Authors: Rebecca Forster
The San Franciscan Bar, San Fernando Valley
“One more time, Sam.”
Liz Driscoll pushed her glass toward the bartender. It was the fourth time that night and the second since Archer had called. She sat with one elbow on the bar, cradling her head. She wasn’t drunk, she was just thinking. When Sam slid the bourbon and water in front of her she looked at it like a crystal ball, didn’t get a message from the great beyond, and took a good long slug.
Liz was a regular at The San Franciscan, choice watering hole for cops who lived out in the boonies. If you wanted someone to rail at, find someone to commiserate with, hook up someone to bounce an idea off with impunity, then this was the place to do it. Tonight, Jerry Healy sat on the stool next to her. He worked vice in the valley.
“It’s not like you got anything solid, right? I mean what’s this guy-”
“Archer,” Liz filled in the blank as she took another drink.
“Okay, what’s this guy Archer want you to do? You can’t open a file. I mean, you could, but only if you tell your captain, ‘cause this is an adult.”
“My captain’s not going to go for it. Archer likes to fly low under the radar and this woman is high profile, but she’s erratic. She’s ballsy. Captain’ll just tell me to hang for a while but I trust –” Liz’s voice trailed off into her glass.
“Archer,” Healy filled in.
“Yeah, I do. He’s solid. Good instincts, and now he’s telling me there’s another woman in the mix-”
“In Hollywood,” Healy offered as Liz lost the thread of her conversation once again.
“Oh, forgot I told you. Yeah, Hollywood.” Liz sighed.
“So go to LAPD, and see what you can find out. You’ve got a name, right? You can find out if they’ve got any complaints, anyone reporting her missing- ”
“Yeah, and I could just poke around. You know. Doesn’t cost anything to just poke around.”
“Yeah, poke around,” Healy reiterated and drained his beer. “Well, gotta go. Wife wants me to spend more time with her.”
“Thanks, Healy.”
“No problem, Driscoll.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re a good guy.”
Liz drained her glass and thought about that. Damn straight she was a good guy. The only question was what kind of cop was she? The kind who took a risk because it was right, or handed off a situation to the keep-an-eye-on-it file? Easy enough to fill in LAPD cop to cop. It was more than most would do. She wouldn’t piss of Hagarty, but she wouldn’t blow it off either.
Liz tossed some bills on the bar, heard the clunk of her heavy boots meeting the old linoleum floor, looked over at a man and woman in the back booth and wished, just once, that she’d be back there with someone someday. Preferably with a guy who was single. Someone like Archer. She smirked, knowing that would probably never happen. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She was the kind everyone figured could take care of herself, the kind who was too smart-mouthed for her own good, too afraid to let down her guard in case someone took the opportunity to pop her one. Then again, Josie Bates was that kind of woman, and she had Archer and that kid worried sick about her. If she disappeared, who would push hard enough to get the cops to act? She couldn’t think of a soul, and with that realization Liz Driscoll made a decision.
She could at least be the cop who looked into something for someone.
San Diego Freeway, North
He was disappointed it was so late. He would have preferred to make this trip earlier in the evening, but things hadn’t worked out according to his timetable. Not that he was far off: three hours or four at most. And he liked the night better than the day anyway. It was very pleasant to let his mind wander while he drove, although his mind never really did wander very far. He was quite a single-minded person, after all. Only a determined person, sure of their – dare he think it? – Crusade, could juggle the balls he was juggling. He supposed he could have just stayed home, had a nice dinner, left those two women to their own devices, but where would be the satisfaction in that? That’s really all he wanted. Satisfaction.
He turned off the freeway and headed toward the road that would take him to the place where he would park. He was surprised to see a car coming down the winding road toward him. He cut his eyes toward it as it passed. A middle-aged man was behind the wheel, bored, exhausted after a day at a mundane job or despondent after a fight with the wife. The man didn’t turn his head to look at the car passing him. Good. The man was oblivious.
He drove another seven tenths of a mile, looked for the rock face on the left, the one with the three-mile marker near it, and the pine growing out of it at a distinctive angle. The rock itself was covered with infantile graffiti. He pulled across the road into a nearly hidden cul de sac that curved into the mountain. It was just big enough for the car. Only someone with superior powers of observation – or perhaps divine influence – would notice this place. Luckily, there weren’t many of those.
When he got out he took the carefully prepared package, breathed deeply and thought ‘lovely’. It was cooler up here and quiet and calming. He started to walk using only a small flashlight to show him the way. He walked a good long way, thinking of nothing in particular now that he was at his destination. Though there was no path, he knew the way well, and, when he reached the cement hut he took no care to disguise the sound of his approach. They would be asleep, his little lovelies. Asleep until he let them wake.
Josie Bates’ House, Hermosa Beach
Hannah had every intention of staying awake all night, but when she heard Billy Zuni start to snore softly from his bed on the couch, when Max climbed into bed with her and curled his back into her, even those perpetual numbers running through her head stuttered and stopped. The scars on her arms didn’t tighten and ache as they sometimes did when the world was dark and quiet. Sleep came and she was peaceful and that was something Hannah seldom was. It was as if God knew she would need every ounce of energy in the days to come, as if He had reached out his big and graceful hand and drew it softly down her brow and over her eyes. It seemed He cupped her cheek, but it was only Max’s soft fur she felt against her face, not God’s hand. Hannah put her arm around the dog and rested. No matter what happened, at least she would have known what it was like to have a home. For that she would be eternally grateful.
An Outbuilding in the California Mountains
He arrived at the hut so quickly he had to look behind to make sure that he had not unwittingly cut a path others could follow. There was nothing. He might as well have been a heavenly spirit gliding over the dried leaves and brittle sticks. It was only his exceptional sensibilities that made the journey easier each time. Or, the ease might have to do with the fact that he carried so little this time.
He whistled a little tune, softly out of respect for these lovely surroundings. Most would be afraid of nights in the forest. Not him. Not he? No matter. He put down the small flashlight he carried and took out the two bottles of water, the picture and the tape he had carried in his backpack. He would be in and out in seconds, then he would go home for a nice cup of tea, say his prayers and lay himself down to sleep.
Smiling at this little turn of phrase, he slid back the round piece of metal that locked the door from the outside and opened it wide enough to slip through. He left the flashlight pointing toward the opening. Inside it was blacker than pitch and smelled of urine and sweat. He took a moment to gaze at the silhouettes of the two sleeping women. Oh, he thought, how the mighty had fallen. But the moment was over and he went to work.
Stepping between them, he put a water bottle near the blonde. It was not laced quite so heavily with the medication. He wanted them to start coming out of their stupor slowly. Hesitating, he almost touched her but then decided the desire wasn’t there any longer. How could it be when she looked like this?
He turned and stepped over the tall woman, straddling her. Leaning over, he taped the paper to the cement. She would see it when she woke up and the light would begin to dawn as to why she was there. Almost finished, he bent over and placed the water bottle by her head. Before he set it just right, Josie Bates woke.
Primal instincts drove her. She clutched at him, her hands hitting his crotch, her fingers grasping for anything to hold onto. But his reactions were good, his instinct for survival finely tuned, and he acted even more quickly than she: flinging himself away, kicking at her, flailing at her. She made sounds like the animal that she was, but he took no pleasure in it as he twirled, fell, and threw himself through the door.
Then it was his own grunting he heard, his own scraping breath as he pushed the door closed, grappled to find the metal bar, and shoved it through the lock. When that was done, he stumbled toward the closest tree, whirled around, fell onto the ground, and collapsed against the trunk. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his face against them.
In the dark, he heard her calling for him to come back. Help! Help! Save us! He heard her make promises. Then she stopped promising and started begging. Slowly, he lowered his hands, raised his head and sat up straighter. The sound of her begging calmed him and brought him pleasure. Finally, he stood up and smiled. He was beyond pleased. He had thought she was stronger than this. In his wildest dreams he never expected to hear Josie Bates beg.
Picking up the flashlight, he turned his back and walked down the mountain. Soon, he was back to the car, starting the engine, driving away down the winding road. By the time he reached his home, he was in control once again. He showered, lamented that he had not changed clothes before going to the mountains, realized there was nothing to be done now about his favorite pants and climbed naked into bed.
Then he did what he always did when he thought of the blond woman in the hut: he touched himself. Just as he felt his manhood responding, just as he was sure he was going to end the night on an explosively satisfactory note, he stopped his pumping and caressing, and he wilted into a pitiful, pliable little mound of flesh. The blond woman’s image could not keep him erect because there was something about the tall woman that made him afraid in his own bed. Finally it dawned on him. He knew exactly what it was. Josie Bates had grabbed him. She had stood up and called to him.
Josie Bates was free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN:
DAY 2:
Hermosa Beach Police Department
“Driscoll.”
Liz looked up from the printouts to find Captain Hagarty standing in the doorway of her cubicle. He was a good-looking guy; he could have gone back on the street any day in uniform and cut a fine figure.
“Yeah?” Liz hoped he didn’t notice she was green around the gills.
“It’s damn early.” He sipped from his Starbucks cup. He hadn’t taken his jacket off yet.
“Yeah,” Liz mumbled.
“Anything you want to share?”
“Nope. Just being a conscientious public servant,” she answered.
Hagarty nodded, sipped his coffee again, and kept his eye on her as she did on him. Liz prayed that her eyes were not too wide, her smile not as brittle as it felt, and the sweat starting to form under her arms not evident.
“Okay then. The citizens of Hermosa Beach can rest easy.”
“Absolutely. On the ball, Captain.”
Hagarty lingered a second longer, stepped into the cubicle and put a piece of paper in front of her.
“Do not misunderstand. That’s as far as it goes on my dime,” he said and then he was gone.
Liz picked up the paperwork he’d dropped on her desk. Hagarty had given permission to sweep Josie Bates’ Jeep for evidence.
Mira Costa High School, Manhattan Beach
“Hannah Sheraton?”
Hannah stood up and walked past the woman who held the little swinging gate open like it was the door to the death chamber. The gate swung closed with a little thump and whoosh, and the woman hurried ahead to open the door to the principal’s office. Mrs. Letitia Gray-Manning, head honcho at Mira Costa High glanced at Hannah but reserved her smile for the secretary.
“Thanks, Mrs. Taylor,” Leticia Manning said even as she looked at Hannah. “Have a seat.”
Hannah did as she was told and pulled her satchel onto her lap. It was Louis Vuitton, a reminder of her mother who looked darn good on the outside, but had a lot of baggage on the inside. Hannah held onto it partly because it had belonged to Linda, her mother, and partly because her artist’s heart couldn’t bear to part with something so beautifully crafted. In the same way, her artist’s eye couldn’t help but be drawn to the incredible hand stitched quilt on the wall behind Mrs. Manning’s desk or the jewelry she wore. It was always the same, silver fashioned by designers who lived for their craft. Someday she’d like to talk to Mrs. Manning about art, but now Hannah was on her guard and art was the last thing on her mind.