Did You Miss Me? (36 page)

Joseph drew a breath. Nodded. ‘Okay. At least we’ll know how to narrow it down.’

‘One more thing. The very absence of Google hits means something.’

‘This is no casual Web surfer,’ Joseph said grimly. ‘Doug has information that I don’t have.’
Because I haven’t asked. That will change, first thing in the morning
.

‘When Daphne tells you the story, you need to find out who else would be privy to that information. Joseph, be careful. This man doesn’t give a rat’s ass about collateral damage.’

Joseph thought of the dead au pair. Of Isaac Zacharias. And all the others who’d been killed or injured by this man and his cohorts. ‘I will.’ He leaned forward, kissed his sister on the cheek. ‘I’ll keep you apprised. Thanks, Zoe.’

Marston, West Virginia, Wednesday, December 4, 1.30
A.M.

Ford Elkhart was nicer than I would have been
. The kid had closed the door to Wilson Beckett’s cabin and hadn’t turned off the heat after stripping Beckett naked earlier.
I would have let him freeze to death
.

Mitch rolled his shoulders, preparing to deliver a Grade A rant. He threw the door open. ‘What the
fucking hell
happened? Where’s the kid?’

‘Close the goddamn door,’ Beckett gritted. ‘And untie me.’

He slammed the door and stalked over, wincing at the sight of Beckett’s bony ass. ‘What happened?’ he repeated, opening and closing drawers. ‘Where are your knives?’

‘Asshole kid took ’em all.’

Mitch took his keys from his pocket and sawed at the twine. Ford had done well here, tying the twine so tight that it had dug into Beckett’s skin. The twine snapped and Beckett’s shoulders sagged forward.

‘The knives aren’t all he took. He stole your truck, too. I found it on the side of the road, out of gas. I towed it back for you.’

He cut the twine at Beckett’s ankles, then moved out of the way quickly. A wise decision as Beckett rolled over, swinging his fist where his face had been seconds before. Hitting air, Beckett flopped onto his back like a fish.

Now that’s nasty
. The front view was far worse than the back. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and tossed it over Beckett’s crotch. ‘How long ago did he escape?’

Beckett didn’t answer, slowly pushing himself to his feet to search through the drawer that had held ammo for his rifle. ‘Where’s my ammo?’

‘I don’t know.’ Which was totally untrue. He hadn’t wanted Ford shot while trying to escape, so he’d emptied all the ammo boxes the night before. ‘Maybe the kid took it.’

Beckett’s eyes narrowed. ‘My gun was unloaded.’

‘You tried to shoot the kid?’

‘No, he tried to shoot me.’

‘While he was escaping?’

Beckett’s face reddened. ‘Yes.’

Mitch was impressed with Ford, although he didn’t let it show. He scowled at Beckett. ‘Wonderful. I suppose he took your gun and the ammo with him.’

‘He said the boxes were empty.’

‘He
wanted
to
escape
. He would have said anything. You’ve got one helluva knot on your head. Did he knock you out?’ Which Mitch knew had happened. He’d seen it on the webcam.

‘Not for long.’

‘But you
were
unconscious. No telling what he did while you were out.’

Beckett went to his dresser, searching for clothing. All of the drawers were empty, as Mitch had known they would be after seeing all of Beckett’s clothes in the cab of the truck. Ford was pretty damn clever.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Beckett growled, yanking open the door to the basement. ‘Stay here. I’ll be back.’ Stiffly the old man descended the stairs.

Beckett’s basement was a thing of beauty. Not nearly as historically cool as Aunt Betty’s bomb shelter, it was a lot more functional. The front half, accessible from the cabin stairs, was home to a washer/dryer and Beckett’s man-cave with its sixty-inch television illegally connected to every cable station on the planet through the satellite on the back exterior wall.

It was also how Beckett got his Internet, which the man used almost exclusively to download porn and play online poker. Mitch had tapped into it to get a signal to the webcams he’d planted.

The back half of the basement was Beckett’s very dirty secret, one that Beckett had no idea Mitch knew about. One that Mitch never would have dreamed to look for had it not been for his stepfather’s obsession file. One that still left him shaking his head in disbelief. He’d been to prison. He’d thought he’d seen depravity. He’d been wrong.

Beckett . . . well, the man was one sick bastard.

Mitch remembered the day he’d first crept down there, having waited for one of the rare times Beckett took his day-trip across two states for his supplies. Mitch hadn’t expected much – it had been almost thirty years since the incident detailed in the obsession file. At the most he thought he might find some forgotten shard of evidence that two girls had been kept here. He never expected what he’d found.

The shock almost had him backing away from his entire plan. Until he remembered cleaning his mother’s blood and brains from the bomb shelter. Until he remembered the years of nightmares that tormented Cole because he’d found her. Until he’d re-read his mother’s diary and restoked his own hate.

With the exception of its location, none of what he’d seen had been documented in the obsession file. Mitch knew what he knew only because Beckett had created his own record, one the old pervert thought was for his own eyes only.

Accessible only by a trapdoor in the garage floor, the back half of the basement housed Beckett’s . . . hobby. The hobby changed over time. Sometimes it was blonde, sometimes brunette. Occasionally the hobby would be a redhead.

The back half of the basement was a single room that contained a bed and a nightstand, a sink and a toilet. Nothing else.

Beckett’s current ‘hobby’ was a brunette named Heather. He’d had her for six months and would probably keep her another six. Or until she died. Hobbies tended to die by their own hand, driven mad by Beckett’s perversion. When Beckett grew weary of them, he’d cut off their food and water and leave a bottle of pills on the nightstand by the hobby’s bed. Inevitably they took that way out. If not, Beckett shot them.

Or so Beckett had told Heather when he’d first installed her in his little chamber of horrors. It had been one of the few times Mitch had regretted the placement of a webcam. The image of Beckett taunting the girl with what would happen to her had been hard to watch.

But Heather wasn’t his responsibility. None of Beckett’s hobbies were.

However they died, Beckett would capture the moment with a photograph. One which he framed and mounted on the wall of the back half of the basement so that the new hobby would know exactly what her future held.

Because Wilson Beckett was a real sonofabitch. But a smart one. After a bumpy beginning, he’d had smooth sailing for nearly three decades. It nearly wasn’t so, though. Because his earliest hobby got away.

That the escapee hadn’t revealed Beckett’s location or his scheme was a testament to his ability to scare little girls completely out of their minds.

The day Mitch had first descended into Beckett’s little hell, the girl on the bed had been the hobby before Heather and she’d been in very bad shape. If Mitch hadn’t needed Beckett, he would have anonymously called the cops that day and walked away. But he had needed Beckett, so he’d forced the pills he’d found on the nightstand down the girl’s throat.

It seemed more merciful that way. Besides, he couldn’t have the girl telling Beckett he’d been down there. But first he’d asked her what Beckett said when he opened the trap door and prepared to climb down. Her voice was faint and hoarse, but he’d understood every word.

Did you miss me?
The same four words he’d read in the obsession file.

Apparently much like Mitch’s great-grandfather, Beckett was a sonofabitch who believed in not fixing what wasn’t broke.

But Beckett’s fun was about to end. Ford would lead the authorities back here and they’d catch the perverted old goat. If they failed, Mitch would anonymously turn him in.
I’m a bastard, but I’m not a monster
.
Beckett
 . . . 
he’s a monster
.

The clomping of Beckett’s boots on the step startled Mitch back into action. He put his fists on his hips and glared when the old man appeared with a filled laundry basket under one arm. He was fully clothed, thank God.

‘Beckett, I want to know how long ago he escaped.’

His question was met with a shrug. ‘A couple hours. Maybe.’

More like thirteen. ‘This is a disaster. Did the kid phone for help?’

‘He said the phone was dead.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘He
said
. He
said
. Good God, man, I thought you had a brain.’ He went to the phone and lifted the ancient receiver. ‘It’s dead. Did you cut it?’

‘Hell no!’

Mitch had done that himself, also the night before. ‘Then the kid did. Of course he called for help first. He’s not stupid.’

‘He couldn’t have called for help. The law woulda been here already.’

‘We can kiss the ransom goodbye. At least he didn’t see
my
face.’

Beckett paled. ‘We need to find that kid.’

‘Yeah,
you’d
better. Because I’m not going to jail with you, old man. I don’t care if you and my grandpa were joined at the hip in ’Nam. You’re on your own.’ He walked to the door, turning back to point at Beckett. ‘You find him and shut him up.’

‘Which way did he go? Where did you find my truck?’

‘When you get to the end of the driveway, turn right. Do you have gas?’

‘Got a can in the garage.’

Actually, no you don’t
. Mitch had taken it last night. He’d carefully planned where he’d wanted Ford to run out of gas and had only left that much in Beckett’s pile of rust.

‘Good, ’cause your tank’s dry as a bone. Are we clear? You’re going to find him?’

Beckett sneered. ‘He probably headed home to his daddy.’

‘Yeah, the daddy who’s a very wealthy judge who was willing to do anything to get his boy back.’ Half true.
He’s wealthy anyway
. He couldn’t see Travis Elkhart going to any trouble to get his kid back. Because Travis Elkhart was a pretty lousy father. ‘You just cost me a fucking fortune.’

With that he slammed out of the cabin, got back in his van, and started the engine.
Your move, Beckett
.
Make it a good one
.

Mitch’s next move would be the long drive home. He dreaded it. His back was killing him and he’d just be turning around to come back tomorrow. When Ford’s mother got word of where he was, she’d race up here to collect him. Beckett would be chasing the kid, trying to eliminate him, since Ford saw his face.
If my luck is good, their worlds will collide
.
If my luck is stupendous, I’ll get to see it go down
.

Normally he’d just stay at the studio apartment he rented for the times it didn’t make sense to drive all the way home. He’d had a few of those over the months – especially the times he’d been courting Beckett, convincing the man that he and Mitch’s grandfather had been best buds in ’Nam.

But he wouldn’t be staying there tonight. He had an early morning appointment with Cole’s guidance counselor.
The kid better not be suspended again
.
I swear to God I’ll kick his ass
, he thought as he turned the van toward home.

Baltimore, Maryland, Wednesday, December 4, 6.30
A.M.

‘That is one large tree,’ Maggie said. ‘Da-yum.’

Daphne looked at the tree over her coffee mug. ‘Mama needs it right now.’

‘I know, but still. How’re we gonna get a star on top?’

‘Ford can do it when he comes home.’ Daphne lifted her chin. ‘Because he’s coming home.’
I have to believe
. Day two.
This will be the day he comes home
.

She wondered how many parents of missing children thought the same thing. Day after day.
How do they stand it?
She was suffocating and it had been only one day. One long, horrible day.
Except for the moments Joseph held me. Those moments
 . . . 
they got me through
.

‘Did you sleep at all, Daphne?’ Maggie asked quietly.

‘About an hour.’ She patted the sofa. ‘Come and sit. You were up a good part of the night, too.’

‘Off and on. Your mother had nightmares last night.’

‘I know. I went in a few times to calm her down.’

‘Who’s gonna calm you down, Daphne?’

‘Joseph does a pretty good job of it.’

Maggie’s brows went up. ‘So he was “calming” you in the solarium?’

Daphne’s cheeks heated. ‘Maggie! Were you peeping?’

‘No. But you don’t need to be a detective with a fancy badge to know that pink cheeks and heaving bosoms and swollen lips mean . . . well, not calming.’

‘My bosoms were not heaving. Much. Fine. They were heaving. I know this isn’t the time for such . . . interludes.’ She sighed. ‘But for a minute there, I didn’t think about being scared.’ She just hadn’t thought. Period.

Maggie put her arm around Daphne’s shoulders. ‘Then it was the best time for such an interlude. You should have more interludes. You’ve been interlude-free for too long.’

‘I’ve been interlude-free forever,’ she said glumly.

‘Then you have a lot of catching up to do. As specimens go, he’s a damn fine one to catch up with. He’d make my bosoms heave except for that whole gravity thing.’

Daphne smiled. ‘You’re bad, Maggie.’

‘And you need to give yourself permission to be. Every now and again.’

Daphne rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder. ‘I don’t remember how.’

‘I imagine Joseph can jog your memory.’

Daphne chest felt suddenly tight. ‘I imagine he could.’

‘That’s supposed to be a good thing, child.’

‘I know. And it is.’

‘Except?’ She reached back to give a tiny tug on Daphne’s wig.

‘That. And the heaving bosoms that are gravity-proof.’