside the front door, elevated a few steps above the jostling crowd of reporters and cameramen. There’s a forest of microphones, a sea of cameras. The hubbub of human voices rises and falls, supplemented by the mechanized chatter of the cameras. The lights flicker in their own crazed rhythm.

Liz stands next to me, flinching from the noise and dazzle. “I’m Alex Callahan,” I begin. I plead with whoever has taken Kevin and Sean to return them, I plead with the public to be our eyes and ears, to call the hotline with any information.

I realize too late that I should have insisted Liz do most of the talking. Even to me my voice sounds polished and composed – my on-camera voice. I try to project my honest civilian desperation, but it doesn’t work. I’m left with a feeling that I know quite well. It’s hard to predict on-camera interviews, who will come off, and who doesn’t work. Today, I fit into the second category. I’m left with the perception of having given a performance, and not a particularly good one.

Liz makes up for it. She can hardly manage a sentence without breaking down in the middle of it, but she goes on anyway, a forced march of bravery so moving I spot the glitter of tears in the eyes of some of the female reporters. At the end, she speaks directly to the boys. “Kevin? Sean? If you’re watching… hang in there, guys. We love you. Daddy and I… we just love you… so much. And we’re going to find you! Wherever you are. I promise! We’ll come and find you. You just… hang on.”

That’s it, she’s wrecked, she can’t go on. She turns hard into me, ramming her face into my chest, crossing her arms over the top of her head as if she’s expecting a physical blow. She sags against me, and I realize after a moment that I’m actually holding her up. Reporters continue to shout questions and the cameras continue their disorienting barrage of light as I half drag my wife back in through the door to our home.

It doesn’t feel like much of a sanctuary.

Fortunately Liz is asleep when the two K-9 officers arrive at the door. Their task is to pick up an assortment of Kevin and Sean’s dirty clothes, including the sheets from the boys’ beds. Duchess – who wears an intricate leather harness – sits at her handlers’ feet, breathing heavily while they divide the clothing into two plastic bags.

“Why are you doing that?” Jack asks, indicating the two bags. “Is one bag supposed to be Kevin’s stuff and the other one Sean’s? Because I think you got things mixed up.”

“Not exactly,” the policewoman replies.

“Well?” Jack demands.

She strokes Duchess. “There’s another dog,” she says, almost in a whisper. “Corky. Another handler works him.”

“Come again?” Jack says. “Could you speak up, young lady?”

Her eyes drift over to her partner and he takes over. “Duchess here is a tracking dog, pure and simple,” he explains. “Goes by scent. I imagine you’ve seen bloodhounds in the movies?”

Jack nods.

“But there’s another type of canine, sir, that’s deployed in these situations, specially trained to detect… well, their expertise is to detect… remains, sir. They can even locate remains in ponds and streams – you know, underwater. It’s amazing.” He looks at the floor.

Jack’s eyes snap shut, and for a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to break down. “My God,” he says, and looks at me. “Not a word to Lizzie about this.”

“Cadaver dogs,” the policewoman whispers. “That’s what they call them.”

Somehow we get through the day, a maelstrom of emotion, interrupted by what seems like hundreds of telephone calls.

I speak to Shoffler half a dozen times, but there’s nothing new except his change of schedule; instead of “sometime today,” he’ll come by “sometime tonight.”

On the advice of several friends, I call an investigative agency and talk to a guy I interviewed once for a story about the Russian mob in Brighton Beach. Before I get to why I’m calling, he puts two and two together: “Oh, my god, the missing twins. Jesus, that’s you, I didn’t think…”

He gives me the name of the firm’s best missing-person investigator – a woman named Mary McCafferty. We set up a meeting for the following day. She gives me a list of information she’d like. “We’re going to cut you a break,” she tells me, “and do the work for half the normal rate.”

But it’s still not going to be cheap. Seventy-five dollars an hour instead of one hundred fifty dollars. Plus expenses.

I speak several times to Krista at the station – which, she tells me breathlessly, has pledged ten grand to a reward fund. The boys’ pictures, an announcement of the reward, and the hotline number will be shown at the top of every hour.

I talk to a woman at the missing children’s center. They’ve set into motion an e-mail “locater” search, which, through an elaborate network of electronic address books, might reach – with its attachment containing a picture of the boys, physical description, and hotline information – as many as three million people.

Friends and acquaintances call by the dozen.

At five o’clock, I realize that the boys have been missing for twenty-four hours. I don’t mention this to anyone.

At six thirty, a bewildered Hispanic kid delivers the food Liz ordered from Sala Thai. My father regards the food with suspicion. Jack eats with gusto, encouraging his daughter to do the same: “Important to keep your strength up, sweetheart.” My mother takes a bite of the Pad Thai and says to my father, “Really, Bob, it’s just linguini.”

It’s seven, it’s eight, it’s nine.

Sleeping arrangements. I’ve been awake for so long, I’m approaching an altered state of consciousness, although I can’t imagine actually falling asleep. Liz bustles around, making up the sleep-sofa in the study for her father, changing the sheets in the master bedroom, which she has assigned to my folks. I trail her, carrying towels and sheets. It’s her intention to sleep in the boys’ room, but she stops in the doorway, frozen. “I can’t… I can’t sleep in here,” she says. “Oh, God… Alex…” She begins to sob and I put my arm around her shoulder, but she stiffens under my touch, pulls away, composes herself. “I’ll take the futon in the family room,” she announces. “You get the living room couch.”

She heads into the bathroom. I follow, with my stack of towels. She stands in front of the vanity and looks into the mirror; then her eyes slide down toward the sink. I see the expression on her face in reflection for a moment before she turns and I see the puzzled frown straight on.

“What’s the deal with these dimes?” she asks.

The vanity has a faux-marble top with a backsplash. On the upper edge of that backsplash and perfectly centered between the faucets rests a row of Liberty head dimes. Seven of them, precisely aligned.