“Hello, I’m Tyler Savoy. I’m the agent they sent up from CASKU. I’m sure that the officers already explained who I am and what I do.”
“Somewhat.” Helena nodded. Patrick came into the library and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Part of my job is to profile what we call UNSUBS, meaning unknown subjects, or, in layman’s terms, the criminal.” He paused and the sound of his voice took on a more compassionate tone. “In this case, I will be profiling the type of person who might have taken your daughter. I need to go over a few details with the officer in charge, then I’ll get back with you folks. Why don’t you try to relax for a moment? I know how disconcerting Detective Collier can be.”
“Thank you,” Helena said, watching as the agent left them in the library.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” James said.
Helena turned to face Patrick. “Is Frankie coming back? Please tell me she is.”
“Yes,” Patrick whispered. “We have to believe that. There’s no other alternative.”
Helena collapsed into his arms and cried. All barriers were down between them now, no room anymore for old hostilities and resentments. They were two parents who loved their daughter, and wanted only to see her again—alive.
Throughout the morning, several people at the magazine came up congratulating Claire for a story well written. Though she smiled and thanked them, she wasn’t proud of her work. The story somehow left a void deep in her stomach. Even getting the front page gave her no sense of joy. When she’d found out the Kiley kid had disappeared, she’d tried to stop the presses. She knew how her work would impact the girl’s family and felt like she was rubbing salt in their wounds. How miserable for her parents.
She looked at her watch. Damn, she was running behind. She had to get up north. She’d been trying to gather her information on Bridget Core and finally had everything, including the interview with the mother, which had been dictated onto an old steno pad.
It was a quarter past nine. She should’ve left by now, but she had to talk to Paul, her editor, about the Kiley story. She wanted off of it. Her conscience was bothering her.
“What the hell are you doing here, Travers? You’re supposed to be up in Santa Barbara with the rest of the buzz. Get on out that door. I’m not paying you to dick around,” said Paul Vernezza, her very Italian, very arrogant boss.
“I’ve got a problem with this story.”
“Problem?”
“Haven’t we attacked these people enough? We’ve already convicted and tried them. Let’s get all the facts before we hang them!”
“What you’ve got, Claire, is a problem with me—and it’s a problem that’ll only get bigger the longer you sit around here. You’re supposed to get anything that sounds good, and if they’re facts—wonderful! We’re not destroying lives; we report on the scandals of people destroying their own lives. They’re public figures, and as such aren’t entitled to their privacy. Privacy, schmivacy. They do dirt; we dig it up. Now go, dig!”
“Take me off of it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He stroked his long black mustache, a nervous tic. Claire knew that his tough guy act was simply that, an act.
“It’s personal. I really need to be off of this story.”
“Hell, no! Chop, chop, Travers. I’ve had enough of your crap. Let’s go!”
Claire slammed down her fists on top of her desk. “Look! I told you I can’t write this story!”
“Ha, ha! Very funny. Now, get me the dirt on that Shea woman and her ex and their kid. Get it
today
!”
Before she had time to think about the consequences, Claire walked around to the front of her cubicle where Paul Vernezza stood. She stabbed the eraser end of her pencil into his chest and yelled, “You know what, Paul? Get your own dirt! I’ve got better things to do.” She grabbed her purse off the back of her chair and stormed down the hall.
“Travers, get your ass back here! I’m your
boss
! I said . . .”
Over her shoulder, she replied, “I heard what you said. But guess what? I quit! I’ll be back for my things later.” She smiled, elated and really proud of herself. Claire marched from the building where she’d worked for nearly eight years. Now it was over, just like that. No worries. Something else was around the corner, she was sure—something a great deal bigger and better. She got behind the wheel of her Camry, and before long, she was driving north on the Ventura Freeway, headed straight for Tyler Savoy.
“I’m glad you like the old movies. I love them. They have a quality about them that filmmakers can’t churn out today.” He turned to look back at her as he popped
The Raven
into the VCR.
Frankie hadn’t picked out the movie, although he was trying to make it sound like she had. She definitely didn’t want to watch an old horror flick with him.
She could tell by looking outside that it was early in the morning, maybe six or seven. Condensation sat on the windows. She’d actually spent an entire night in this pit of hell.
He came over and sat back down on the sofa, right next to her. Fortunately, he didn’t sit too close. She shrunk back a bit. He smelled strongly of expensive cologne, like the kind her father wore.
“By the way, since we haven’t exactly had a formal introduction, you can call me
Poe
. I know I told you my name last night, but I wasn’t sure if you remembered it. I know your family and friends call you Frankie, but I prefer Francesca. It’s such an elegant name, so classic and beautiful, like the young Francesca da Rimini in Dante’s
Inferno
. It’s much nicer than Frankie, which sounds to me like a little boy’s name. And you are definitely
not
a little boy.” He looked her up and down.
She shuddered.
Stay calm and collected
. What was with his weird obsession with Edgar Allan Poe? If she ever got out of here, she’d remember that detail about him. Freak.
Frankie had studied Poe in her English class the previous semester. As haunting as his work had been, she was sure he’d never kidnapped anyone, and she knew he’d never killed anybody, at least not in the real world.
“Nicholson is great, isn’t he? But that ridiculous haircut, my God—it’s ghastly. Don’t you think? He looks like a homosexual or something.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Brianne wouldn’t watch this with me. She was too fragile, and, well, this kind of stuff would’ve been too much for her. You’re a lot stronger than she ever was.”
Afraid to ask exactly what he meant, Frankie wondered who Brianne was, and
where
she was. Brianne was probably the woman in the photographs. He was obsessed with the pictures and referred constantly to this Brianne person. And then there were the creepy masks hanging all over the place. She tried not to think about the one that looked so much like Leeza.
“Would you like a coke? Some popcorn?” Frankie shook her head. “Now, come on, Francesca. I want your stay here to be as pleasant as possible, considering all you’ve been through in your life. You deserve a treat. It’s a movie. We’ve got to have a snack. I know it’s the breakfast hour, but I want to spend as much fun time with you as I can. I’ve got to go to work, so I thought we could be together early this morning. I’ll make some anyway. You might change your mind.”
He went into the kitchen to fix the popcorn, and Frankie decided to appease him by eating some, even though she felt like barfing it up directly on him. That would be perfect. Then he’d have to undo her handcuffs.
“I did change my mind,” she said in a barely audible whisper. She hoped it wasn’t poisoned.
“Good girl. I thought you might.” He set down two bowls of popcorn on the coffee table along with sodas.
“Could you undo my handcuffs?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I see your point.” He went back into the kitchen, but she didn’t turn around—too obvious. She heard him close a drawer. He came back over and undid the handcuffs, but left her feet shackled.
“Thank you.” She mustered a thin smile.
“You’re welcome. See? I’m not such a bad guy.”
The movie seemed to last for hours. Frankie laughed whenever he did. She didn’t want him to think that she was frightened.
He ejected the movie and turned off the VCR. “I’d love for us to watch another, but it’s getting late. I’ve made you a sandwich. I set it on the nightstand in your room. That way, you can eat when you get hungry. Okay?”
Frankie nodded, wondering where he worked. Did he have a wife and child? Was he one of those sickos that seems ordinary to his neighbors and lives a double life? He reminded her of the kind of people she saw regularly on the news, the ones the neighbors always thought were such nice guys before they murdered their entire family out of the blue and then committed suicide.
He unshackled her feet and held onto her tightly as he escorted her back to her quarters. “Okay, Francesca, I’ll be nice and leave your hands unrestrained for now, so that you can eat. But I have to shackle your feet again. There
are
rules around here. If you abide by them, you’ll be fine and we’ll have a lot of fun. First, don’t try to escape or yell out. No one lives nearby, so no one can hear or help you, anyway. I’d hate to see you waste your energy. If you ever try to leave me, Francesca, then I’ll regretfully have to kill you.
“Finally, it is imperative that you be grateful for everything I do for you. Therefore, when I offer you something, I want you to take it, indulge yourself, and learn to love it. I trust you won’t disappoint me. I have a feeling you are of a different caliber than your mother, and will be grateful for all I have done and am doing for you. Please do not disappoint me.
Do you understand?
” He got right in her face so she could smell his foul breath.
Frankie wanted to cry, but instead responded with a meek, “Yes.” She wanted to ask him why he’d mentioned her mother. It startled her. Was Helena also in danger from this man?
“Good. Oh, and there’s also a bucket for you next to the bed. I’m sure you can figure out what that’s for. I’d prefer you to hold it though.” He left the room.
Frankie heard a sound of several locks being turned outside the door. She didn’t let her guard down until she heard the gravel crunching under his car tires as he drove away. She stared at the tuna sandwich he’d made her. She wanted to hurl it against the wall.
The comment he’d made about her mother terrified her. She had to escape this dungeon and get to Helena before he did. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, enraged at this psycho who got off on calling himself Poe. She missed her mom and dad who must be worried sick about her by now. More than anything, she longed to be with them. She had to get out of here and back to her parents—to her family.
Helena couldn’t sleep, eat, or even cry any longer. Tyler Savoy was at least of some comfort. He’d assured both her and Patrick that he believed in their innocence. He’d gotten Collier off their backs, but Helena was certain she hadn’t seen the last of the sneering detective. Tyler had also been sensitive and seemingly understanding when she’d told him about the incidents leading up to all this. Though he didn’t accuse her of hiding anything, he also didn’t indicate whether or not he thought the man’s phone calls and the fire had anything to do with Frankie’s disappearance. He did promise to speak with the inspector in charge of the arson team leading the investigation into the fire at Shea House. She was grateful to him for that.
In her mind she kept replaying the events of the last two weeks, wondering where she could’ve done something differently.
Her head ached so badly that she really wanted something much stronger than an aspirin to relieve it. Her despair was immeasurable. Her child was missing, possibly hurt, or worse—although she refused to accept that; her dear friend was lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life; the recovery center she’d invested her heart and soul into had literally gone up in smoke just when it was ready to open; she was suspected of murder; and the public had already tried and convicted her, making her a complete outcast.
She silently repeated the Serenity Prayer over and over again to no avail. She walked back into Patrick’s bathroom to clean up. Looking for his toothpaste, she found a bottle of Valium inside the medicine cabinet. Her hands shook as she held it, staring at it. It was half-empty. She set it back inside the cabinet and quickly shut the door. But her demons kept saying,
Go ahead, it’s all right. Just take one. Maybe you can relax, feel better, and focus on finding Frankie. It’s just
one
. You’ll be fine. Go on, take it.
” She really did need some sleep, so she could think more clearly. But if she took one, what would it mean? She was so tired, and her head hurt so badly, and damn the world for turning its back—and now Frankie was gone. Without trying to justify it any further, Helena took out the pills and poured a few into her hand.
“What are you doing?”
She abruptly turned around to see Patrick.
He took the pills out of her palm. “This won’t help. Dammit, how could you think
this
would help us right now? Will a pill bring her home? My God, Helena, have you lost your mind?”