Childtime Institutions (continued)

- X -

Harlin found the garage empty. Rather, all of his family’s belongings stored there were present, but there was, once again, no sign of his family. He felt some mild relief at this, as he had half-expected to find their beaten and mutilated bodies dumped there.

Too many bad news reports, he told himself, finding hollow relief in that realization.

He finally convinced himself, after a careful search, that his family’s bodies were not tucked into some crevice between storage bins in the garage. The cabinets were all locked, and none of them looked to have been disturbed, so he did not bother to check those.

Enough is enough, he decided, and headed back into the house.

He closed and, without consciously realizing it, locked the door behind him. Standing there, he surveyed what he could see of the house and considered what to do next.

Call the police?

It seemed like the logical next thing to do, but he was concerned about potentially looking foolish if his wife had simply taken his children to the market and forgotten to leave a note.

“That’s so unlike her, though,” he murmured, recognizing immediately that he was attempting to rationalize the situation.

He swept the room with his gaze once, finding nothing different than he had before. No new evidence of what might have happened presented itself to him, no previously unnoticed clue.

Harlin’s hand went automatically to his chest, over his heart, when an abrupt knock sounded at the door. It was neither loud nor particularly strong, but more than enough to startle Harlin from his reverie.

He held still for a moment to both catch his breath and check his surroundings. Nothing had changed within the house, but there had been a knock at the front door. He was certain that he had not imagined it.

Cautiously, he approached the doorway and peered through the small peephole. The door was still unlocked, he realized, and he felt a little better. Had someone wanted to enter without first asking or announcing themselves, they could have done so easily.

“Stupid!” he mumbled softly.

He frowned as he peered through the tiny viewer. Outside the door stood Pavel Antonovich, their neighbors from the house immediately to their left. Harlin was surprised to see him for several reasons, not the least of which was the unusual timing of his visit when his family was missing.

Were they next door? Harlin wondered.

He had not considered it before as a possibility, for it had not seemed at all likely. During the eight years the Pavel and his family had lived next door to them, they had never once been inside one another’s homes. They had exchanged the occasional polite pleasantries when they might encounter each outdoors, but they knew almost nothing about one another.

That’s not entirely true, Harlin acknowledged silently. He and Sarah knew almost nothing about their neighbors on the left. They did not know how much the Antonovichs might know about them.

Harlin cautiously opened the door and looked down at the stout little man. Before he could speak, though, Antonovich told him, “They are not here. Taken.” His voice dropped to a hoarse breath of a whisper. “Taken.”

Harlin stared down at Antonovich. He tried to comprehend the words that the man had spoken, to put them into some kind of context. Then, a sharp chill washed through him as he understood.

Someone had taken his family.

He continued to gaze down at Antonovich without speaking. Finally, he was able to speak.

“Taken,” he repeated in a whisper. “By who?”

“Them,” Antonovich replied, stating the single word as if it explained everything.

Harlin looked down at him in confusion.

“Them,” Antonovich repeated, a bit more forcefully. It was clear that he thought that Harlin might understand his meaning, along with all of its nuances, with the repetition of the word.

Harlin shook his head slightly, unwilling to accept the most likely explanation. Antonovich held his gaze, as if by his will alone he could get Harlin to understand.

“The government?” he whispered, feeling suddenly very exposed and vulnerable.

Antonovich nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Your government.”

Harlin’s legs began to tremble and he nearly staggered backward, but caught himself. It made no sense. The government had no reason to seize his family. He owed no delinquent taxes, his position in the company gave him no access to any secrets. He was not even certain that his company did not direct business with the government. Of course, he realized, every company did business with the government to some degree. His children, certainly, could have done nothing. And Sarah . . .

He stopped, puzzling that one out for a moment. Sarah had remained at home to care for their children. It had not only been a necessity, as the costs for child care outside the home would have more than exceeded their income. Also, while the company workplace had little room for woman at all, it had almost none for women who might have to divide their time—and their loyalties—between the company and their family.

Could Sarah have done something? he wondered. But what?

“I do not know,” Antonovich said, and Harlin wondered for a moment whether he had described his suspicions aloud.

“They were taken,” Antonovich said. “The white vans,” he went on. “All of them.”

Antonovich turned his head from side to side, glancing along the perimeter of the neighborhood.

“I must go now,” he said. Without giving Harlin another look, he turned and headed down the short paved walkway, back toward his own home.

Harlin watched him go, waiting until the diminutive man had returned to and entered his own house, before he closed the door. He stared down at the worn carpeting, trying to understand. Government agents had seized his family, taking them away—taking them . . . somewhere.

He looked around the room again.

They must have taken them quickly.

The subtle signs of interruption, but the lack of total disorder, could be explained by what Antonovich had told him. The agents had come swiftly, gathered his family, and then left.

Why had no one called him?

He reached down and pulled out his phone. Its list of recent calls showed no incoming calls since the day before. Sarah had not had time to call him, nor had any of the children.

So why hadn’t—

He stared down at the phone in his hand, allowing its screen to go blank from non-use.

Who else would have called him? he realized. He knew none of his neighbors well and none of them, he was fairly certain, knew him—at least not his telephone number. They had all witnessed the event and said nothing—except for Antonovich.

But then how could they? Harlin considered morosely. Even if they could have reached him, it was doubtful that they would have risk either themselves or their families in order to inform him.

He continued to stare down at the phone, wondering whether he should still call the police. More than likely, he presumed, they would be contacting him. He hoped that it would be soon.