Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
On the passenger seat lay the brown paper grocery bag, taped shut along the top seam and filled with three years of agricultural gazettes to give it the weight of forty thousand dollars in cash. I had used three thick rubber bands from the kitchen drawer to bind the papers inside, ensuring they would not rattle if the bag was lifted.
My hand went back to my jacket pocket, my fingers brushing the square plastic corner of the small tape recorder. The black casing was warm from my body, and I could feel the raised ridge of the record button through the thin fabric of my lining. I had spent twenty minutes in the hardware store parking lot testing the microphone, speaking in low tones to make sure the tiny reel would catch every word.
A crow landed on the rusted frame of the old sorting screen fifty yards away, its sharp call cutting through the steady hum of the highway a mile to the west. I did not look at the bird. My eyes remained fixed on the rear-view mirror, watching the narrow, weed-grown path that led down from the creek gate.
