<BR> July 21, 2002, 6:54PM<P> Faith, hope sustain Laura Ayala's loved<BR> ones<P> By DANIEL J. VARGAS<BR> Copyright 2002 Houston Chronicle<P> Angelica Rebollar handles a wallet-size<BR> studio photo of her daughter and slowly<BR> caresses it with her thumb, top to bottom,<BR> top to bottom. The image is one of<BR> innocence -- a petite face with pouty lips<BR> and chocolate-brown eyes. <P> A few seconds pass, and the mother<BR> brushes tears from the tops of her cheeks. <P> Her attention turns to the cubbyhole of a<BR> corner between her bedroom dresser and<BR> nightstand, where hollow prayer candles --<BR> spent from days of nonstop burning -- are<BR> stacked neatly. <P> All 117 of them. <P> They are a measure of this mother's<BR> anguish, marking every moment since her<BR> 13-year-old daughter, Laura Ayala,<BR> disappeared March 10 after walking to a<BR> nearby gas station in southeast Houston to<BR> buy a newspaper. <P> As each 9-inch candle burns itself out over<BR> several days, she places it on the pile and<BR> replaces it with a new one. She'll do this<BR> until Laura comes home. <P> In her grief, the 34-year-old has lit candles<BR> with the images of Jesus Christ, La Virgen de Guadalupe, St. Jude,<BR> St. Theresa, La Virgen de San Juan, guardian angels and other<BR> religious figures, praying, even begging, for their help. She has<BR> burned every religious prayer candle available -- with mottoes in<BR> English and her native language of Spanish -- in hopes that Laura<BR> will walk through the front door again. <P> "Every moment," the single mother of four says of how often she<BR> thinks of Laura. "It feels so bad I don't know how to say it." <P> Last year in the United States about 725,000 children were reported<BR> missing -- almost 2,000 cases per day. Most cases are resolved<BR> within hours. However, according to a report by the state attorney<BR> general of Washington and the U.S. Department of Justice's Office<BR> of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, there are an<BR> estimated 100 homicides a year involving a child abducted by a<BR> stranger. The rest remain unresolved. <P> Houston police say Laura's case is the longest local unresolved<BR> kidnapping of a juvenile in "several years." So far, 133 days. With<BR> no witnesses and no real evidence except for her black sandals and<BR> a newspaper found in the street, Laura's case is more baffling. <P> "It's frustrating for us, and I'm sure it's devastating to the family,"<BR> says Lt. M.J. Smith of the homicide division. "Their loss never goes<BR> away until we get some resolution." <P> As days and weeks go by, missing children fade from the media<BR> limelight, if they were lucky enough to attract any. Searches by<BR> police and volunteers are eventually halted. Calls of support taper<BR> off. But the one constant is that the children never slip from the<BR> minds of those who love them. <P> Especially not this diminutive Deady Middle School seventh-grader,<BR> who never gave her lack of height a second thought and won people<BR> over with a larger-than-life personality. <P> `La chaparra'<P> Laura stands a doll-like 4 feet tall. Doctors told her mother she<BR> would be short but offered no real reason why. <P> Her younger sister, 11-year-old Griselda Ayala, towers over her.<BR> Her 8-year-old brother, Max Moreno, is also taller, by about half a<BR> forehead. <P> At Deady she was the smallest student on campus, even as a<BR> seventh-grader. In sixth grade, she couldn't see over the main office<BR> counter. Office workers had to lean over to speak to Laura. <P> "She was so cute because she was so tiny," says school lead<BR> counselor Deanna Amaya. "You wanted to hold and squeeze her<BR> like a doll." <P> Her aunt and godmother, Susie Rebollar, lovingly called her la<BR> chaparra, Spanish for "shorty." Laura would just laugh. Amaya<BR> called her "Baby Laura." And Mary Selvas, the teacher who led the<BR> after-school Writers Club, affectionately called her a Hobbit after<BR> members saw The Lord of the Rings. Laura giggled. <P> Not everyone, though, was nice to Laura. A few eighth-graders<BR> sometimes poked fun of her small stature, especially in gym class.<BR> They shouted "leprechaun" or "midget." But Laura's friend Juanita<BR> Gonzalez says Laura simply ignored them. <P> "She acted like they weren't even there," she says. "She never<BR> cared that she was short. It wasn't about her height; it was about<BR> her. It was like she was taller than everybody." <P> A silent sadness<P> The small, two-bedroom apartment at Holy Family Apartments is<BR> filled with noise from the television in the living room and music<BR> coming from the eldest brother's bedroom. Yet a noticeable<BR> absence of conversation makes it feel empty, hollow. <P> Family members go about their daily lives with a grief that is<BR> painfully silent, perhaps not wanting to risk putting into words the<BR> thing they fear most -- that Laura won't be coming home. <P> "I think about (Laura), but I keep it to myself because it's so sad,"<BR> Rebollar says. "We keep things in our head because it hurts so<BR> much." <P> Susie Rebollar says occasionally they wonder aloud and say: "I<BR> wonder where she's at" or "I wonder if she's coming home" or "I<BR> wonder how she's doing." <P> "Everything is always `I wonder,' " Susie Rebollar says, shaking her<BR> head. "Every time I hear of a missing person I get chills. I get<BR> flashbacks of everything we've been through," she says. <P> An older brother, 15-year-old Victor Ayala, doesn't say much but<BR> writes short messages to her and tapes them to his bedroom wall. <P> "Come back Laura. We miss you Laura Ayala. We're waiting for<BR> you. Please God bring her back. PLEASE GOD." <P> On the nightstand, four candles -- one of the Virgin Mary, La<BR> Virgen de San Juan and St. Theresa and a simple white one -- keep<BR> the hopeful vigil even though more than four months have passed<BR> since Laura vanished. <P> Rebollar's Bible, in Spanish, is open to Psalm 25 (a prayer for<BR> protection, guidance and pardon). Other times it's open to Psalm 27<BR> (a psalm of fearless trust in God). A gold-and-white-beaded rosary<BR> marks the page. <P> A double picture frame with photos of Laura is centered on this<BR> homemade altar. Laura has deep brown eyes and straight, dark<BR> brown hair with highlights. Her head rests on her relaxed,<BR> intertwined hands. She's not smiling, but that's probably because she<BR> has braces. The background is a loud purple, her favorite color. The<BR> frame is flanked by prayer cards of the Virgin Mary, and a picture<BR> of Jesus sits atop it. <P> This is where Rebollar prays. Before she goes to sleep, she kneels<BR> and asks for Laura's safe homecoming and for strength. Sometimes<BR> the other three children join her and plead to God to make them a<BR> whole family again. <P> Laura's disappearance<P> The night of March 10, Laura bugged her mom for $2 to buy the<BR> Sunday newspaper. She needed it for a school project. <P> Rebollar looked at the clock. It was just before 10 p.m., and<BR> Rebollar told her it was too late -- to wait until Monday morning.<BR> Laura said by then all the Sunday papers would be gone, and she<BR> really needed it. Rebollar, knowing her daughter's commitment to<BR> school, gave in and told her to take $2. <P> Laura, wearing a blue-and-white-checked dress and black sandals,<BR> grabbed the money and went out the back door, unlatched the<BR> wooden gate with her small hands and walked along the curb. The<BR> store is about a 30-second walk from the apartment, literally just<BR> around the corner. <P> She passed some overgrown ivy on the fence and a working<BR> streetlight. Then she walked across dirt and pebbles, passing a large<BR> trash bin and gas pumps before reaching the store's front door.<BR> Once inside, she turned to the right toward the newspaper rack and<BR> pulled one off the top. <P> Laura paid for the paper, got 25 cents change and left the store. <P> Griselda waited inside the apartment for her older sister. They were<BR> about to sing along with the radio and pretend to be famous singers.<BR> After five minutes passed, Rebollar became worried. She walked<BR> out the back door with Griselda. Then past the wooden gate. <P> About 10 feet away they found Laura's black sandals side by side in<BR> the street. The newspaper had been dropped against the curb. <P> Rebollar ran to the store, threw the door open and asked the clerk in<BR> Spanish: "¿Dónde está mi hija? Where's my daughter?" Although<BR> he didn't understand her, her tone signaled him to call 911. <P> A distraught Rebollar ran home and also called police. <P> Police investigation<P> The Houston Police Department's homicide division is investigating<BR> Laura's disappearance as a kidnapping. After hundreds of<BR> interviews and little movement, Laura's case is also taking an<BR> emotional toll on police. <P> "We're still running down leads. It's slow," Smith says. "We can't<BR> verify a single lead. We've put in so much work, and nothing. <P> "I've never had one go on this long." <P> The lieutenant, a 12-year veteran in homicide, and two investigators,<BR> H. Chavez and Jesse Sosa, constantly work the case. They get help<BR> from officers in the patrol division and two other squads. Up to<BR> several pairs may work the case, depending on how many new<BR> leads police get. <P> At the height of the investigation more than 27 people were working<BR> the case. Including patrol officers, the figure was more like 100. <P> Smith doesn't believe Laura ran away but won't rule out that<BR> scenario. However, police haven't found anything that leads them to<BR> believe she left on her own, Smith says. <P> "This is still somewhat unusual -- that a child disappears without a<BR> trace," he says. <P> Void at home<P> At home, Laura's absence is palpable. <P> Rebollar longs to see Laura around the apartment with her nose in a<BR> book again -- whether it's a textbook or a library book. She also<BR> yearns to hear her contagious giggle filling the apartment. <P> "She would always be in the apartment watching TV (Friends) or<BR> writing," her mom says. <P> Max, to whom Laura was closest, misses playing Monopoly and<BR> school with Laura. "She liked to be the teacher," he says. <P> Her mom says Laura wants to teach when she grows up. "So when<BR> students have vacations, she would have vacations, too," Rebollar<BR> says with a smile. <P> Even the simple act of falling to sleep brings Laura to mind. <P> In their tiny apartment, the teenage son has his own room. <P> Before the disappearance, Laura and the two youngest took turns<BR> sleeping with Mom in a full-size bed, while the other two dozed off<BR> on the floor. <P> The night Laura disappeared, it was her turn to sleep on the bed. <P> "She would always be moving around and moving her arms,"<BR> Rebollar says of Laura's sleep habits. "She doesn't stay still when<BR> she sleeps. And she always made these little noises at night. <P> "Now we don't hear them." <P> Mom and daughter took turns hugging each other as they slept.<BR> Now when Rebollar rolls over, her embrace sometimes finds only a<BR> cool bedspread, even though one of the other children sleeps with<BR> her. Feeling alone, she does the only thing she can do. <P> "I imagine that she's there next to me," Rebollar says. <P> The Writers Club<P> Laura, an honor student, often asked for extra work or books to<BR> read. A perpetual volunteer, she cleaned instructional film<BR> transparencies and handed out papers for teachers. After school,<BR> her favorite thing to do was in Room 241 -- the Writers Club. <P> The Writers Club is a voluntary after-school program for<BR> middle-school students who express themselves in poetry and<BR> journals. During the last academic year, they worshipped the written<BR> word even more than the goodies that sponsor Selvas brought each<BR> Wednesday. <P> "If you didn't see her after school, it was unusual. She was a<BR> constant fixture," says JoAnn Von der Haar, the after-school<BR> program coordinator. <P> Selvas described the group of 10 as tightknit. When you write down<BR> your feelings and share them with a group, she says, you tend to<BR> become close. <P> In the Writers Club, Selvas had a rule: Eat first, then pen your<BR> thoughts silently for 15 minutes. It's a way to let the day's<BR> happenings wash away. If students wanted to share them, they<BR> could. <P> Sometimes Laura did. Other times she held back. <P> Laura's disappearance is so traumatic that several members of the<BR> Writers Club wouldn't talk about it. A few did, and they longed for<BR> her friendship. <P> Last fall, Christopher Cardeso was a sixth-grader who didn't have<BR> many friends. When he met Laura, her sense of humor made it<BR> easy to befriend her. <P> He liked that Laura wore purple-and-green-striped socks. "It was<BR> different but in a good way," Christopher says. "That's a part of her<BR> I'll always remember, because not everyone wore purple and green<BR> socks." <P> Barbara Vivés, Cardeso's mother and a secretary at Deady, says it<BR> took a week to get her son to leave the house after Laura<BR> disappeared. "She was like a sister to him," she says. <P> The Wednesday before Laura disappeared, Selvas brought two pies<BR> to the meeting: apple and sweet potato. "Laura took pieces of both<BR> and ate both," she says with a smile. <P> Laura wrote a little in her journal and left early, but not before<BR> turning in a permission slip to attend Saturday's outing to see The<BR> Lord of the Rings. <P> "My last memory is seeing her sitting in my car," Selvas says. "We<BR> had the radio on. She looked real happy and satisfied as we were<BR> waiting for parents to pick up the other kids." <P> Then she watched as her little Hobbitt, who lived just around the<BR> corner from Deady, walked home -- her frame getting smaller and<BR> smaller as she shuffled along noisily. <P> Juanita Gonzalez was also a sixth-grader when she joined the<BR> Writers Club, but even though she was one of the new kids at the<BR> school, Laura welcomed her unconditionally. <P> "Most seventh- and eighth-graders say, `That's a sixth-grader. We<BR> have more important things to do.' It didn't matter to (Laura)," she<BR> says. <P> Juanita says Laura helped her and others be more outgoing. "I'm<BR> missing the person who made me open up," she says. "When I was<BR> around her, we would be silly and play around. We were crazy. <P> "I don't do that a lot anymore." <P> As each Writers Club meeting went by, Selvas says someone in the<BR> group always wrote about Laura. Then they discussed their feelings<BR> and consoled each other. <P> At their last meeting a student approached Selvas, who uses a<BR> "magic" wand as a pointer, and said: "Wouldn't it be wonderful if<BR> you could wave the magic wand and Laura would be back?" <P> Always on their minds<P> School let out in May, but still Laura weighs heavy on many<BR> people's minds. <P> Selvas keeps a picture of her at home, and every time Selvas hears<BR> of another missing child, especially the high-profile Utah case of<BR> Elizabeth Smart (missing since June 5), she can't help but think of<BR> Laura and where she is. <P> When she misses her, she thinks about Laura's floppy sandals that<BR> were too big for her feet and made a clip-clop noise. <P> "I think it's the not knowing that's the hardest," Selvas says. "I'll<BR> never forget her." <P> "I haven't forgotten her," she clarifies. <P> When Christopher thinks about his friend, he, too, can hear the<BR> sounds of her sandals slapping against the ground. <P> "You always knew it was her coming down the stairs or the<BR> hallway," he says. <P> Every day he takes the time to look at a picture of Laura and<BR> wishes she would come back. <P> Christopher keeps the photo in his wallet, right in front so when he<BR> opens it, he can see her. "I'm just thankful for that picture so that I'll<BR> never forget her," he says. <P> In true Writers Club fashion, Juanita pens a poem about friendship<BR> and her feelings after Laura's disappearance. <P> An excerpt reads: <P> Friendship is people who can trust <P> Each other, people who are there for <P> Each other, and caring for each other. <P> They are there for each other in times of pain. <P> So if you have a friendship take it seriously, <P> Because if you lose a friendship <P> You lose a part of your life. <P> "If anybody knows anything about her, please say something,"<BR> Juanita says. "I really want her back." <P> Deady Middle School<P> When news that Laura was missing spread through the East End,<BR> teachers and parents volunteered for searches. Rocio Rodriguez, a<BR> Writers Club member, tried, but organizers told her she was too<BR> young. Instead she posted and passed out fliers with Laura's<BR> picture. <P> On the school's Internet home page (ms.houstonisd.org/DeadyMS),<BR> administrators posted a link to a flier that reads: "Help Us Find<BR> Laura!!!" It's in purple, her signature color. <P> Parents made T-shirts with Laura's picture. Students sent Rebollar,<BR> who took two unpaid weeks off work, dozens of handmade cards. <P> One girl wrote: "School feels different without her. She is a really<BR> cool friend." Another: "Lo siento mucho (I'm very sorry.)" <P> As the days went by, grief-stricken students filed into the<BR> counselor's office. Amaya listened and comforted them. When the<BR> students walked out the door, she cried, too. <P> Laura wasn't just another student. She was Amaya's office worker<BR> and her "Baby Laura." <P> The rest of the school year wasn't the same. Laura, the girl who<BR> bought Amaya small gifts for her birthday, Valentine's Day and<BR> Christmas, wasn't there to greet her with an ear-to-ear smile. <P> "There are a few (students) you get close to, and she was one of<BR> them," Amaya says. "She touched everyone's life. Her personality<BR> was larger than life." <P> Amaya noticed that Laura was starting to mature as a teenager.<BR> She recently had highlights put into her hair. She started wearing a<BR> thin layer of makeup. And she got braces. <P> When she came across Laura's name for spring TAAS testing, she<BR> broke down. The hardest thing she had to do was mark her best<BR> office worker as being out of school. <P> "I miss her telling me that she loves me," Amaya says. "She told me<BR> that lots of times." <P> In Deborah Vining's seventh-grade Texas history class, Laura sat<BR> directly in front of her teacher. Vining noticed Laura had a mini<BR> growth spurt after her sixth-grade year, her feet almost touching the<BR> floor. <P> "She would smile at me with all those braces," Vining says. "There<BR> she is -- all metal, and her feet dangling over the floor. When she<BR> did her writing, she put her legs underneath her body, curled up and<BR> kept writing." <P> After Laura's disappearance, Vining stopped herself at roll call and<BR> reminded herself that Laura wasn't there but that she'll be back. No<BR> one sat in her vacant chair. <P> Vining isn't sure why Laura needed a newspaper the night she<BR> vanished. Laura was in a group of four whose assignment was to<BR> do a presentation on a character from the Texas Revolution. They<BR> were to meet Monday at a library to start work. Vining can only<BR> guess that because the anniversary of the revolution is in March,<BR> perhaps Laura thought there would be some information in the<BR> newspaper. <P> "It's like she's disappeared from the face of the earth," she says. <P> "In my mind, she's temporarily away from us," Vining continues.<BR> "She'll be back, and back in class. She'll be in the eighth grade and<BR> back in the hallways." <P> Clip-clopping along to her next class. <P> A family waits<P> As the Smart kidnapping case in Utah continues to grab national<BR> attention, Rebollar wonders why her daughter doesn't get as much<BR> attention. Laura's classmates wonder the same thing. Elizabeth was<BR> taken at gunpoint from the safest of places, her bedroom. Laura<BR> was presumably plucked off the street just outside her apartment. <P> "I think (all missing kids) should get the same attention because<BR> they're human beings," Rebollar says. "And the pain I feel is the<BR> same." <P>