Close to Home (35 page)

“Mom?” Gracie was staring at her and Sarah forced a smile.

“I said nothing's wrong.”

Lucy's phone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket and checked the number, little lines forming between her eyebrows before she replaced it. “Okay, good. That's it for now,” she said with finality.

Thank God
.

“Thanks for your time, Sarah,” Lucy said.

Just like that, the interview was over, as quickly as it had begun.

Still shaken, Sarah walked the detective to the door.

“Call me if you hear from him,” Lucy requested again. “I would really like to talk to your brother and clear up some questions.” She pressed a business card into her palm.

Clutching the card, Sarah watched Lucy walk swiftly to her Jeep, then take off, taillights winking red before disappearing into the thickening fog.

“What's the deal with Uncle Roger?” Jade asked, coming up behind her.

“I don't know,” Sarah answered, but the police obviously thought he was involved with something.

 

The interior of the barn was barely illuminated, fog obscuring the late-afternoon sun, night stalking the day, when Rosalie heard the roar of a truck's engine, far away but getting closer by the second. “Candice!” she yelled. “Get ready! He's back.”

From the far stall came a quiet whimper, as if Candice was going to fall into a million pieces again.

No! She couldn't! She had to play her part this time and fool the bastard. This might be their last chance to set themselves free. “Just do what you did before,” Rosalie yelled, hoping to convey her urgency. “When he comes in to change out your water and bucket, pretend you're going to do what he says and—”

Outside, gravel crunched under heavy tires, and the loud engine died.

Rosalie figured that if she could hear what was going on outside, through the barn's wooden walls, there was a good chance he would hear her screaming at Candice, so she lowered her voice. “You know what to do,” she stage-whispered and prayed the girl would pull herself together.

“I don't know . . .”

Fists clenched, her ridiculous little weapon clutched tight, Rosalie hovered near the door to her stall, waiting. It didn't take long. Within minutes, she heard footsteps and muted conversation.

Her spirits tumbled.

He wasn't alone.

Now what?

Would idiotic Candice remember to watch out for the second man? To adjust the plan, to make her move at the right time? To not mess up? What were the chances of that happening?

Click!

The exterior door was unlocked, and Rosalie heard the door creak open, then bang loudly against the wall.

“Watch it!” her captor shouted.

“For fuck's sake, I'm tryin' to get her in. She ain't exactly cooperatin', y'know.” Scraggly Hair.

“Just get her inside!” her abductor barked.

Another girl. They'd kidnapped another girl!

Snap!

Overhead lights blinked to life, chasing the shadows to the corners.

“Bring 'em in. Hurry,” he yelled.

Them?
More than one?

Muffled moaning and shuffling footsteps confirmed her worst fears. This was bad news for the new girls and for them all; the simple fact was that the more women he caught, the closer they were to the time when whoever was on the other end of the phone would come for them. Leaning close to the door, Rosalie closed her eyes, concentrating, trying to figure out what was happening on the other side.

She couldn't tell how many captives were involved, but she knew the exterior door was open, from the rush of fresh air sweeping high overhead, above the walls and doorways of her prison cell, confirming that she hadn't heard it shut.

“The blonde,” her abductor said. “She's Princess!”

Rosalie heard a surprised, muted response. The girl, probably gagged, but realizing she was going to be locked up, was stirring up a fuss, feet dragging, trying to scream as she was forced into the adjoining stall.

“Shut up!” her abductor yelled, obviously irritated at his latest victim. “Go on, get her in there!”

Rosalie leaned closer to the wall separating the next stall from hers, the cell she already knew had been labeled “Princess.” Scrapes and thumps and a loud humming emanated, the girl, struggling, yelling through a gag at her attackers.

“Cut that shit out!” Scraggly Hair.

“Be good and we'll take off the cuffs,” the abductor said, his voice calmer. “I don't want to bruise your wrists. And the gag will be removed too, but you have to sit there, on that cot and not move. Do you hear me? Screaming won't do you any good. You can ask Star, she's in that stall next door. Yelled her damned lungs out, but no one heard. You know why. You saw where we are. No one can hear you.” There was rustling on the other side of the wall, familiar sounds of pails and water bottles being left, but the girl was either obeying or the fight was out of her.

The abductor continued, talking to his partner. “We'll put the pudgy one in Whiskey's stall. And if Princess does what she's told and doesn't give us any trouble, then we'll come back and take off the cuffs and gag. If not, you”—he must've been looking at his latest victim—“can stay in here just as you are. Your choice.”

It sounded as if they left the stall, the door swung shut, and Rosalie's new cell mate gave a muffled squeal of distress before going silent.

Outside the main area of the barn, Scraggly Hair said, “Why the hell Whiskey?” Not the most brilliant accomplice.

“Because we're running out of stalls!” was the quick, agitated answer. “Get her in there, fast. I don't have a lot of time.”

Within five minutes, after a similar ritual, “Whiskey” was ensconced inside her new home. She hadn't put up near the fight as the girl next to her, the blonde now referred to as Princess.

So now there were four.

The wheels were turning in Rosalie's mind as she listened, hearing that both new inmates were, as promised, uncuffed, their gags removed.

“You let me out of here!” the girl in the next stall blasted the second, Rosalie assumed, the gag was removed. “Right now!” She was furious and ready to disobey. Good. “You can't keep me here!”

The abductor disagreed. “You don't have a choice.”

“I'm telling you, I won't be left in this sty.”

Stall,
Rosalie silently corrected.

The door closed, and the click of a lock sealed Princess's fate.

“No! Let me out!” A heavy thud and accompanying “oof” suggested she'd launched herself at the door. “No, no!
No!
” She started pounding and shrieking so loudly that Rosalie couldn't hear what was happening in Whiskey's stall. Hopefully that girl had more brains.

“Keep it up,” the big guy yelled again, “and see what happens. Remember what I said?”

She quieted for a second, then tried a new tact. “Please, you can't leave me in here. My dad . . . he'll pay you. Whatever you ask. Seriously . . . and I won't identify you. The police won't—”

“Shut up.”

“No, please, just listen, you have to listen,” she begged, while, farther down the line, the other girl was crying too. And, of course, Candice had joined in the sobbing. Oh, God, how were they ever going to get out of here?

“Just shut. The fuck. Up,” the abductor snapped out.

“But—”

He yelled, “You want the handcuffs again? Is that it? The gag? Fine.”

“Nooooo!” And then Princess went quiet.

But she'd touched a raw nerve. The abductor was losing it. “I've got other girls,” he yelled. “I don't really need you, so go ahead and work yourself into a lather, bang your damned fists raw, but it's not going to do any good. None whatsoever.”

He was lying, Rosalie knew. True, escaping was nearly impossible, but the guy did need Princess and Whiskey, and a few more, if she'd understood his end of the conversation with his coconspirator correctly. Princess didn't know the half of it. Someone was pulling this jerkwad's strings. It was his assignment to find the other man more girls. She'd had a lot of hours to think, and she suspected they were going to be forced into prostitution, some kind of white slavery, used as some sicko's partner in sadistic sexual acts, even torture. Bile climbed up her throat. The thought of what might happen to her, to all of them, scared the hell out of her.

So far, the two men hadn't hurt either her or Candice. Keeping them bruise-free seemed important—for now, until she and the others were distributed, sold, she figured, to the highest bidder. She imagined an auction in her mind, where the girls would be paraded, naked possibly, in front of those who would bid on them.

Her stomach revolted. Gagging, she held the vomit back, as much to stay quiet as anything. She didn't want to call attention to herself today, didn't want to deal with the bastard. But what was to come frightened her to the core. She and the other girls were vulnerable to the whims and desires of the men on the other side of these doors, much like the horses who had once occupied these stalls.

But unlike the animals, she understood what was happening, how awful the future might be.

Once she and the others were alone, she would get all of their attention and organize a plot to get the hell out of here. Of course, there first would be that ridiculous time of disbelief when each of the other girls would weep, and scream, and be completely useless.

Somehow, she'd find a way to cut that short. Princess and Whiskey didn't have the luxury of feeling sorry for themselves.

If they wanted to escape, it was now or never.

She swallowed back another bit of vomit, her mouth sour, her throat burning, as she heard a stall door swing shut, then a lock snap into place. Damn, but she wished that just once the lock would fail and not quite latch.

“Okay, I'm outta here,” the big man said, and for a second Rosalie thought he might leave Scraggly Hair to guard them. She wondered if she could lure Scraggly into her stall, then somehow lock him inside, but her plotting was in vain. Her abductor said, “Quit fiddle-farting around. Let's go.”

“Fine, fine. I'm comin'. Shit, I was just makin' sure the doors were latched. For the love of—okay, okay.” More footsteps and muttering.

A second later the light was snapped off, and the barn fell into a murky half darkness.

O
utside the barn, the big man and his partner split up, getting into separate vehicles. The first order of business was to dump the pickup he'd used in nabbing the latest two girls. There was a chance that someone might have seen him—for example, the woman at the track who'd been walking her little dog as he'd waited on the bleachers to make sure the girl had arrived. Or possibly one of the school's security cameras had caught his image or that of the truck as he'd pulled into the lot. Yeah, he had to ditch this vehicle pronto.

No problem.

He didn't own it.

He'd actually lucked out with it. The registered owner was the voyeur he'd capped at the Stewart house. After taking the guy's keys, wallet, cell phone, and money clip, he'd used the keyless remote to find the vehicle. As he'd hit the unlock button, the big truck had chirped and flashed its headlights, making it easy for him, with the aid of his partner, to take it and use it for this job. He'd also been able to leave his own truck in town, in full view of one of the few traffic cameras in Stewart's Crossing.

A stroke of genius.

As was the magnetic sign he'd slapped to the driver's side. Driving into the mountains, he smiled at how easily that ploy had worked. From his research of the schoolgirls via their social media connections, he'd learned that “Princess,” aka Mary-Alice Eklund, was “in a relationship” with the star soccer player for the Catholic school's team. By luck, he'd come across the Longstreet Construction advertising panel on a van that was in Hal's shop for repair. It was almost as if God were helping him. He'd stolen the sign easily and attached it to this rig, worrying slightly about the truck's out-of-state plates, but he decided that by the time anyone noticed the discrepancy, his mission would be completed.

He'd even used the rig when he'd cast his victims' IDs over the bridge at The Dalles. Yeah, he thought, easing off the gas at a hairpin turn, he was golden.

But he couldn't get cocky, and now the pickup was just too visible. He had to wipe it down and get rid of it so that it had no connection whatsoever to him. No problem. He predicted that the vehicle, when discovered, would lead the cops in a different direction by distracting them with the mystery of the missing owner. He only needed a little breathing room. A couple of days. Then he'd be free and clear, across more than one border, before the cops put two and two together.

As he drove across a narrow bridge, he checked his rearview and saw his partner behind the wheel of the hybrid and following at a safe distance, barely visible in the fog. He climbed upward into the surrounding hills, through the forest, until he found an unused logging road that was overgrown with weeds and brush. Slowing to make certain his partner followed, he pulled the truck as far off the county road as was possible, then quickly cleaned the interior, though he'd been wearing gloves to make certain he hadn't left any prints or DNA evidence. Satisfied, he locked the vehicle and, after removing the sign for Longstreet Construction, made his way to the Prius idling a few yards behind.

“Is all this really necessary?” the dumb shit asked as he backed out, long grass scraping the undercarriage of the hybrid, over the rocks in the ruts of this overgrown road, jostling the tires.

“The more time we can buy, the better.”

Once he'd backed onto the county road again, his partner rammed the Prius into gear. On smooth pavement again, he'd gunned the engine, causing the car to switch automatically from its quiet electric engine mode to gas.

Their plan was set. They didn't need to discuss the details another time, and soon they were driving through the city limits of Stewart's Crossing, and within forty minutes of the time they'd dropped the truck, he was delivered two blocks from where his truck was parked near The Cavern.

He walked inside through the alley, just as he'd exited, then returned to the bar, to the very spot he'd vacated nearly two hours earlier. Between the abductions, he'd made a show of being on the premises, ordering another beer, leaving his credit card, then going outside for a smoke.

“Wondered if someone was coming back,” the cute bartender said, swiping the smooth wood of the bar as she glanced up at him. “Since you left your jacket and Carla, she said you still had to pay up.” The shift had changed while he was gone, Carla had left, and this new girl was now tending to him, all of which should aid his alibi as both girls had seen him.

“Went outside for a cigarette, came across some old friends and lost track of time.”

She didn't argue the fact as he ordered another draft and picked up a conversation with a guy who was dressed in a green sweatshirt with a yellow O emblazoned across his chest. Watching the football game on the screen mounted over the bar, the man barely touched his dark beer.

The barmaid left a fresh beer in front of him. Sipping, he checked the score, making a note of it, as if he cared. Oregon was struggling against Stanford in a tight game of the Pac-12 North.

The fan in the green sweatshirt scowled. “Damn it,” he said to anyone who was listening. “I can't believe they aren't wiping the floor with these guys.”

“Stanford's not only good,” someone down the bar said. “They're smart.”

“So are the Ducks!”

Another person snorted. “Without Phil Knight and Nike, they wouldn't be worth a damn.”

“Go screw yourself,” the fan muttered under his breath before burying his nose into his drink just as Oregon intercepted the ball and ran it back for a quick score. The fan's mood visibly brightened. “That's what I'm talking about!”

“Nice,” he said, clinking his glass with the fan's, making eye contact, establishing his alibi, should he need one. Yeah, there was a big hole in his afternoon, but his truck hadn't moved, if any cameras were watching, and the bartending shift had changed, so the staff's recollection of when he actually left and came back would be shaky, more open to interpretation. Even if there were security cameras inside the place, he and his partner would provide backup alibis to fill in the gaps.

He thought he was covered.

He just needed to return the construction sign he'd “borrowed” from the van that had been left at Hal's Auto Repair.

Piece of cake.

 

“Yeah, Miss McAdams?” the gravelly voice asked as Jade answered her cell. Her phone was hard to read, but it showed a number she didn't recognize on its tiny, mutilated screen. “Uh, this is Hal from Hal's Auto Repair.” As if there were another Hal in this Podunk town. “I've been calling you all afternoon. Your car's done.”

“I thought it wasn't going to be fixed until next week.”

“The part came in, and you seemed pretty anxious to have it back.”

“I am! Great.”

“We'll be lockin' up in about twenty minutes, and the shop's closed on Sunday, so if you want it for the rest of the weekend, you might want to come and get it.”

“I will! Please wait!” Jade said, feeling her spirits lift a little as she hung up. She was about to run up the stairs, only to find her mother looking over the plans for the house, while Gracie was still poring over the damned journal again, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Since the cop had left, her mother had been distracted, and now Jade could tell she wasn't really seeing the plans.

It was clear something was going on with Uncle Roger, and what the cop had intimated was just plain sick, but her mom didn't want to talk about it. She'd lost interest in what was going on around her, lost to some weird world where only God knew what she saw. Again, Jade thought she'd definitely been born into the wrong family. The whole group was a bunch of fucking ghost-whispering oddballs. Maybe being related to Clint Walsh was a good thing, a way to dilute the freaky Stewart genes.

But there was no reason to dwell on it now, not when her damned car was finally repaired.

“We have to leave right now and pick up my car,” she announced. “It's done, and Hal's like leaving in twenty minutes!”

Mom looked up from her plans. “Sure,” she said, though she sounded anything but. “Okay . . . I guess we can make it.”

“We
have
to make it,” Jade insisted. There was no “guessing” about it. “I'm driving to Aunt Dee Linn's party.”

“We're all going together,” Sarah said.

“Then I'll follow you there,” Jade said, already reaching for her coat. She couldn't believe that finally, after what seemed an eternity, she'd be able to drive her own car again.
Freedom! Finally!

“We'll go get your car, okay, but we're going together to the party. There's a second girl from around here who's gone missing, and I want us to stay close.”

“This is not how I want to spend my Saturday night! I'm not a baby,” Jade argued hotly.

“Neither were the two girls who were taken.”

“No one knows if they were kidnapped, Mom. Maybe they just decided to take off for a while,” Jade declared.

“And not tell anyone, including their friends or parents?” Sarah slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “The police are worried, and so am I.”

“Mom—”

“You're not going alone. Come on, Gracie!”

“But I don't want to go pick up the car,” Gracie protested, and their mother actually sighed.

“Really? Didn't you hear what I just said? Come on. Get your jacket.”

“I could stay here with Xena,” Gracie protested.

Mom wasn't buying it. “Move it.”

Hurrying out the front door and sprinting across the grass to her mother's Explorer, Jade glanced over her shoulder and confirmed that Sarah, Gracie in tow, was only a few steps behind.

The dog romped after them and bounced into the backseat. Well, fine.

In an ironic twist of fate, Jade thought, as their mother got into the car and started toward town, Gracie was now the one who was pouting, pissed off that she had to give up her research on the ghost of Blue Peacock Manor or whatever. It all sounded
so
Nancy Drew. But Jade didn't care. She was getting her Civic back, and by the end of the weekend she intended to see Cody. One way or another. If he couldn't, or wouldn't, drive to Stewart's Crossing to visit her, maybe it was time to visit him at his apartment in Vancouver.

A drip of dread slid into her heart, and she reminded herself that she might not like what she found when she surprised him.

Too bad,
Either he loved her or he didn't.

She deserved to know the truth.

 

Bellisario felt as if she were onto something as she drove into the parking lot of the Sheriff's Department. Most of the way back from the Stewart place, she'd been caught up in her thoughts about the case, and they had come full circle back to Roger Anderson. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself he wasn't involved, she couldn't shake the idea that he had a part in this.

If not Anderson, then who?

You have nothing on him, Just your gut instinct, Not exactly first-class detective work, Lucy, You need a helluva lot more,

Halfway to Stewart's Crossing, she'd called her sister back, the call she'd missed when she'd been at the Stewart house. Lauren was worried, explaining that their mother had taken a fall. Mom was okay, Lauren assured her, but she sounded overwhelmed. Dealing with a parent with Parkinson's disease was tough on a seventeen-year-old. Hell, it was tough on Bellisario, and she was thirty-five. After being assured that the part-time nurse was on hand, and that her mother was indeed resting and comfortable, just feeling more embarrassed than anything, Lucy told her sister she'd be home as soon as she could after work. She sometimes felt guilty that her job took up so much of her time, but it was the nature of the beast, and she really wouldn't change things.

Anyway, she knew what would happen when she got to Mom's. She and Lauren would have another discussion about their mother, who was only sixty-four but already needed full-time care. Lucy knew it, and Lauren was definitely on board, but Landon, their brother, the middle child—who conveniently lived in Tacoma, far enough away that he didn't have to deal with the situation except a few times a year—was certain Mom was “fine.”

If Mom remained stable, they'd all probably let it go again and get by, but any way you cut it, the day was coming when their mother would need a lot more help.

Parkinson's was a bitch.

She parked in her favorite space near the department's rear door, her thoughts turning back to the case. Heading inside the brick edifice, she felt her stomach rumbling. She'd missed lunch and had picked up a prepackaged sandwich and Diet Coke at a deli on the outskirts of town, which she figured she'd eat at her desk.

Inside, the building was bright, the glow of fluorescent lights reflecting off floor tiles that had recently been polished, light coming through arched windows that had stood the test of time and paint so new there were few scrapes or scuff marks visible.

Yet.

Hundred-year-old buildings tended to show their age, no matter how recent the paint job.

Past the lockers and lunchroom, she headed into the wing housing the detective unit. In her office she peeled off her jacket and kicked out her desk chair. She still wondered if she were on the wrong track, if her obsession with Roger Anderson was completely unfounded. So he was skipping out of meetings with his parole officer. So he hadn't shown up at the family home. So there were “sightings” of him in town. He had a record. Yeah. But never for kidnapping.

Muttering under her breath, she unwrapped her sandwich with one hand and scrolled through her e-mail with the other. Without really thinking about it, she opened the ham and cheese, scraped off the excess mayo with the plastic wrap the sandwich had come in, and read through her messages. Maybe a security camera somewhere had found something, or a witness was finally coming forward or some damn thing.