Abandoned: A Thriller (7 page)

“Yes, he is.”

I know he’ll go and get Bonnie and take her home and cook her something delicious. They’ll probably watch TV together or play a board game. Or perhaps they’ll both read, enjoying each other’s proximity.

I’d forgotten what it was like to have a partner in life. Tommy’s been there all along, it’s not like his support is a new thing, but it hits me now at an oblique angle. Life is about inertia. The necessities of the day to day pull us along, against our will or otherwise. The alarm clock wakes us, the child needs to be dressed and fed. We have to down enough coffee to be awake and alert, and we need to look presentable (more so if you’re a woman), all the while checking the watch or the clock on the wall. If it all moves perfectly, we fulfill these obligations with time to spare.

But some mornings the kid’s got chicken pox, or the dog is barfing on the carpet, or the car has a flat tire. Sometimes we (or he) forget to buy new coffee, so we’re forced to do all this on no caffeine, and so we buy horrible drive-through coffee and spill it on the new skirt as we’re driving too fast because we’re grouchy and uncareful and running
behind. The day starts bad and the boss is in a shitty mood and the computer on the desk breaks down.

This is most of life. The day to day. The majority of life is mundane, interspersed with moments of joy and pain that act as markers on the road. It’s a challenge. But when you have the right partner, like I did with Matt, you develop a rhythm, a way of balancing each other’s weaknesses, so that even on the catastrophic mornings you can pull it off. Maybe he takes the bullet and arrives late to work and gets the evil eye from his boss so you can arrive refreshed and awake and caffeinated. The next time, it’s your turn. You still take the hits, but you divide the pain, and at the end of the day, you commiserate together in your foxhole and call it a home.

I guess I have one again.

The doctor appears, shaking me from my thoughts. He looks tired but frowns as he takes in Callie and me together. I guess this is the first time he’s had a moment to process our appearance.

“You guys come from a wedding?”

“That’s right,” Callie says, flashing a smile. “We got to the ‘I do’s first, thankfully. How do I look, honey-love?”

“Beautiful,” he replies, simple honesty born of exhaustion. “So, your friend in there is in bad shape. She’s been severely dehydrated, which is the probable cause of some of her delirium. She has thick, repeated scarring on her wrists and ankles. I’m no expert, but as you said,” he inclines his head to me, “I’d guess she’s been kept in restraints for a long time.”

“How long?” I ask. “Can you tell from the scarring?”

“That’s very inexact. People heal at different rates. A general rule of thumb is that the red appearance of a new scar fades to white anywhere from seven months to a year. It’s only an estimate, but based on the color and thickness of her scars, I’d guess we’re talking years.”

I thought the same, but somehow it seems more horrible coming from someone else. More real.

“Go on,” I say.

“She’s obviously underweight, but she doesn’t appear to have been starved. There are signs of whipping on her back, as well as other places. There are also a few marks that look like electrical burns.”

“So she’s been tortured.” Alan says it as a statement.

“I think so,” the doctor replies. “Now, as to the question of sexual abuse, I did a preliminary exam and saw no signs of that. No recent or older tearing of the vaginal walls or the anus. No signs of biting. I was, however, able to tell that she’s given birth.”

I start at this. “What? How?”

“She has a C-section scar. That and stretch marks. They’re not new.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “So where’s her child?”

“Anything else?” Callie prods.

The doctor hesitates. “She’s too white,” he says finally. Alan cranks an eyebrow at this but says nothing. “I’m sorry?” I say.

“Some people have naturally fair skin. This woman’s pallor is unhealthy. Almost grayish. I don’t see signs of anemia, but her eyelids are white, and when the scars are taken into consideration, I’d guess she’s been denied access to sunlight for a very long time.”

“Jesus,” Alan mutters.

“I’ve drawn blood to check for vitamin D deficiency in addition to all the other blood work we’ll run on her. That’s all I have for now.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, which sounds lame and inadequate, but then, that’s always the case.

“The lack of sexual violation is very, very strange,” James says. I hadn’t noticed him approaching. “Long-term imprisonment and torture of a female for other than political reasons almost always has sexual motives.”

He’s right. You go through the work to follow a woman, to learn her routine. You watch her, you hunt her, and then you take her. You chain her wrists and ankles, you whip her back hard enough to leave permanent scars, but you don’t rape her?

“Of course, it could have been done in a noninvasive manner,” James muses. “He could have drugged her. Or he could have forced her to submit. To feign willingness.”

“True. Though that doesn’t fit with the torture. The other question: why release her? Why release her to us? Anyone else here still think that was coincidence?”

“Unlikely,” James says.

“I agree with that emotion,” Barry says, speaking up for the first time. Barry is a first-grade detective for the LAPD. He’s also a friend
and was at Callie’s wedding. He followed the ambulance to the hospital like everyone else. “Someone smart enough to take her and keep her for this long didn’t make the mistake of letting her go near a collection of law enforcement personnel without a reason.
Follow the line of inquiry?
He knows what we’ll do and wants us to do it.”

Barry is a very good cop, with good instincts. He’s an interesting mix of a man. He’s in his mid-forties, he’s heavy without being fat, he wears glasses, he’s bald, and he has one of those homely faces that become cute in the right light. For all his physical failings, he’s always dating pretty, younger women. They’re drawn to him, and I know why: In spite of his jokes and his larger-than-life personality, he has the still, watchful eyes of a hunter of men.

We don’t acquire many of our cases by choice. There are areas of specific FBI jurisdiction—kidnapping, bank robbery, crimes committed on federal property—but in most cases, homicide in particular, we have to be called in by the locals. They have to ask for our help. Barry is one of those few who doesn’t let politics influence his thinking when it comes to what’s best for a case. If he thinks we’ll help solve it, he’ll ring us up. We’ve worked together on a number of occasions to clear some difficult cases. Who-gets-the-credit is never a game we’ve bothered to play.

I think about all of this now and size him up with renewed interest. He senses it and raises his eyebrows in query. “What?”

“You know what. I probably want in on this one. I don’t think I’ll have a jurisdiction issue since it appears to be a kidnapping, but if I hit a bump, can you help?”

Barry can help with almost anything he wants to help with. His clear rate is unparalleled. He scratches his head, thinking.

“It’s not a homicide, so it’s not mine.”

“I just need you to put in a good word with someone, Barry. I don’t think I’ll have any difficulty claiming the case if I want it, but …” I shrug.

“It’s always a good idea to set up your interference running in advance,” he finishes for me. “Yes.”

“I’ll talk to my captain about it. Play up the kidnapping angle and how that’s all yours, all the time.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Besides, no one is going to want this. It smells like
unsolved
from a mile away.”

“We’ll see.”

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, I have to get going. I have a pretty hot date later tonight.”

Callie scowls. “You set up a date on my wedding day?”

Barry smiles at her. “You’re still the most beautiful girl in the room.”

She sniffs. “Apology accepted, then.”

He tips his fingers in a salute and saunters off.

“This is bullshit,” James says, shaking his head in disapproval. I ignore him.

“Callie, let’s get her fingerprints and run them. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll be in the system somewhere.” I look at her and blink at her wedding gown. “Do you have a change of clothes?”

She taps her cell phone and smiles. “I’ll call Kirby. She’ll bring me everything I need.”

“Still at your beck and call even after the wedding? That’s hard to believe.”

It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that Kirby is governed by her own self-interest.

“We have something she needs,” Callie says. “What’s that?”

“People who know all about her but like her anyway. Even assassins get lonely, Smoky.”

“I suppose.” My cell phone rings.

“Barrett.”

“Smoky, I need you to come to the office.” It’s AD Jones.

“Now, sir?”

“Right now.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll just stop by my house and change and—

“No stops on the way. Get here soonest.”

I glance down at my sun-yellow maid of honor dress and sigh.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

The man stares at the email on his screen and begins to shiver. He can’t help it. The terror is instant and absolute. The email says:

There’s no signature to the email, but none is needed. He knows who sent it.

God, oh God, why didn’t I do what he asked?

He glances toward the rear of his home, where the sliding glass door leads into his backyard. A feeling of dread speeds up his heart, making it thud in his chest. Hard, too hard.

Am I having a heart attack?

He glances at the email again, then back at the sliding glass door. He closes his eyes.

Pull yourself together.

He stands up and walks away from the computer in his downstairs office. He leaves the email up on the screen. He’s aware of every step he makes across the walnut hardwood floor. He’s almost counting them.

This little piggy had a nightmare, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy burned in hell forever …
It’s going to be bad.

He knows this because he knows the man he’s dealing with. Well, no, that’s not quite accurate. If he really knew, in that deep-down kind of way, he would never have failed to hold up his end of the bargain. He edits the phrase: He knows the man he’s dealing with
now.

He arrives at the sliding-glass door and peers through it. It’s late morning, and the sun is wrestling the clouds for dominance. He has a large backyard, filled with the overwatered green grass that Californians favor. He sees it right away and squints.

What the hell is that?

It looks like a black vinyl bag, with a … straw? Is that a clear straw poking out of it?

The thudding in his chest gets harder, if that’s possible. Something worms around in his brain. Black vinyl bag … he has a word for a bag that looks like that, doesn’t he? Yes, he does. Yes, indeed.

Body bag.

He swallows bile and slides the door open. He walks across the concrete of his patio. He’s barefoot, and the grass is damp and cool against the bottoms of his feet. He hardly notices. The bag holds all his attention.

It is shiny in the sun. A heavy-duty zipper runs the length of it. The straw (because he can confirm that now) is clear tubing, poking through a hole that was made in the bag.

Don’t open it!

The voice in his head is loud, a fearful shout. It’s probably good advice.

He gets down on both knees in the grass, oblivious to the dirt and water stains that are soaking into his khaki pants. He reaches for the zipper. His hand hesitates above it.

Last chance. You can still turn back.

He gulps down a breath, grips the zipper, and opens it halfway before he can think about it any further.

He sees her face and he staggers on his knees, almost swooning. “Dana!”

The words expel from him in a kind of low gasp, as if he’s been punched in the stomach.

She’s there. The straw is taped to her mouth, the tape covering her lips. There is something very, very wrong with her eyes. They’re clear but empty. Nothing intelligent stares back at him.

“God, oh God …” he whispers.

She was supposed to go on a spa trip yesterday. Two-day affair, a little getaway. She didn’t call last night, but he hadn’t been worried. He’d had too much on his mind.

“Sorry, honey, God, I’m sorry, let me get that straw out of your mouth.” He’s babbling and he knows it but is helpless to stop.

He removes the tape as gently as he can, and pulls the tubing from her mouth.

Her mouth falls open and stays there, slack. Drool runs from it as she stares, unblinking, at the sky. There is a smell coming from the bag. It takes him a minute to place it. He recoils when he does. Urine and feces.

“Dana?” he askes, not really hoping for an answer. Her throat works a little, and he thinks she might be responding. He leans forward, ignoring the stench from the bag. “Honey?”