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in the aromatic Courtyard behind Hotel
Provincial. Like the others he'd met whose
children had gone
missing , their weary features bore the stamp of pain and incredulity.
    The men came out of their
chairs, but Frank waved them back and extended his hand, and his apologies for being
late.
    "Mark Burroughs and this is
my wife, Carmen," the beefy, partially-bald man said. Frank nodded to the woman and turned his attention
to the second set of parents. "Dave and
Marsha Chapman. Our son is Brent."
    Pulling up a chair
opposite, Frank retrieved a small notebook and a pen from his pocket and settled in. "Your son must be
Charlie then; we spoke on the phone last
week."
    "Six days ago." Frank
assumed Carmen Burroughs' cringe stemmed from the length of time that had passed.
    "You go first, Mr. and Mrs. Chapman. Tell me
what you know."
    "Very little," Brent's father confessed.
"Our son left the house near dark; said he'd be back before 10:00
PM."
    "Didn't say where he was off to?"
    "No," Marsha dabbed her
eyes with a scrunched tissue in her hand. "Brent mentioned catching up with Charlie though."
    Frank's internal radar
beeped when she looked away a little too fast. "Mrs. Chapman?"
    "I'm sure it's nothing."
    "What you might think
insignificant, I might consider monumental, so please, now is not the time to hold back even a scrap of
information."
    All eyes fell upon her. "Brent and I had
several discussions about…"
    "Marsha ?" Her husband's brows met in the middle.
    "I'm getting there, Dave,"
she snapped. Her chest deflated with a deep breath. "I told him about the time a ghost tried to grab me
when I stayed at the Provincial with my
sisters."
    "A ghost? Oh, my God!" Carmen's voice
cracked.
    "Continue," Frank said.
    "That's pretty much it." A
lengthy silence ensued during which time she fidgeted under their bold stares. "Oh, all right. I said I
found the burial records of the soldiers who might possibly be
responsible for the hauntings."
    Carmen bolted from the table and paced. "Are
they buried in Lafayette?"
    "Some, yes," she whispered.
    "Good, God, Marsha," her
husband screeched. "Why didn't you mention this before?"
    Frank's heart went out to
her when she burst into tears. "Who would believe such a theory? I don't believe it myself." She
glanced up. "Do you believe it's possible,
Mr. McGuire?"
    From Frank's perspective,
their distress seemed genuine, their turmoil heartfelt. He breathed
an internal sigh of relief, hated discovering a parent had been intricately involved in the disappearance of
their own child. He'd seen it happen all too often, motivated by
financial stress, spousal jealousy or sexual exploitation.
    "I guess anything is
possible, but we're jumping to conclusions. I want to stress again, don't hold anything back from
me."
    "Well, I'm not buying it."
Carmen stopped her harried steps and faced them. "I think it more likely we'll receive a ransom
note."
    Frank had done his homework
and knew the question would arise. Since
the Burroughs owned a chain of hardware stories stretching from
New Orleans to South Carolina, and the
Chapman's descended from ancestors who raised Arabian thoroughbreds, Frank considered the
possibility at the onset. Now, it seemed only remotely possible, if
not improbable.
    "Money has always been an incentive in
kidnappings," Dave said.
    "I think contact would have
been made by now." Frank wanted to give them something to hang on to without letting on the case had
just taken a drastic turn. Or perhaps it had taken the turn long
ago and he just needed confirmation.
    Marsha's perceptive brown eyes narrowed. "Do
you know something you're not telling us, Frank?"
    "Nothing concrete. At this point let's call
it a hunch."
    "What does that mean?" Mark asked
wide-eyed.
    "Nothing more than my experience in the
field."
    A fresh flurry of tears
rolled down Marsha's face when she reached out for Carmen's hand. "If whoever took the boys doesn't want
money, we have to assume a sexual predator
might be behind