The pilot’s intercom crackled to life. “Slight delay, soldiers. Victor Charlie is giving us a warm welcome”

September 1964

Chrissie!

The devil incarnate, if Annie were to accept Alice Burton’s assessment. The rebel, the fiend who’d led Marjorie, and probably countless others, to abandon their parents, their fine, upstanding communities and all-American lives.

Since Marjorie’s disappearance, Mrs. Burton had become a frequent guest at Annie’s home. Though at first Annie had been put off by her anger, rancor, and constant criticism of everyone around her, she’d soon decided that Alice Burton was not so much an evil woman as a terribly unhappy one, searching in material success and in the admiration of her neighbors for joy and meaning — and finding neither.

Since Marjorie’s parents had decided not to share their daughter’s disappearance with anyone except the private detective who Fred Burton had hired, Annie quickly realized that she’d become Mrs. Burton’s sole confidante. She’d listened patiently to Mrs. Burton’s recriminations, and tried, ever-so-gently, to show her the good in others, and especially in her wayward daughter. “In her own strange way, she loves Majorie,” Annie told Abe, when he asked why she let that bitter woman take up so much of her time.  “I’m trying to teach her how to show that love.”

“Well, sweetheart, there’s no better teacher than you for that,” he answered, and he didn’t bring up the issue again.

Now here was a postcard from Marjorie’s friend, who’d apparently vanished from the face of the earth. And in that postcard, which Papa silently handed to her, was....

“Papa! This Chrissie has written her address. Maybe Marjorie—”

Papa finished the sentence for her. “Maybe – and it seems there is a good chance – maybe Marjorie is there in—” he looked again at the crumpled paper, “San Francisco.”

Artie jumped up and pulled the postcard from Yeruchum’s fingers. “It’s postmarked Haight-Ashbury. That’s a California neighborhood,” his voice was grim, “where all the hippies are beginning to hang out. Lots of runaways.”

“So Papa, what should we do?”

All mischief and joy had vanished from Yeruchum’s face, replaced by a stern and determined seriousness. “We’ve got to call Fred Burton, now. And then... I’m going to go and look for her.”