Rita stepped along Upper Post Alley past the Triangle Building near the center of Pike Place Market and gazed about in the rain. Where would Zachy hide? she wondered in her native Spanish. This was a large place in the middle of a big city; he could be anywhere. No wonder they needed so many people to help with the search.
"Maybe we should look over there," Sofia, her younger daughter, offered in English, pointing at the buildings ahead of them and across the street. It was a random suggestion from a spontaneous, seven-year-old mind, but it reminded Rita that children don't always think with the logic of adults. Zach was still a child; he would go where his impulse drove him. It used to drive him under the bed. But today…
"First, we walk," Rita told Sofia, responding in English. She was trying to use English whenever possible, even with her girls, to help all three of them learn the language more quickly. It pleased her that her girls were mastering it with ease. "We stay out where Zachy can see us, okay? Maybe he see us and feel safe and come out."
She led Sofia and Isabella up the alley, moving north through the market and the rain. They had arrived on the church bus only a few minutes ago, and the FBI agent had sent her and her girls to search down Post Alley and back, which suited her well. Others from the prayer meeting—vigil was the English word they had used—were searching the buildings, but knowing how much Zach liked to be outside, even in the rain, she thought he just might be hiding outdoors somewhere.
Isabella walked beside her silently. Being nine, she felt the weight of the situation more fully than Sofia did. She said nothing, but peered into shops and down the road ahead of them with serious, alert eyes.
The alley crossed Pine Street and continued beyond it, running north to where the market ended. Rita, however, turned right, thinking to walk up the hill to First Avenue and back down the other side of Pine before checking the rest of Post Alley. Even on a wet, dreary day like today, there were quite a few people milling about, moving past in every direction, especially now that rush hour was in full swing. Rain might slow down the tourists, but it didn't hamper true Seattle natives any.
At the stoplight, Rita waited impatiently for the crosswalk sign to permit them passage across Pine Street. Cars and trucks rolled by. Glancing back down the hill toward the alley, she noticed another team of searchers looking around for Zach, three church members who had happened to sit near her and her girls on the bus. They exited a building and stopped a passerby to ask if he might have seen Zach.
The crosswalk light changed from red to white, and she led her daughters across the road. In the middle of Pine Street, Isabella suddenly stopped and pointed to their right, behind them and further up Pine. "Mamá!" she cried. "There he is!"
As other pedestrians flowed around them, Rita's eyes jumped to the sidewalk Isabella indicated. There were several adults, but she didn't see—
He emerged from behind a knot of people moving toward Second Avenue. "Zachy!" Rita screamed. With her hands, she herded her girls back to the corner where they had just been standing. Zach was rushing up Pine Street, moving quickly away from them through the downpour.
"Isabella, quickly," she ordered, switching unconsciously into Spanish and pointing down the street behind her, back toward the market, "those people from the church—see them? Run and tell them you saw Zach! Tell them to call the police, and tell the police where you saw him. Tell them he's running away. Sofia, go and help her. Hurry!"
The girls ran back the way they had come, and Rita launched herself in the other direction, rushing uphill after Zach. She reached the corner of Pine and Second and hunted urgently in every direction, but Zach was out of sight. Where could he have gone so quickly?
She scanned more carefully, looking for a boy running, but didn't see him anywhere. The stoplights changed, and Second Avenue traffic began to flow past her from left to right, largely blocking her view up Pine Street. She threw up her hands in frustration. Where had he gone?
A bus moved past, and suddenly she saw him—through a window, but it was clearly Zach on the bus, sitting just behind the door!
"Zachy!" she screamed, waving her hands, but the bus continued on down the street and Zach did not turn to see her. A desperate thought struck her, and she quickly noted the number on the bus's electronic display—592. He was riding the bus on Route 592.
*****