Furious (3 page)

“Is that a tattoo on the man’s neck?”

Doing her best to ignore her sister, Faith took her time with the elegant scroll of the symbol she’d seen in her dream. The images were gone now. Jana had swished away the last remnants of her vision, leaving only wisps of fumes like those left behind from the exhaust pipe of an old car.

She set the paint-filled pan on the floor and stepped back to take a look. On the left side of the wall she’d painted the two men she’d seen when she first walked into the house. She hadn’t painted the third man since she never did get a good look at his face. They’d all been dressed in dark clothes. On the right side of the wall were the dozens of notes she’d written earlier, ripped out of the notebook and stapled in place.

She walked to the chair, Craig’s favorite recliner, the one the kids fought over whenever he was gone, and plopped down, exhaustion pushing heavily on her shoulders. Her sister was on the phone talking to Mom or Dad, letting them know everything was OK. After she finished her call, Jana went to the kitchen, returned with a cold glass of water, and handed it to her.

Obligingly, Faith took a few sips. Her lips were dry to the point of cracking. Her tongue soaked up the moisture like a dehydrated sponge. She hadn’t thought to drink or eat.

Her sister took a seat on the couch next to her. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

Using the back of her hand, Faith wiped the hair out of her face. “I’ve been having visions,” she said. “I need to remember everything about that day and get it on paper, or the wall.”

“I don’t think you should torture yourself that way.”

Faith took another sip of water, letting it trickle down her throat before she looked at Jana and said, “I’m going to find Hudson and Lara.”

A long pause settled between them.

“You need to talk to the police. Detective Dillon Yuhasz is working your case. He came to the hospital to talk to you, but you were pretty out of it. And when he came to the house, your answers to his questions were jumbled and confusing. He told us to give him a call once you were feeling better. You’re their main witness, Faith. Now that events of that day are coming back to you, you need to talk to them.”

“How about right now?” Faith asked.

Jana looked her over, then shook her head. “I’ll give Detective Yuhasz a call and arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning.”

Faith nodded and reached for the pen and paper she’d left on the coffee table. After writing Detective Yuhasz’s name at the top of the page, she added another suspect to her list.

“What are you doing?”

Faith handed her the notebook.

“You have your neighbor Mr. Hawkins on your list of suspects,” Jana said. “Seriously?”

“He used to offer the kids cookies.”

“That’s because he’s a baker.”

Faith narrowed her eyes. “He’s
too
nice.”

“You always liked him.”

“But I never said I trusted him.”

“Steve Murray? What the hell is my husband doing on this list?”

“I crossed him off.”

“Jesus, Faith. This is crazy. I think we should get you to the doctor. He said that the memories might return and cause you a fright, but I don’t think this is what he was talking about.” Jana gestured around the room. “I’m worried about your state of mind.”

“My kids are missing. Everyone is a suspect, including Steve. Get over it.” A bout of nausea hit her. She laid her head back on the chair.

“You look pale,” Jana said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

Faith waved her off.

“How are you ever going to find your kids if you don’t stay nourished?”

Jana was right. She needed to eat, take care of herself, so she could go after these people and bring back her children. “OK,” Faith said.

“How about some soup?”

Faith nodded, and Jana tossed the notebook on the table and went to the kitchen, where she searched through cupboards for a pan. “I noticed you have the word
pedophile
on the list,” Jana said as she went through the pantry. “What’s that about?”

“There’s a website that lists the names and addresses of pedophiles living all across the country. Any pedophiles living within a ten-mile radius of this house are going on my list, along with anyone I’ve ever known who looked at me cross-eyed.”

“You’re not planning on knocking on their doors, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

Jana wagged a can opener at her. “The police have already interviewed the neighbors and potential witnesses. At least hold off until you’ve had a chance to talk to the detective about the investigation.”

It wasn’t long before Jana brought her a bowl of tomato soup along with a spoon and a napkin. “Here you go. Eat up.”

Faith’s gaze fell on her sister’s stomach. She reached for her own belly. She had lost her baby. At eight weeks, the doctor had told her it had been too early to know the sex.

“I’m so sorry,” Jana said.

Faith brought the spoon to her mouth, every motion robotic. Lingering grief threatened to bring her to her knees. She had to fight it, needed to get stronger. She couldn’t taste a thing, but she ate until the bowl was empty.

Jana sat across from her and used her sleeve to wipe her eyes.

“Do you want more?”

Faith nodded as she looked around the room worriedly.

“What is it?” Jana asked.

“Craig,” she blurted. He was adamant about being cremated in the event of his death. “Do you have his ashes?”

“I do. I didn’t want to say anything until you had a chance to get back on your feet. Do you want me to make memorial service arrangements?”

“No. Not yet.”

“When?”

“I’ll do it after Lara and Hudson are back home. They’ll need closure. They need to be there, too.”

T
HREE

Miranda and five other girls, all between the ages of ten and sixteen, sat on the cold wood floor in a circle, filing and polishing their nails, doing their best to ignore the intermittent whimpers coming through the vents. One of the other girls in the house, Adele, had disobeyed Mother . . . again. Big mistake. Mother had rules and they were not to be broken.

Miranda had been at the farmhouse for eighteen months now. Adele had been there for about a year. Adele didn’t like her new name. She told anyone who would listen that her real name was Samantha Perelman and that she’d been abducted while shopping for groceries with her mother. Every time she told the story, she was beat. When Adele had first been brought to the house, she’d looked like a wide-eyed, fresh-faced teenager with pale skin and long dark hair. It wouldn’t have surprised Miranda to see Adele’s face on the cover of a glossy magazine. She was
that
pretty.

But that was then.

Now she looked scary thin and out of touch with the world, her eyes blank, her face without emotion.

Initially Adele had fought Mother on everything. Once she’d gotten hold of a knife and tried to take Mother down, but one of the boys who worked at the farm heard the commotion and managed to stop Adele from stabbing Mother in the chest. She would have done it, too. Adele wasn’t afraid of anyone. At least she didn’t used to be. At first it had seemed she’d rather die than be forced to comply with their rules. She was outspoken, and she often talked to the other girls in private about how they could escape if they all worked together. She plotted and planned, and she gave Miranda hope.

But then Mother had overheard Adele telling the girls about her plan to escape through the window in the basement, the only window in the house that wasn’t covered with iron bars. The window was quickly boarded up from the outside, and Adele was separated from the rest of them, locked away at night. They rarely saw Adele any longer.

Miranda sighed as she helped Jean with her toenail polish.

Jean was the newest girl. She was also the youngest in the house. She was so quiet that it was easy to forget she was in the room.

She wished she could say the same for Felicia. Eleven years old with curly red hair, Felicia started to cry. Miranda grabbed a T-shirt from atop the dirty cot behind her and tossed it her way. “Hurry. Wipe those tears. If Mother comes in here and sees you crying, you’ll be whipped.”

“Or worse,” Denise chimed in, “she’ll make you spend an hour with one of those boys.” She moaned and shivered, pretending to be orgasmic, making the two older girls laugh.

The boys she referred to were Jasper and Phoenix. They did most of the work around the farm. They fed the chickens and goats and milked the cows. They also trained the girls on how to please a man, which was ridiculous considering they couldn’t be much more than eighteen, if that. Miranda often ended up with Jasper. She’d hated him in the beginning, but after months of fighting him and everyone else in the house she began to crave his company. Now she went to him willingly. Phoenix was another story. He was a disgusting pig, and every time he touched her, she thought she might be sick.

Denise blew on her nails before she asked, “Did you know that they’re not really training us?”

“Then what are they doing?” Miranda wanted to know.

“Mother can’t afford to pay them, so she gives us to them for payment for all the chores they do around here.”

“That’s a lie,” Miranda said.

They all looked at Miranda, surprised by her reaction.

Denise lifted an eyebrow. “You’re not falling for Jasper, are you?”

Miranda didn’t answer. The truth was she did have feelings for him, but if what they were saying was true, that meant Jasper had lied about his feelings for her. He’d never once mentioned that she was a form of payment for services provided to Mother. The idea of it made her sick to her stomach. He said she was special and that he cared for her.

For the hundredth time since being brought to the farmhouse, she wondered if anyone was looking for her. There were no telephones, televisions, computers, or radios allowed in the house. No way of knowing what was going on in the outside world.

She’d been so stupid for believing a woman she’d only just met. But Caroline had been well dressed and friendly. She knew just what to say—promising her a better life. Thrilled by the idea of making enough money to help her mom, Miranda had gone with the woman.

Caroline’s car had been a clunker, old and rickety with worn seats and trash littered about, which should have been her first clue that something was wrong. But ever since her mom had lost her job and they’d been living on the streets, she’d developed a bad cough and Miranda had been worried about her. Desperate for a better life, she’d swallowed her fears and doubts and climbed into the car.

They had driven for hours, maybe days. It was hard to tell because after she drank the soda Caroline gave her, she kept falling asleep. By the time they arrived at the farmhouse, she felt groggy and weird and had no idea where she was.

The powder-blue two-story house was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of tall dry grass where cows grazed and roosters crowed. The windows were frosted, or maybe they had been painted; it was hard to tell. They were also secured from the outside with metal bars.

The woman who greeted them, a slender female with frizzy hair and a cruel expression etched on her face, handed Caroline an envelope and then took hold of Miranda’s hand and pulled her toward the house. Miranda hadn’t fully realized she’d been duped until she heard the squeal of tires and watched Caroline speed off without telling her when she would be back to pick her up.

Panicked, Miranda told the woman she’d made a mistake and needed to go home. Her mom needed her. When she tried to run, the woman grabbed her by the hair, dragged her into the house, and secured the door with a chain and a combination lock. She didn’t waste any time letting Miranda know that Rita Calloway no longer existed.

Her name was now Miranda Hall.

She bit and kicked, fought the woman and anyone who came near her. She was locked inside a closet. Days later she was branded with the letter
H
.

When she refused to eat or take a bath, she was beaten with a stick. She didn’t care. She wanted to go home. Every time she tried to escape she was tossed back into a closet and left alone in the dark. Not only did she fight the woman in charge, she fought the two boys who worked for her. She also refused to talk to the other girls in the house. She hated them all. For weeks she waged war with everyone in the house. And they stopped giving her food and water.

In the end it was her intense thirst that lost her the battle of wills. She’d wanted water more than she’d wanted death. As the cool liquid quenched her thirst and soothed her sore throat, she knew her life would never be the same. No more fighting. No more crying. No more praying for her mom to save her.

Rita Calloway truly was dead.

F
OUR

Faith rummaged through the hall closet for something to dump the contents of her purse into. Craig had given her the purse for Christmas. She couldn’t look at it without feeling sick to her stomach. She found an old backpack and transferred her belongings into it.

She glanced at the clock. Mom would be arriving at any moment to go with her to meet with Detective Yuhasz.

At the same time a key rattled in the front door, she heard the news reporter on television talking about arresting a child killer.

The smile on the killer’s face during the court proceeding was chilling.

The Florida man had brutally murdered his girlfriend’s young boy. Worse yet, according to the reporter, the girlfriend had helped him hide the body. Faith pointed the remote at the television set and turned it off. “Sick. People are sick.”

As she did every moment of every day, she thought of her kids. She refused to believe that Lara and Hudson were dead. If the men who had taken her kids had meant to kill them, they would have done it right then.

The door opened. Mom stepped inside and looked around. She fixed her gaze on the wall where Faith had recorded memories of that horrific day. “Oh, my. Jana mentioned that you had been painting . . . but I had no idea.” Mom took a moment to look Faith over, clearly struggling not to comment on her appearance: pale and thin, for starters. Hollow eyes framed by dark shadows.

Faith had seen her reflection. She knew.

The lights within were flickering again, worse than yesterday, like dangling electric wires whipping around in strong, wet winds. Faith was feeling anxious and more than a little annoyed by everything and anything when Mom wrapped her arms around her and said, “I love you, sweetheart.”

For a moment Faith rested her head on her mom’s shoulder and just breathed. It felt good.

When she straightened, Mom said, “There’s a media van outside again. Maybe it’s time you talked to them.”

Faith peeked through the blinds. Balloons and flowers lined the fence all the way to the main road. At the end of the drive was a news van from a local Sacramento station that hadn’t been there earlier.

“You’ve been too sick to pay any attention, Faith, but your tragedy has made national news. There are people all over the world who have been mourning Craig and rooting for you to pull through, praying for Lara and Hudson’s return. Maybe you should go out there and talk to the media, ask their listeners for help in finding your kids.”

“I don’t know what I would say to them.”

“Tell them what’s in your heart. Tell them we need their help . . . the more people we have looking for Lara and Hudson, the better.”

Faith straightened as an idea came to her. “I’ll be right back.”

Faith walked out of the house and made her way up the driveway. Before she reached the street, both doors to the van opened. A young man with his hair pulled back in a ponytail scurried to the back of the van to grab his equipment. “Mary, get over here!”

Mary—late twenties Faith guessed—jumped out of the passenger seat, smoothed the wrinkles from her blouse, grabbed her microphone, and rushed to greet Faith.

They shook hands.

“Are you recording?” Faith asked.

“Not yet. Jim,” she said. “Are we on?”

“I got it,” he said as he adjusted the strap around his body, then angled the lens their way. “Shoot.”

“How are you holding up?” Mary asked.

“Just taking things one moment at a time,” Faith said, and that was the truth. “I want my children returned to me. That’s all that matters.”

Mary cleared her throat. “It’s a shocking story. I’m sorry for your loss. The entire world has been praying for you and your family.”

“Thank you.”

“Your children have been missing for eleven days now—”

“Would you and Jim mind coming with me?” Faith interrupted.

“To the house?”

Faith nodded. “I’d like to show you and your viewers something.”

Mary’s eyes widened. She gestured wildly at Jim to follow as she hurried to Faith’s side and walked with her toward the house. “Is it OK for Jim to keep the camera on?”

“Yes, please do.” They walked the rest of the way without speaking. Faith opened the door and entered the house. She waited until the cameraman caught up to them before she said, “This is my mom, Lilly Gray.” Faith turned to the painted wall. “These are the men who took my children.”

“Get a close-up,” Mary instructed. “Did you paint this yourself?”

Faith nodded. “The visions come and go, but for a few hours I saw them so clearly in my mind I knew it was important that I get their images on canvas, or in this case, onto the living room wall. I don’t want to forget their faces,” Faith said. “There were three men, but I only saw the faces of two of them. If anyone has seen either of these men, please call the police.”

Mom was off to the side rifling through her purse. After a moment she held up a picture of Lara and Hudson that Faith hadn’t seen. It was a recent photo taken of the two of them with their grandpa, all three of them holding ice-cream cones and smiling at the camera. “This is Lara, ten and a half years old,” Faith said when she realized Mom had lost her voice. “She recently won a local spelling bee with the word
flibbertigibbet
.” She forced a smile. “I can hardly pronounce it, let alone use it in a sentence.” She pointed at Hudson. “This is my son, Hudson. We were about to celebrate his ninth birthday when he was taken. He recently started the third grade. His teachers say he’s unusually curious and acts older than other kids his age and that sometimes he—”

Faith lost it then. Head bent, she couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

Mom stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her. A half a minute passed before Faith managed to gain control. She stood tall and said, “Lara and Hudson are out there somewhere. Please. If you recognize these men or know anything about why or where they might have taken my children, please call the Placer County Sheriff’s Department.” She looked into the camera once more and said in a clear voice, “Lara. Hudson. Mom is going to find you both and bring you home. I won’t let anyone or anything stop me. Stay strong.”

Mary looked at the cameraman. “That’s a wrap.” She handed Faith a card with her name and number. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

Sitting in her mother’s Kia Spectra headed for the sheriff’s department, Faith glanced at her mom and noticed that the lines in her face appeared deeper, her hair grayer. She’d aged five years. It dawned on her in that moment that Mom, the woman who had driven her to school each day, wiped her tears, and braided her hair, was suffering, too. Faith would have preferred going to the police station alone. She didn’t have the energy to worry about anyone else, but still, she had to say something. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course,” Mom said. “Anything you need. Dad and I are here for you.”

“How’s Dad doing? Shouldn’t you be with him?”

“He’s strong as an ox—he’ll be fine. He wanted me to be with you today.”

Faith nodded, wishing Mom would drive a little faster. Something closer to the speed limit would be nice. She scratched her arm, the side of her head, then drummed the tips of her fingers against the car door as she looked out at a blur of trees and road signs. The fury she felt within would not subside, contrasting greatly with the love she felt for her mother. She closed her eyes until the quiet settled over them like dust motes, which couldn’t be easy for Mom since she and Jana were talkers—the type of people who liked to fill every nook and cranny with words. Minutes felt like hours until they finally merged off the freeway.

They walked through one of two glass doors leading into the building. To the left was what looked like the dispatcher room with a large sliding-glass window. Up a short flight of stairs and to the right was a desk with a sign-in sheet. A frazzled-looking woman held the phone to her ear and took notes. Another woman in uniform handled five tasks at once. One hand flipped through a file; the other jotted a number on a pad of paper. She used her foot to shut the file cabinet. The phone rang. She picked it up and put the caller on hold, leaving a flashing red button in its wake.

Faith cleared her throat.

“What can I help you with?” the woman asked.

“I’m Faith McMann. We’re here to see Detective Yuhasz.”

Recognition lit up her face. “Detectives Yuhasz and O’Sullivan are expecting you. Come with me.”

They were led past rows of cubicles to a desk at the far back corner of the building. Chaos abounded. Reports were being taken, phones ringing, everyone talking at once. According to the nameplate on the desk, the detective’s name was Ryan O’Sullivan. He stood and extended a hand to Mom as he told her how nice it was to see her again. O’Sullivan was tall and lanky with dark-framed eyeglasses and thin, straight hair. He turned his attention to Faith. “It’s good to see you up and moving around. I’m sorry for your loss, and I want to assure you that we’re doing everything in our power to find your children.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “Detective Yuhasz will be with us shortly, and then we’ll move into his office. Elaine Burnett, with the FBI, is on her way.”

Faith hadn’t realized she would be talking to the FBI at the same time, but she wasn’t complaining. Having both the detectives and the FBI in the same room would make things easier, since she had questions for all of them.

“Can I get either of you anything to drink?” the detective asked.

They both declined.

He moved piles of papers dotted with sticky notes out of the way. Tall stacks of files remained. Faith couldn’t take her eyes off the folder with
McMann
scribbled on the bottom left-hand corner. He gestured for them both to take a seat.

Faith pointed at the folder. “Can I take a look?”

He clicked his tongue. “Sorry. Open investigation. I can’t let you review the file, but I’ll do my best to answer all your questions.”

“I would like to know if anyone in your department talked to my neighbors.”

“Yes. We went door-to-door and collected brief statements.”

“How about the pedophile living on Oakwood right around the corner from my house?”

He made a note. “I’m sure someone has looked into it, but I’ll get back to you on that.” O’Sullivan set his pen down. “Maybe it would be helpful if we wait until Detective Yuhasz is ready to go so that we can catch you up on the investigation process and everything we’ve done so far.”

Her eyelid twitched. “Did you search Mr. Hawkins’s house?”

“Mr. Hawkins?”

“The neighbor to my right. He’s a baker.”

“For the duration of your stay in the hospital, your house was a crime scene. I can personally assure you that an intensive and thorough investigation was done. Every available resource has been mobilized. For the first ten days an officer was stationed at your home in case of the return of your children or a demand for ransom was made. All bases were covered. Nonpolice personnel such as scout groups and fire rescue units gathered to help with ground searches.”

“It’s true,” Mom chimed in. “There were at a least a dozen officers working double shifts during the first ninety-six hours.”

Faith felt jittery and anxious as if she’d had too much coffee. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now. Just because she’d been out of commission didn’t give them all an excuse to twiddle their thumbs. “Was someone able to check inside Mr. Hawkins’s house?” she asked again.

O’Sullivan shook his head. “We would need a warrant to do so.”

“OK,” she said, scooting her chair closer to his desk. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s get one.”

“Searches cannot be performed based on mere suspicion.”

Mom gave Faith’s arm a gentle squeeze.

O’Sullivan looked over his shoulder, obviously relieved when Yuhasz signaled that he was ready for them. “Looks like Detective Yuhasz is ready to go.”

They followed Detective O’Sullivan into the office. Faith had met Detective Yuhasz in the hospital and then again at home, but she’d been flying high on painkillers and her memories of the attack had been blurry and jumbled. She wouldn’t have recognized the man in front of her if she’d passed him on the street. The smell of his cologne was overbearing. He had a wide grin. Her mom gave him a hug, everyone acting as if they were old friends.

Short-cropped hair left Detective Yuhasz with sharp, angular spikes that Faith imagined would be painful to touch. Like petting a porcupine. He was a few inches shorter than Dad, who stood well over six feet. For his age, which she guessed to be close to sixty, Yuhasz appeared to be in decent shape. His muscles strained against the cotton sleeves of his button-up shirt.

They all took a seat.

Just as O’Sullivan pulled up a chair, Agent Burnett, a tall woman with dark hair tied back in a knot, joined them. Introductions were made while another chair was brought into the room.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better,” Detective Yuhasz said to Faith. “Your parents told me in the hospital that you were a fighter, and it’s clear they were right.” He retrieved a recorder from his top drawer. “Your sister said your memories of that day have returned. Is that right?”