Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (15 page)

CHAPTER 30

J
ennifer’s hand r
eached gratefully
toward the food, but then jerked back. Was it drugged or poisoned; if not the crackers, at least the water? Was this how he incapacitated or dispatched his victims? No, she decided, because his great size and obvious strength could effortlessly overpower a small woman. And didn’t killers actually crave their victims’ agonized reactions?

With her watch missing, she tried to calculate how long she’d occupied this small room. She drove into his driveway about 4:30 p.m., plus however long she lay unconscious and later slept, plus an hour to map the room and find the light. So maybe this was about 7:00. Dinner time?

Thinking of dinner, she felt visions of her family wash over her, especially mealtimes when they talked together about their days’ events. Would she ever share another with them?

She examined the water bottle in the weak glow of the night light. The plastic cap connecters appeared intact, though she remembered a TV show where a narrow hypodermic needle injected chemicals through hard-to-find pinprick holes. What to do? When had she eaten last and how much longer could she hold on? Dashing out mid-morning after gulping coffee and downing a banana for breakfast, she skipped lunch in lieu of attending sales.

Impulsively, she twisted off the water bottle cap, lifted it to her lips and sipped. How wondrously moist and delicious water tasted when you were truly thirsty! Her dry mouth savored the wetness, but she resisted the temptation to down it quickly in case of an adverse reaction. Studying the bottle, she couldn’t think how to use it as a weapon. Still, she wished she had something, anything, to defend herself. Could she rip up a bench slat? That attempt failed. Could she punch a hole in the walls of this room or kick the door out? Those didn’t work either.

Mentally replaying her conversation with that man, she had no idea where her “servant” idea originated. But with the offer in play, she must make it successful if given any chance. Should he go for it, maybe she’d be out of this prison room to find some way to escape.

When Wrestler opened the room’s door earlier, she knew from the light beyond he wasn’t sitting outdoors, so where was this room? She’d heard crime rescue stories of captured women held in secret basement dungeons. The thin brightness behind his chair suggested subterranean lighting. If in such a place, might she leave this small room only to find herself in a bigger room with no escape? Yet if he came in and out of this place, potentially so could she.

What if she gained his confidence so he took her to his house to do chores? She’d have a chance there, except for the dog, which would certainly reappear since she’d stupidly revealed to the man in his driveway that she feared them. She cursed her foolishness and trembled at the prospect of facing that animal again.

Her lifelong wariness of dogs stemmed from childhood, when a nasty-tempered Rottweiler chased, cornered and bit her. Since then, she avoided dogs whenever possible but still knew something about them from pet-owning friends. Could she use that knowledge with this animal? Always hungry, dogs loved food, unless this one was trained to accept it from his master only. But would she have access to food? Observing how the man dealt with the dog might offer clues such as its name or the man’s commands, which she could later repeat to her advantage.

Absent feeding the dog, might she try petting or kindness? Dream on! This animal viciously knocked her down on one command, yet instantly obeyed other commands not to rip her to pieces or eat her alive! That meant a highly-trained dog responding quickly to complex instructions. Any escape strategy surely hinged on neutralizing the dog’s power… unless she could eliminate him entirely. But how?

And what about escape? Even given the opportunity, she had no idea where she was or which way to go. If still at the man’s house, should she run into the fields behind the house or back down the driveway to the street, where a car might happen along? Though the road had little traffic earlier, might morning or evening rush hours change that pattern to her advantage? If he caught her running down an empty road, recapture was a given and recapture insured punishment so dire that she’d probably welcome death.

She could run to the nearest neighbor’s house, but what if that neighbor was away and his doors locked? The man and the dog would overtake her in no time, away from the street where nobody heard her cries.

If allowed into Wrestler’s house, wherever that might be, perhaps she could phone for help. They’d ask for the address. She didn’t know the house number or even the street name since she got here taking unfamiliar shortcuts. Did police investigate 9-1-1 hang-ups? Could they trace the call or would they dismiss it as a prank? What if the man had no hard-wired phone but a cell phone with bills sent to a post office box? Hard to trace that!

Even if he tried her “servant plan,” that was a short commitment. How long until it no longer amused him, or until her work didn’t measure up if he were critical?

This underscored swift action, yet not so fast that she botched her chance to escape. A second chance wouldn’t exist! If only she hadn’t impulsively gone to his house, if only she could leave this prison, if only she found a way out, if only she could live to see Jason and her children again, if only...

Suffering no ill effects from the water, she took another drink, opened the crackers and inhaled their fragrant, salty aroma. Surprised at the urgency of her hunger and how unexpectedly delicious this food tasted, she munched ravenously, washing the saltines down with swigs of water. Despite her depressing circumstances, the food energized her.

She gave a wry laugh. “Well, at least I’m trying to think outside the box!” she said aloud to her rectangular enclosure, aware of the tragic irony in her words.

CHAPTER 31

D
ozing but instantly
awake
when the lock clicked and the door opened, Jennifer sat up quickly. Wrestler stood in the doorway beside the chair.

“Hello, Sir,” she said, hoping this subservience hid the quaver in her voice.

Ignoring her greeting, he dropped a half loaf of bread and something else onto the chair.

“You start the job
now!
Clean up and organize this cellar. Trash in bags over there, cleaning supplies by the sink. And hurry! When you finish, press that buzzer.” He pointed at something which lay beside the bread. Her cubicle’s door stood open as he disappeared from her view, his retreating footfalls audible on stairs before a distant door slammed and a lock clicked.

Good grief, had the servant idea
worked?
Or was this a trap, masquerading as a short-term edge? Would she emerge from this room only to be bludgeoned just outside? Yet hadn’t she heard him, or someone, leaving? Maybe he wasn’t the only one…

Cautious, she stepped through the door and
out of the room!
She saw now that her enclosure was a large, heavy wooden box shoved to one side of the cellar.

Six scattered dim bulbs, each suspended from a black cord attached to the bare ceiling rafters, cast poor light in the subterranean room. No clue in this artificially-lighted, windowless room as to the time of day. Unless someone or something lurked unseen, like the dog, she stood alone in a large, clutter-packed cellar.

Was this
a
basement somewhere or
the
basement in his house? If the former, she could be anywhere; if the latter, at least she was still in McLean. She wolfed down several bread slices and finished the water. In the shadowy corners of the basement stood odd-sized cardboard boxes, clusters of dusty cans and jars, old furniture, books, china, kitchen pans, suitcases, decorations, a wardrobe, records, tools, rope, laundry equipment and both full and empty canning jars—a dirty, disorderly scattered accumulation of at
least
thirty years! Heavy dust covered everything, untouched for decades, everything except the door to the box that had been her room and the clear path of activity worn across the dusty floor between it and the basement stairs.

If his house were above this, had he moved here recently? Why else the newly bought garage sale furniture now in his living room? But if so, wouldn’t the house sell with an empty basement? Maybe he rented, the landlord’s full basement a contingency of their lease agreement? Or maybe he inherited it, a beneficiary who hadn’t yet cleaned out this mess in property he now owned? Or maybe this cellar had nothing to do with where he actually lived.

Turning, she considered her task. On the floor by the sink lay broom, mop, bucket, cleansers, rags, trash bags and some empty cardboard boxes. “Clean up and organize,” he’d said. She assumed that meant grouping like items together, exactly as one might for a garage sale. She snorted wryly at this sardonic comparison. Hoping she correctly understood what he expected, she plunged ahead to impress him with her work and maybe buy survival a little longer.

The heavy old desk in the corner resisted pushing, so she grouped other furniture around it after first sweeping the floor beneath. Checking the desk drawers one at a time, she found only paper scraps, pencils, rubber bands, paperclips: the usual office debris.

His acceptance of her servant proposal was sheer luck, but now she needed more than luck; she needed a plan. As she swept, four distinct goals crossed her mind.

First, look for clues about this man in items she found here, clues to increase her understanding of him and maybe shape a survival strategy.

Second, look for more evidence of Tina’s presence: fresh digging in the floor or recent mortar in a wall where he’d hidden... something? She winced at the chilling portent of such clues.

Third, she must find or create a weapon to defend herself.

Fourth, escape!

Aware her very life might depend upon the outcome of this “job,” she bent to the broom with energy. This first job could be her last, irrespective of how well done. Or his satisfaction here
might
lead to cleaning elsewhere, perhaps above ground, with doors and windows offering
escape
. Otherwise, freedom in this enclosed cellar indeed served as a second prison, just one larger than the box. Earning a ticket out of the basement was critical!

The corner sweeping complete, she pushed and carried the other furniture from various spots around the basement to the desk. Her back hurt and her head ached, but concentrating on the work helped her push pain to the back burner. Small end tables and lamps weren’t difficult; the ancient overstuffed chairs finally responded to hard shoving, and the rusty old divided laundry tub, complete with ancient wringer, rolled at last on squeaky but functioning wheels.

Beside an aged treadle-style sewing machine sat a big rectangular sewing box. Lifting the lid exposed hundreds of thread spools, needles, pins, thimbles and the myriad accessories of a serious seamstress. “Yard goods” read a big cardboard box on the other side of the sewing machine. Inside, she found stacks of folded fabric and remnant scraps. The owner apparently made her family’s clothes and probably the curtains and tablecloths, too.

The scuffed suitcases she gathered together felt empty, but she opened each, finding predictable small trash but no clues like travel stickers or luggage tags showing names and addresses. She also investigated closed tins, old purses and small boxes.

Next, she wiped off the dusty shelves, sliding jars, ceramics and rusted food cans together at one end. From around the basement, she gathered glass, china, household items and rusting tools to line all the remaining shelves but one. There she arranged salvageable books and magazines, previously strewn about helter-skelter. Might the book titles provide insight about their owner, as at some estate sales? No, these seemed random titles without a discernable pattern. Flipping a dozen or so open, she found no owner’s name or inscription.

As she lifted a last heavy book, the musty dictionary fell open in her hand. She wondered irrationally if this page, chosen by fate, held an omen. Would it be “E” for Escape or “D” for Death? No, it opened to the “I’s”. She cringed. “I” as in Imprisoned or Impossible?

But her eye fell upon “Intelligence.” She read: “readiness of comprehension; the capacity to meet situations, especially if new and unforeseen, by a rapid and effective adjustment of behavior; also the native ability to grasp the significant factors of a complex problem or situation.”

She clung for a moment to the fragment of hope this passage invited, but closing the book and shoving it onto the shelf she wondered how intelligence dealt with an unpredictable maniac. Discouraged, she rubbed her forehead with her hands. Was this madness
really
happening?

Willing herself forward in the gloomy light, she approached piles of cardboard boxes. First she swept. Then she pushed and shoved the largest cardboard containers to an area where she could stack smaller ones on top. Some were so heavy she could hardly inch them across the floor. If only she had time to open and examine every one. “Christmas” on one, “Linens” on another, “Pillows and Cushions,” “Clothes” and so on. Should she take time to open them and learn if the contents matched the labels, or were these reused boxes with old labels meaningless to their current contents? She’d investigate them only if she had time at the end.

The few tools she found and arranged didn’t translate into lethal weapons, though she needed to defend herself. A garden trowel, a level, bolts, nails, a vice, safety glasses, a set of small graduated wrenches. No hammer, axe, shovel or sharp clippers. A short rusty screwdriver, its rod about 4” long, looked better than nothing; easy to hide, it at least gave her the illusion of some protection. Where to put it? Near the stairs seemed handy. She looked for an inconspicuous but conveniently accessible hiding place. And that’s when she saw them.

CHAPTER 32

J
ason’s first react
ion was
annoyance. Gone all day and now at six o’clock, no sign of Jennifer and no sign of dinner. Not even the courtesy of a phone call explaining she’d be late. Her obsession with these silly garage sales and the resulting “warehouse” in the garage were generally tolerable, but completely losing track of time… She’d gone too far this time!

He dialed her cell phone, got the recording and at the message prompt said, “Jen, where are you? E.T., phone home!”

His second reaction was concern. At seven o’clock, still no Jennifer, no explanation and no previous behavior like this on her part for comparison. Like anyone, she could focus narrowly on something exciting enough to temporarily block a normal sense of time. He’d done this himself at his computer, swearing he spent only ten minutes while an hour passed. But daydreaming to the exclusion of reality was not like Jennifer, nor was failing to phone to assure him not to worry.

He scrutinized the large scheduling calendar on her desk where she recorded her meetings, appointments, clubs, events, luncheons, family birthdays and anniversaries. Entries filled most of the squares, but this particular Saturday showed a blank.

He tried her cell phone again, first pressing the paging option, then leaving another message. “Jen, where are you? At least phone to let me know you’re okay. Do you want me to eat alone or wait for you?”

His third reaction was anxiety. No word by eight o’clock indicated something wrong. His mind wandered over possibilities. Could she be at a meeting she’d forgotten to mention or stopped to visit Denise, or another friend or one of their children? Could she have run out of gas or had an accident with the car? But surely she would call, unless too seriously injured. In that case, was the next step to call the hospitals?

Again, he tried her cell, leaving a curt message this time. “Jen, I’m worried. Please call home ASAP to let me know you’re all right.”

Should he call the police? He picked up the phone, stared at it a moment, and cradled it. How would it sound? “My wife is two hours late for dinner. Please start a manhunt.” Yet how long
should
he wait; wouldn’t acting right away make sense if she were in trouble? They involved the police fast when Tina disappeared, but she was
still
missing. He felt the hairs on his neck prickle.

Becca wandered into the kitchen at dinner time. “Where’s Mom?”

“Not back yet,” Jason said. “Any idea where she might be?”

Hannah joined them at the table. “No, but that’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry, we’ll just snack.”

Teenagers. It’s all about
them
. Jason watched as they filled plates with leftovers and faded into other rooms, apparently unconcerned. Good old Mom always returned!

He phoned their other children, on the chance she’d stopped by or they’d remember her mentioning plans for tonight. No enlightenment, just polite concern and requests to let them know when she turned up. After all, this was Mom and moms like theirs didn’t just
disappear!

Shortly after 8 p.m. Becca announced, “We’re going to a movie, Dad, unless you want us to stay here with you to wait for Mom? There’s a good reason she’s late. You know Mom!”

He thought he
did
know “Mom.” That ’s precisely why he was so worried. He wondered at his daughters’ entirely different take on the same situation, envying their casual lack of worry. They seemed to agree about Jennifer’s normal dependability and self-reliance, but did their comfort zone demand such indestructible parents that other possibilities were unthinkable?

“No,” he said, not yet wanting to alarm them unnecessarily. “Go on, but take your cell phones.”

“Okay, but we can’t have them on during the show.”

“Good point,” he acknowledged. “I forgot about that. Is Adam going along?”

“No, he’s on duty tonight.”

“Ah,” mumbled Jason, as a plan formed. “Well, have fun!”

With effort, he watched the ticking wall clock inch toward nine o’clock. Then he uncoiled like a spring, picked up the phone, dialed the police station and asked for Detective Iverson.

“He’s out on a call right now. Would you like his voice mail?”

“I... yes, I guess that’s what to do.” After the buzzes, Adam’s recording and the beep, Jason spoke to the answering machine.

“Hey, Adam, this is Jason Shannon. We seem to have a little problem here and would appreciate your input. Actually, we
need
your input. Please call me, whenever you get this message, no matter how late.” He repeated the home phone number.

By ten o’clock, Jason felt fear. He phoned Fairfax police and again asked for Adam, who still wasn’t back. “Look,” he said to the operator, “this may be… this is an emergency and I must speak with Detective Iverson. Would you contact him to phone me right away, please?” He gave her the call-back information.

Moments later the phone rang and Jason spilled out the story to Adam.

“Sir, I can initiate a few things, checking traffic accident reports just like we did in Tina’s case. I can also start some unofficial snooping that might help.”

“What if she hit a deer or ran off the road and down an embankment? No collision report would show up for that, but she could still be in trouble.”

“True, sir, but we usually hear about those before long. Someone usually sees or hears something. Our patrols also look for unusual roadside situations. Why don’t you sit tight for a few minutes while I get some information? I’ll call you right back.”

“Thanks, Adam. This means a lot!”

“Glad to help, Sir, and try not to worry. There’s…”

“…usually a simple explanation.” Jason finished the detective’s sentence. “Yeah, I know…”