N
adine is four years old.
She’s alone in the cold, dark basement while above her the floorboards creak.
Big Pearl is coming.
The basement door opens, the wooden stairs groan, Nadine trembles, and the dog chain jingles. In the darkness, Nadine picks up the bad smell coming off of Big Pearl. She hears the clink of an empty glass bottle joining the others in the pitch-black corner beside the furnace, sitting there breathing fire like a patient dragon.
Then the flashlight finds its target, trapping Nadine’s small face in a circle of harsh light. It hurts her eyes.
“This place stinks like cat piss and you, Natty Nat.”
Big Pearl grunts as she comes closer.
“No wonder your mama didn’t want you. Nobody wanted you, why, you’re nothin’ more’n what people scrape from their shoe. You thank your lucky stars for Big Pearl. Now, git over here!”
Nadine recoils and the chain scrapes across the cement floor. She knows what’s coming. Can feel what’s coming even before it starts.
And it starts with her leg.
Big Pearl grabs the chain shackled to Nadine’s ankle.
And pulls.
“I said, git over here!”
Big Pearl pulls on the chain, dragging Nadine across the cold hard floor as she pleads. Then comes the rush of air and the belt whistles down on Nadine with a
whip-crack
against her skin.
She spasms with pain.
“No, Big Pearl.”
“You better thank me, Natty Nat.”
The leather cuts into her flesh, Nadine bites her tongue. Tears stream down her face as the belt comes down again and again and again until finally Nadine says it.
“Thank you Big Pearl for teaching me right. Oh thank you.”
And it ends with Big Pearl heaving and huffing and the stairs groaning as she leaves Nadine in the darkness with her spirit broken and her skin on fire. Nadine sobs and fumbles in the dark for her baby doll, naked and alone like her.
Nadine hugs her so tight.
So tight.
Her baby is the only thing in this world that she loves because it is the only thing in this world that loves her back.
I
n six clear frames a woman was placing an orange plastic bag into the trash bin at Sunset Hill Park, then walking away.
“These are all I got.”
Nate Hodge clicked through his pictures on his large flat-screen monitor in the
Seattle Mirror’s
photo department. Jason Wade, Fritz Spangler, the FBI agents, and the Seattle detectives were standing over Hodge’s desk, studying his crisp digital images.
Four of the photos were full-body, head to toe. The woman was Caucasian, mid-thirties, slender build with short brown hair. She was wearing a lavender fleece jacket, print top, and tan slacks.
On her feet: blue sneakers.
A cell phone rang; an FBI agent answered it and stepped away from the desk, talking softly. Another agent leaned closer to Hodge’s monitor.
“Can you enlarge her face?”
Hodge zoomed in on the frame where the woman looked directly into the camera. “She never saw me,” Hodge said. “I was nearly two blocks away when I shot
these. I headed to the park as soon as Jason called me to set up.”
“See if I’ve got this,” Kirk Dupree said. “Jason told you he was going to meet a source at Sunset Hill and you get there in advance to position yourself to take pictures with a long lens?”
“We do it all the time when we meet an anonymous source,” Jason said. “It covers us. Try to get pictures of everything. Never know when you might need the information.”
“You happen to follow this woman and get a plate?” Grace asked Hodge, who shook his head.
“I couldn’t stay. Got sent to Bellingham on another job, got back late and thought nothing of this until I saw this morning’s paper. So what do you think?”
The FBI agent completed his close-up study of the enlarged version of the woman’s face and pulled back. “We know her. She’s been up to our office.”
“Who is she?” Dupree said.
“Robin, her name is Robin somebody.”
“Robin Dove.” The agent on the cell phone had finished and tapped a white-gloved finger on a copy of the
Mirror
showing the reproduced note from the psychic. “ERT just called. This morning, before we came, they started comparing this note published here with other tip letters we’ve received in other cases. From the composition, syntax, the font used, they say it fits with previous letters from Robin Dove.”
“Who is she?” Dupree asked.
The agent consulted his notes. “A Seattle housewife. Works part-time at a daycare. She believes she has
psychic abilities. She usually contacts us, unsolicited, several times a year with details she ‘feels’ will help our investigations.”
“And?” Spangler asked.
“Her information has never been useful,” the agent said.
For Dupree, it all ended there. “Our warrant covers this material.” He nodded to the photos and Hodge. “We want all of them. Your photo card and a statement.”
Another agent joined the group after finishing a call.
“Things are piling up on the shoe. We’ve got leads to check.”
“Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time here.”
“Excuse me, Fritz.” Rosemary the assistant approached, nodding to the TV crews at the far end of the newsroom. “CNN and FOX are here to talk to somebody on our psychic story.”
Camera operators hoisted their cameras to their shoulders and began recording the white-gloved detectives. Dupree shook his head, then led the investigators out in a direction that took them away from the TV people. Spangler’s face flushed and he turned to Jason, but the reporter had left with the investigators.
In the foyer, Jason managed to pull the group aside for a private moment amid the tall potted palms. All of them, including Grace, were poker-faced. He tried to gauge their reaction and a silent icy moment passed. Careful not to single out Grace Garner as a source, he tried to put out the fire Spangler had ignited on his bridge into the investigation.
“You guys have to understand,” Jason said, “I didn’t write the story in today’s paper. Spangler did. I didn’t think it was developed and I wanted to hold off until I checked it out. That”—he pointed back to the newsroom—“is not the way I do things.”
“That’s your fucking problem, Wade,” Dupree said. “Frankly, ours is a tad more serious than you having an asshole for a boss. Let’s go.”
Jason returned to his desk, utterly defeated. Any hope of breaking news on the Colsons through police sources was dead. As far as the cops were concerned, the
Mirror
was the pariah paper on the case.
This sucks.
The morning paper, the sketch, and portions of the “psychic’s” note now mocked him.
“The forces behind the crime departed the scene immediately in a vehicle with the child in an easterly direction through the community. Their vehicle was seen by hundreds of people…Death stands over this case.”
Death stands over this case. You think?
All crap.
Jason crumpled the paper.
Look at Spangler over there basking in the bright camera lights. One leg half-straddled on a desk, his body half-turned so the newsroom,
“his” newsroom,
was framed behind him. Thinks he’s Ben Bradlee, or Lou Grant.
He’s more like Perry White.
Unable to stomach another second, Jason grabbed his jacket. He had to hit the street. He’d try working on the Colsons’ background by going back to the neighbors.
He rifled through his drawer for a pen, then found his notebook as his phone rang.
“Jay,” his father said, “have you got a moment?”
He closed his eyes.
“This is a bad time, Dad.”
“Son, I’ve got something that could be connected to your big abduction story. Need you to take a ride with me.”
“Dad, listen, I don’t have time.”
To listen to your wild theories about this case. Every time I’m on the front page you call me up with advice.
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Jay, I’ll be in front of the
Mirror
in fifteen minutes.”
R
olling his eyes and clenching his jaw, Jason headed to the newsroom elevator where he repeatedly jabbed the down button.
I don’t need this, Dad. Not now.
First the psychic crap. Then Spangler screwed everything up, leaving him to face the wrath of every FBI agent and Seattle detective on the Colson case—effectively killing any hope he had of cultivating Grace Garner as a source.
Or something more.
Thank you, Fritz.
And now his old man wanted in on the Colson story.
Jason spat on the sidewalk as he paced in front of the
Mirror
building. Tapping his notebook against his leg, he searched the traffic until he spotted a familiar blue Ford Ranger pickup. His father waved from behind the wheel then double-parked, forcing angry drivers to honk as they wheeled around him. Jason stepped into the street and leaned into the open passenger window.
“I just can’t do this now.”
“Get in, it’ll only take an hour. Tops.”
“Dad.”
“Come on, get in, son.”
Jason muttered something, got in, and was catapulted back through his life. The interior was immaculate but the smell of cologne and hops, the desperation of the brewery, mingled in the cab with Johnny Cash, whose singing of “I Walk the Line” floated softly from the Ranger’s sound system.
“I see you’re kicking ass on the big story.”
“Whatever you want to tell me, please get to it and get me back to the paper, okay?”
His father nodded and squinted into the traffic.
“I’m sorry, Dad, but this has not been a stellar morning.”
His old man shrugged it off. He understood.
“I caught an interesting little job this morning from Krofton. You might want to look at it. It stays confidential, by the way.”
He passed a file folder to Jason, who read quickly through its few pages then put it on the seat between them.
“So? You confirm an address, press the guilty party for compensation in a hit-and-run fender bender. All straightforward. How’s it related to the story? And where the heck are you taking me?”
“I think you’re missing some key facts. The client says the vehicle was a van.”
“Sure but your information confirms it’s a car, a”—Jason consulted the file again—“a Toyota.”
“But look at the client’s note. He insists it was a van.”
“Whatever. I still don’t get it.”
“Also, look at the time and location of the incident.”
Jason did.
“See,” his father said. “Location: Ballard. Time: the morning of the kidnapping. Vehicle: van. See where I’m going with this?”
Jason reread everything. Much more closely this time.
“Maybe it’s a coincidence, Jay. That’s why we check it out first, right?”
As the implication dawned on Jason, his old man winked, in the good way he used to wink at him long ago, before things went dark. Jason felt the tension melt as his old man’s Ranger headed northbound on I-5. The road rushed under them like so many of the bad years. Jason wondered if his old man’s ancient internal war flowed from something that happened a lifetime ago when Henry Wade was a Seattle cop.
Who knows?
His old man never talked about it. Ever.
As the Ranger gathered speed, Jason looked at him. Polo shirt, faded jeans. Tanned. Silver hair. Looked good. Then he glanced over his shoulder. The cab’s back window was still bordered with stickers of the American flag, the brewery union, and the brewery’s security parking decal. It was all behind them now. Best to leave it there.
According to the printout from IVIPS, the address for the license number Everett Sinclair took down was in a North Seattle community, tucked away in the Pinehurst, Northgate, and Maple Leaf area. Easy to miss on the map, Jason discovered as he kept correcting his directions to his father.
They rolled by brick Tudor-style homes and bungalows
that had gone up after World War Two. There were several vacant lots with overgrown shrubs and overturned shopping carts. One lot had a discarded TV and a dryer with the door torn off. The house next to it had an eviscerated pink Pinto in the oil-stained front yard. Sidewalks seemed to be missing. Most houses had dirt patches for driveways.
FOR RENT
signs were common in front windows.
“There, Brimerley Lane. Turn left here,” Jason said. “It’s 444 Brimerley Lane.”
A few houses on the street had well-kept yards, tended gardens, and flower boxes at the windows. The place they were looking for was at the far end and backed on to I-5. Except for the buzz of the freeway, the enclave was tranquil when they stopped in front of number 444. It was a light green bungalow sitting way back from the street. Not a bad-looking place, Jason thought when they arrived at the front door.
The doorbell’s chime echoed through the small home. His old man nodded to the flyers and junk mail clogging the metal mailbox. A few moments later, Jason pressed the bell a second time.
No response.
They looked back to the street.
Empty.
Jason knocked. Hard. Loud enough to wake anyone inside who might be sleeping. He placed his ear against the door. Not a sound, not a bird, not even the scratch of dog paws on linoleum.
“Nothing,” he told his dad, who nodded to the singlecar garage.
It was at the end of a dirt driveway, at the side but back of the house, canopied by a couple of tall alders. Paint blistered its wood sides and double doors. Jason scanned the small backyard. A trash can, some lawn chairs. Nothing beyond that. His old man, shielding his eyes, was gazing into the garage window.
“There’s a Toyota Corolla in there, color matches IVIPS.”
His father scanned discarded papers in the trash can while Jason tried the side door of the garage. It was open.
“Let’s go in,” he said, “check the plate, then we’ll leave.”
Reluctant, his father glanced around.
“It’ll only take a moment, Dad. And you dragged me all this way.”
Jason stepped into the darkened garage and waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light. After finishing with the trash can, his father followed. Dust particles danced in the light shafts. The car took up most of the garage. Garden tools hung from the side; so did a hose, extension cord, a ladder. A bicycle leaned against the wall. Adult-size. Jason squeezed himself to the front of the car, noticing a fine layer of dust on the hood as he crouched down before the front bumper.
“It’s gone. There’s no front plate.”
“No back plate either,” his father called from the rear of the Toyota.
Jason had a mini-penlight on his keychain and used it to examine the screws that secured the plate. They had fresh scrapes.
“Don’t touch anything!” his father said. “Let’s get back outside.”
They returned to the rear yard to consider the matter. “The address is correct. The car’s correct. The plates are gone and witnessed on a van in Ballard,” Jason mused.
“Obviously stolen,” his old man said. “What do you think?”
Jason stared at the house and pulled out his cell phone.
“What’s the telephone number for here?”
“Why? What’re you going to do?”
“Just give it to me.”
Jason called the number and could hear the phone ringing inside the house. With each ring he stepped closer to the rear door, staring at it.
It wasn’t closed all the way.
He pulled out his pen and, using the capped end, pushed on the wooden door. It creaked open wide, allowing a small squadron of flies to leave while inviting him to enter.
“Hold it right there,” his father said. “I think we should call Seattle PD.”
Jason held up his hand to stop that idea. As the phone continued to ring, he called out.
“Anybody home?”
He waited for an answer. None came. He stepped close enough to poke his head into the house and was hit with a powerful smell that repelled him.
He’d glimpsed something. What was it?
Ignoring his father’s calls to step back, Jason ended his call, covered his face and nose with his hands, and stepped inside.
In that instant, Jason glimpsed a pair of feet in white
socks, jeans, legs on the floor. His view blocked, he pressed on slowly, staring at the legs until they became a lower torso then evolved into something.
Something that was moving.
A huge mass, sort of quivering in unison. A furry, feverish mass that looked—
holy Christ
—
that’s a big fucking ball of rats!
They were feeding on decomposing entrails splayed in every direction on the floor.
Was that a hand? Was that human?
The body was swollen, the head a pulpy mass, the face blackened and bloated beyond recognition.
Two huge rats scurried over Jason’s shoes.
His scalp prickled, his skin tingled with gooseflesh. He crushed his hands to his face to prevent the stench from penetrating his nostrils as it reached the back of his tongue, working its way down his esophagus, triggering a small geyser of bile to gush up the back of his throat. He was paralyzed until someone clamped his shoulder, yanked him out of the house back into the fresh air of the yard just in time for him to vomit.
As he doubled over, he heard his old man calling 911.