by L V Gaudet
“No, you are not,” Ryan says. “You are not dead and I’m going to find you again. I just have to find out what he did with you.”
“Where are you Cassie? Where did he hide you?”
He looks at her.
“I’m dead,” Cassie says. She is Jane Doe, the adult woman he thought was little Cassie grown up. She stares at him with those empty eyes, lost in a haze of the drugs the hospital had given her. She is wearing the hospital gown, her hair dishevelled and an intravenous tube trails from one hand.
Ryan turns his attention back to the road.
“I know who might know where you are.”
“Who?” Cassie asks and she is the little girl again, his Cassie.
“His father, William McAllister.”
“Maybe,” Cassie says. “If he’s still alive.”
“He’s still alive.”
“What if he won’t tell you? What if he knows, but refuses to tell you?”
“I’ll make him tell me. If I have to go after his wife, I will make him tell me. I know where she is too.”
“You wouldn’t really hurt her, would you?” Cassie’s voice is small. “I always wanted a grandma. She’s like my grandma.”
“She is not your grandma and he is not your grandpa. He is not our father, not our real father. You just don’t remember our real father. You were too little.”
“If you hurt them, grandpa and grandma, I will not forgive you.”
Ryan doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He clenches his teeth and stares straight ahead, driving on.
All he wants right now is to get home to her, Kathy. Elaine, he reminds himself.
22Next Door
Jim McNelly is leaving Jason McAllister’s rooming house feeling more satisfied than he should be. He is confident he has forced McAllister’s hand.
McAllister will stew on it a little, worrying over it, doubting, and then he will have to check and find out what I know. Then I’ll have him. He will lead me either to Michael Underwood or to the still missing Jane Doe or Katherine Kingslow. Maybe to William McAllister. Better if it’s Michael Underwood.
He gets in his car and notices the police car parked just a few houses up.
He has a bad feeling about it. It isn’t the best neighbourhood, and crime and police cars are expected, but it’s just too close to this particular house.
His phone rings. He looks down at the number and answers it.
“McNelly.”
He listens.
“Ok, I got it, thanks.” He hangs up.
He gets back out of the car and waddles heavily to the house a couple doors up. It’s the house the woman Jason has been watching lives in.
He walks in the front door without knocking.
Two uniformed officers are standing over a distraught looking man sitting in a kitchen chair. One of them is busily scratching in his note pad.
The man looks up at the fat detective with the same hollow-eyed look he has seen too many times. He looks trauma stricken, eyes red-rimmed and afraid. Seeing Jim does not put him at ease.
Jim pulls his badge out and flashes it perfunctorily.
“Detective Jim McNelly,” he says. “Let’s start at the top. When was the last time you saw your wife?”
Jason McAllister retreats to his room the moment Jim leaves. He feels shaken. Sick.
“I have to get out of here.”
McNelly is going to talk to my father.
Even at his age, his father now a withered old man, the thought strikes a chord of fear in him. He is still, after all these years, afraid of his father, William McAllister.
Worse, he might go so far as to visit my mother. Who knows what she might say.
Jason goes to the window to watch Jim leave. Jim gets in his car, but instead of driving away, he gets out a moment later and starts walking.
He is out of Jason’s line of sight by the time he reaches the far edge of the frontage of the house next door. It doesn’t matter. Jason knows where he’s going.
He smiles shakily.
“That will keep him busy.” He pictures a route in his mind, himself slipping out the door, staying close to the house and ducking low as he moves past the house on the other side. A few houses down and he will be able to cut across to the next street and he will be gone.
McNelly will never see me go. Everyone knows the first twelve hours in a missing person case are the most important. If they don’t find the missing person by then, their chances begin to drop exponentially.
He smiles as he hastily packs a bag.
It doesn’t matter. They’ll never find her.
23Ryan Comes Home
Ryan pulls up in front of the small house, home at last.
He’s almost giddy with eagerness to see Elaine. He wants to tell her all about how the job went, about Cassie, and about his idea of going to see William McAllister in the hope he’ll tell him where Cassie is.
He shakes his head. “No, no, no, you can’t tell her,” he cautions himself. “Not yet.”
He walks up the uneven sidewalk to the door and grips the doorknob to open it.
Elaine hears a noise outside and her heart races. Her first thought is that it’s Trevor. She mentally chastises herself for feeling excitement at the thought, but she can’t push the feeling aside.
She goes to the door and reaches for the knob.
Ryan opens the door to a rush of surprise at finding Elaine standing on the other side staring up at him.
A look of disappointment flashes in her eyes in the moment it takes her brain to register that it’s not Trevor, and then for her mind to flip over to the realization that it’s Ryan.
The thrill and relief that Ryan is finally home rushes through her and she almost throws herself at him.
But something in his eyes stops her. Her smile falters just a little.
Ryan saw the flash of disappointment and it cut him deep inside. He doesn’t understand that it’s a product of her loneliness and not knowing when he will be back, a part of her deep down inside her questioning if he will even come back. Or that it’s that brief heartbeat it took her to realize he really is back at last and his coming back makes her happier than she could possibly have been if it had been anyone else at the door.
All he knows is for that brief moment she was disappointed to see him.
The question flashes in his mind. Who was she expecting? Her mother? The idea scares him. What if she contacted her mother while I was gone?
That’s it; I have to tell Anderson on the next job that I can’t leave her alone again. She’ll have to come with me after that. Anderson might not feel confident about her, but I know she can handle it. She’s strong enough.
And if she did contact her mother, then I’ll deal with that. We’ll have to move and change identities again, but we’ll get through it.
“You didn’t break down and call your mom while I was gone?” he asks, scared of what the answer will be.
“No. I promised I wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t contact anyone at all?” He studies her reaction. “Because, you know what that would mean, right? Your mom, anyone else, they probably have their phones and everything tapped. They will trace it to us and arrest me. Maybe you too for being with me.”
He looks at her searchingly.
Elaine is shaking her head, feeling like he doesn’t trust her.
“I promise, I didn’t call anyone.”
He pushes his worry aside, drops his bag on the floor, and takes Elaine in his arms, holding her tight.
“I’m back.”
“Finally,” she whispers in relief.
They hold each other for a long moment and she finally pulls herself away and looks up at him.
“Your friend from the slaughterhouse stopped by a few times to see you. I didn’t know when to tell him you would be back.”
“Friend?” He has no friends there. He can’t think of a single man there who would have any reason to come to the house looking for him.
“Trevor Mitchell.”
Ryan stiffens at the name, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Only that he was stopping by to see you, the first time anyway. He said he would keep stopping by to check on me until you get back.”
A cold chill slithers through Ryan.
He looks down at her with a frown. “He was checking on you?”
Elaine’s expression falters, her smile slipping more. “He said you would do the same for him. I thought you sent him.”
“No, I didn’t.”
His mind races with suspicion. He does not trust the man. What is he up to? He wonders silently.
Ryan keeps his concern to himself. Instead he looks at Elaine again, smiles, and sweeps her up into his arms, picking her up.
She squeals with delight.
“I’m home,” he says.
24Hawkworth has an Epiphany
The door closes on Jim and Lawrence seems to sag with it. He is exhausted after the hours he spent pouring through the boxes of old files on missing persons. Jim’s visit reinvigorated him, but only for as long as the visit lasted. Now his whole being feels like it’s made of lead.
He rubs a hand over his face roughly in an effort to make himself feel more awake. He isn’t done yet.
Getting a freshly poured cup of coffee from the pot that sat warming too long in the kitchen, he returns to the boxes of files.
“I wish he made some kind of list indexing what’s in these boxes,” Lawrence mutters as he pulls yet another file from the box before him.
Like each file before it, he opens the file, making a quick glance first for any victim photos clipped to the first page, then the sex of the victim. The one thing his predecessor had done was organize each file in an identical way despite the disorganization of the files themselves within the boxes. Knowing the man who left him the files, he knows there has to be some point to the order they were placed in the boxes, but it’s a secret that was taken to the grave with him. The first page of each folder contains a brief summary of the basic information and a photo if there is one.
No photo in this file, male, not what I’m looking for, Lawrence thinks, closing the folder and putting it aside.
He is reaching for another when his cell phone rings, startling him.
Lawrence has to fumble for a moment first to find it and then to take the call on the unaccustomed to device.
“Hawkworth,” he says into the phone.
“Hawkworth,” his editor’s voice comes to him urgently, “whatever you are working on put it aside unless it involves murder, mayhem, or the downfall of someone rich and powerful.” He sounds breathless.
“What do you have?”
“Missing woman,” Paul says, “lives only a couple doors up from the rooming house Jason T. McAllister was placed in on his release.”
Lawrence can see Paul’s slow shake of his head as if in doubtful shock and the gleam of a hot by-line in his eyes through the excitement in his voice.
He can’t help but grin mischievously.
“You can’t be suggesting it could have anything to do with Jason McAllister, could you?”
He pictures Paul pursing his lips and crinkling his forehead in annoyance on the other side of the call.
“Don’t even go there Hawkworth. I told you to leave off the Jason McAllister/Michael Underwood thing. That’s old news. Hell, it wasn’t even news when it was fresh. If there was a connection, don’t you think the police would have charged him as an accessory? No connection, the man is gone, end of story.”
“Whatever you say sir, you’re the boss.”
“I want you to find out what you can on the missing woman, any link she has to Jason McAllister. The public will eat this one up. Serial killer set loose kills again. Hang on a sec.”
Lawrence can hear background noises in Paul’s office, rustling, voices murmuring, then his editor exclaiming.
“Oh shit!”
His voice comes back on the line loud and clear, filled with a new level of shock and excitement.
“Hawkworth, check into the judge that let McAllister walk too. He was just discovered in his home office by his maid. We need a timeline. It looks like he may have gone home and killed himself after releasing McAllister.”
Lawrence stares straight ahead with stunned shock.
“That’s assuming he killed himself,” Paul says. “You got all that?”
“Yes,” Lawrence says, trying to let it sink in.
“All right, get on it.” Paul hangs up the phone.
Did the judge kill himself? Lawrence mulls it over, turning the story over in his mind as he does with every story before tackling the initial investigation. The statement feels wrong to him. Something tugs at him, a feeling inside. He turns and looks at the boxes of files. Was there something in there that he skimmed in his search about another judge who committed suicide? It’s the barest flutter of a feeling. And just like that it is gone.
Moments later it is completely forgotten.
“I need a break anyway,” Lawrence mutters.
Hours spent pouring through the files turned up nothing.
His gut feeling is that these kids he pictured at the farm, kids Jason McAllister was rumoured to have in his possession, did not belong with Jason McAllister.
Lawrence heads out. His first stop is the missing woman’s house. He parks up the street so he has to walk past the rooming house. It gives him a chance to get a look at the place and the area without being obvious about it.
He walks slowly up the street, taking in the neighbourhood.
Lawrence catches the motion of an upstairs curtain across the street from the rooming house.
A potential witness. Those are often the best ones, the nosy neighbour who can’t help but keep looking out their window at every sound. Once you get past the neurotic irrational obsessions that make them constantly peep surreptitiously on their neighbours, they are the witnesses who tend to see and remember the most detail. They’re practiced snoops.
Jim’s car is parked on the street in front of McAllister’s rooming house.
This must have been the call he got. No, he said that McAllister was on the move. He must be there somewhere, maybe inside the rooming house checking it out.
Good. I can get answers better without him there.
Lawrence keeps going. The rooming house itself sits silent and lifeless. If anyone is home, they are probably hiding out in their sad little rooms, probably hoping the police won’t knock on their door. Or, if they do, they will think they aren’t there and go away. I’ll come back to it later to check it out more thoroughly and see if I can get any information from the other residents.
Lawrence turns up the walkway to the house two doors from the rooming house. It’s a tidy little house, home and yard kept better than the rentals that surround it in this low income neighbourhood.
He mounts the steps, pausing in front of the door to raise his hand to knock even as he considers whether he should knock or just walk in, and the door swings open as if the resident was expecting him, startling the men on both sides of the door.
Jim takes in the tall lanky reporter staring blankly at a door that is no longer there.
Before Lawrence can register who is standing before him, Jim speaks. “No reporters,” he says gruffly.
“Jim!” Lawrence says, collecting himself for the push he knows he will need to get past the fat detective.
Jim uses his greater bulk to force Lawrence to step back from the door and down the steps.
“That was fast,” Jim says quietly so he won’t be heard inside as he closes the door behind him. “How did you get word of this so quickly?”
He shakes his head. “No, don’t bother to answer that. It doesn’t matter.”
He leans in toward Lawrence. “None of your usual reporter stuff, understand?”
“Funny how a woman a few doors from Jason McAllister goes missing just days aft
er he’s released,” Lawrence says.
Jim sighs. There’s no use keeping anything back. Lawrence will dig it up anyway.
“Everyone is assuming it was him, but it doesn’t fit,” Jim says. “In all the investigations digging into his past, it looks like he doesn’t soil where he sleeps.”
Lawrence knows what he means. Just like an animal won’t dirty the place it sleeps and eats with its own feces if it can avoid it, Jason McAllister is the kind of two-legged animal who does not kill where he lives. That would only increase his chances of getting caught.
“So, you don’t think it was him,” Lawrence says.
“No, I don’t. He’s been watching her, probably made her feel threatened, but my person watching him doesn’t think he had an opportunity. And, it doesn’t fit his profile.”
Lawrence looks down, thinking about it. He looks at Jim, opening his mouth to speak.
“I already thought of that,” Jim says. “I don’t think it was any of the other residents. They all have mental health issues of one sort or another, and have a list of charges behind them, prostitution, drugs, petty property and theft crimes. The only one with a history of sex crimes only goes after boys, young ones.”
“I’d be suspicious you are telling me this so I stay away from your serial killer,” Lawrence says, “except I think you are right. Do you think it’s someone else in the neighbourhood?”
“Could be, if she hasn’t just run off. Kidnapping is usually a crime of convenience or passion. Most of them aren’t very well planned out.”
Lawrence nods towards the house across from the rooming house.
“Notice the peeper up the street?”
Jim nods. “The curtain moved eight times since we stepped out here. Seems they’re pretty nervous.”
They both look up the street towards the house.
The occupant upstairs drops the rod he used to push the curtain open and steps back quickly into the darkened shadows of the corner, plastering himself to the corner, eyes wild like a caged animal. He breathes heavy and fast, trying to hold his breath as if the men up the street can hear him.
It’s them! His mind reels. No, it can’t be. You are safe. It’s at trick. They’re just people. They’re trying to trick you into thinking it’s them.