She shook her head. “I saw his face,” she said. “I even tried to draw it for the police. I think it’s a good likeness. It’s him.”

This was getting stranger by the moment. Why would the Art Director let her see him, then release her? I’d never known anything like it, not in any other kidnapping case.

Audrey Meek sighed and nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she continued.

“He admitted that he was obsessive-compulsive. About cleanliness, art, style, about loving another human being. He confessed several times that he adored me. He was often derogatory about himself. Did I tell you about the house?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I said here—or to the officers who found me.”

“You didn’t talk about the house yet,” I said.

“It was covered with some material, like a heavy-duty cellophane. It reminded me of event art. Like Christo. There were dozens of paintings inside. Very good ones. You ought to be able to find a house covered in cellophane.”

“We’ll find it,” I agreed. “We’re looking now.”

The door to the room where we were talking was cracked open. A trooper in a brimmed hat peeked in, then he opened the door wide and Audrey Meek’s husband, Georges, and her two children burst inside. It was such an unbelievably rare moment in abduction cases, especially one in which someone has been missing for more than a week. The Meek children looked afraid at first. Their father gently urged them forward, and joy took over. Their faces were wreathed in smiles and tears, and there was a group hug that seemed to last forever.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” the girl shrieked, and clung to her mother as if she’d never let go of her again.

My eyes filled, and then I went to the worktable. Audrey Meek had made two drawings. I looked at the face of the man who had held her captive. He looked very ordinary, like anybody you’d meet on the street.

The Art Director.

Why did you let her go? I wondered.

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

WE GOT ANOTHER possible break around midnight. The police had information about a house covered with a plastic material in Ottsville, Pennsylvania. Ottsville was about thirty miles away, and we drove there in several cars in the middle of the night. It was tough duty at the end of a long day, but nobody was complaining too much.

When we arrived, the scene reminded me of my past life in D.C.—officers used to wait for me there too. Three sedans and a couple of black vans were parked along the heavily wooded country road around a bend from a dirt lane that led to the house. Ned Mahoney, who had just arrived from Washington, and I met up with the local sheriff, Eddie Lyle.