Complete Mia Kazmaroff

by Kiernan-Susan Lewis

  “This is Sandy Gilstrap.” Sandy’s voice came onto the line. She spoke hurriedly as if afraid of who might be on the other end.

  “I’ve got her, Sandy,” Jack said, so elated to say the words out loud that he nearly choked on them. “She’s safe. It’s over.”

  Sandy screamed and Jack could hear the sounds of other women on her end talking to her.

  “Mama?” Twyla said again.

  “Sandy, she’s right here. Say a few words.”

  He held the phone to Twyla and punched the speaker so as not to frighten her by getting too close.

  “Twyla? Baby?” Sandy said, her voice thick with tears. “Oh, my God, baby, I’m coming! Where are you? Oh, baby girl—”

  “Mama!” Twyla sat up with a struggle and reached for Jack’s phone. “Mama, come get me,” she said, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Mama…” And the two were sobbing to each other on the phone.

  In the distance, the urgent whine of the ambulance sped closer and closer.

  *****

  “Loose cannon careening off the aft deck,” Mia muttered as she walked to the closest bedroom door to her. It was a massive double set of doors, so she knew before she touched the knob that it was the master bedroom. She hesitated, her hand inches from the handle before she pulled away.

  While granted everything she was doing was a pretty serious invasion of anybody’s idea of privacy, the last thing she was ready for was incontrovertible evidence that Jack had been sharing Sandy’s bed.

  Trust him. Trust him without knowing for sure. Just trust him.

  She backed away from the bedroom and went to the next room. When she touched the doorknob, she was assaulted with a sensation of cold horror. She pushed the door open in order to stop touching the thing—malevolent and sick. When she did, she saw with a shock that the bedroom was inhabited.

  The soft snores that came from the king bed against the far wall of the room seemed to fill the room with their resonance.

  Crap! Somebody’s home. Is it the girl?

  Mia tiptoed closer to the bed, careful not to touch anything. An old woman slept deeply, her mouth open, drool collecting on her pillow. Mia looked around and saw photos on the dresser, a collection of medicine on the bedside table. The woman’s closet doors were flung open and Mia could see it was full of hanging clothes.

  So whoever this is, she lives here.

  Mia took two silent steps to the attached bathroom and looked inside. Hair products, face lotion, toothpaste. One by one, Mia picked them up. By the third item, she had to force herself to touch them. Each one was infused with sadness, hopelessness, and anger. Mia’s stomach fluttered for a moment and she put a hand on the sink to steady herself, praying she wouldn’t vomit. Was this woman terminally ill? Mia looked at her in the bed. And then made up her mind.

  She moved back to the bed and slowly, gently, placed a hand on the old woman’s head. The sadness sprang back at Mia so powerfully she was momentarily staggered by the sensation.

  Something terrible has happened. Something evil.

  Why had Jack and Sandy left her here? Do they not know how desperately hurt she is? Are they oblivious?

  Mia went into the hallway and shut the door soundlessly behind her. No, Jack wasn’t oblivious. Mia could tell that by everything she touched of his.

  Something evil and unmanageable was living in this house and Jack knew all about it.

  Giving herself a few moments to recover, Mia passed the other bedroom doors and walked to the end of the hall and took a long breath, shaking out the sensations from her fingers. Perspiration gathered on the back of her neck. Was it the house that was evil? It wasn’t the old lady, that much Mia had felt. She was a victim of some kind.

  But how?

  She touched the doorknob on the room at the end of the hall. Before she picked up on anything else, she knew that Jack had touched it last. The feeling of him, so fresh, so vivid, so visceral, flooded her with a rush of pleasure. Under the Jack-feeling, though, was something else. She pushed open the door and looked in. His overnight bag sat on the floor by a desk. She looked at the bed. It was made up, which told her nothing. Jack was a neat freak. Just because the bed was made didn’t mean he hadn’t been sleeping there.

  She moved to the attached bathroom and glanced at Jack’s toiletries on the counter. Tentatively, she touched his shaving cream and again felt only a sense of him. A little sad, but nothing more.

  His toothpaste, the same, and his razor, too. No hint of pleasure or happiness—as you’d expect if you were picking up an old love affair—but no crushing sadness like in the old lady’s room. There was an undercurrent of helplessness and edginess, but it was hard to define or hold on to for long.

  It was getting late. So far Mia didn’t have much to add to what she already knew. She’d risked a lot for very little. She went back into the bedroom and straight to Jack’s overnight bag. She picked it up and felt the essence of Jack in her hands: businesslike, controlled, a tinge of anger.

  Frustrated, she turned to his closet. He probably hadn’t hung up anything in it but she might as well be thorough. She got no further than a brief touch on the handle on the closet door. She fell backward as an electrifying tremor of evil etched its way from her fingers to her shoulder. She shook her hand to dissipate the sensation.

  What the hell was that?

  She looked around the room then went to the bed and jerked the covers back. The feeling of Jack jumped up into her throat and she felt a guilty wash of relief. He’d slept here—at least once anyway. She returned to the closet, took a bracing breath, and touched the handle again.

  Again, a sensation of depravity coursed up her arm. She wrenched open the closet, letting go as soon as she could. Inside were men’s slacks and shirts. No dead bodies. No decapitated heads. And yet…

  The last person who touched this closet was a killer.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Twyla smiled weakly at him as the EMTs lifted her gurney into the back of the ambulance.

  “Your mother is on her way to the hospital,” he said, his heart swelling with emotion, before they closed the doors. She nodded, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  Jack called Maxwell before the ambulance had completed a full turn to head back to Dahlonega. He walked to the entrance of the bunker. Maxwell answered on the second ring.

  “You got a lot of nerve calling me,” he growled.

  “I’ve just recovered the victim of a kidnapping and now I’m reporting a crime,” Jack said.

  There was a pause on the line.

  “Still there, Chief?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I recovered the hostage at Unicoi State Park in the Chattahoochee forest. I’m personally related to the victim and would like to go to the hospital as soon as possible. Could you send someone to secure the crime scene?”

  “I’ll call the National Park Rangers. And then the feds,” Maxwell said. “Will you be there?”

  “If I have to be.”

  “You do.”

  After they disconnected, Jack walked back to the bunker. His prints were already on the handle so he pulled the door open and descended into the storm shelter. Using the flashlight on his smartphone, he scanned the dirt walls and the ground for anything that might conclusively reveal the identity of the kidnapper.

  The smell forced him to breathe out of his mouth as he looked around. There was a blanket on the ground where Twyla had been lying. It was badly soiled and covered in fast-food boxes and paper. He squatted next to it and, using his pen, pulled the manufacturers laundry tag until he could read it. Made of cashmere and silk.

  Pretty expensive hostage wrapping for your common variety kidnapper from South Georgia. There was nothing else to see with just a penlight and he was determined not to trample the existing footprints and whatever DNA might still be clinging to the surroundings that weren’t Twyla’s.

  Let the CSI guys do their thing. He emerged into the light and took a long, cle
ansing breath of fresh air. Could her stepfather really have kept her down there for a week? Thrown burgers at her like she was a caged animal and left her there under the ground, in the dark?

  Could Eugene really have done this?

  He moved back to the SUV to wait for the Rangers to show up. While he waited, he scrolled back through the photos Mia had taken in case he’d let something escape him. After he’d studied them all, one by one, he realized his hands were trembling. He took in and let out a long breath and let himself bask in the fact that the horror was behind them.

  It was over. Twyla was safe. He was going to get the chance to know his daughter after all. He smiled at the thought of telling Vernetta the great news. Sandy had no doubt already called her, but just in case she was too distracted by unbridled relief and euphoria, he put a call into Vernetta’s cell phone. He heard it ring before finally rolling over to voice mail.

  She must still be dead to the world on whatever pill Sandy had given her.

  He started up the car and opened Sandy’s phone to find a GPS app for the fastest way to the Dahlonega hospital. The seatbelt chime sounded to alert him the car was on but he had yet to fasten his seatbelt. He reached for the belt and then stopped, his breath held in a sharp intake in his throat.

  He knew that sound. He knew that sound deep in his bones and in the darkest corners of his worst nightmare. He let the chime sound on and on, his hand hovering over the seatbelt buckle but not touching it. He picked up the small recorder on the seat next to him, rewound it, turned off the car to stop the alert sounding, and pushed play. He listened to the girl’s voice, this time without the sounds of the highway flying by, without the nerves and fear that had driven him and obliterated the finer points of the recording.

  This time he heard the same distinctive chiming in the background of the recording—the lilting melody that signaled the seatbelt alert from a 2015 Lexus SUV.

  Just like the one he was sitting in.

  Just like the one Sandy’s bodyguard had driven to Valdosta.

  An hour later, Jack hurried into the Emergency Room at Dahlonega General Hospital. He’d spent most of the drive to Dahlonega wondering what it meant that Sandy’s bodyguard could possibly be involved in the kidnapping. When was the last time Sandy had spoken to Jay? One thing was for sure, now wasn’t the time to ask her. Not on the happiest day of her life. Today was for one thing and Jack intended that Sandy be able to enjoy it fully before the business of retribution was introduced.

  He assured the federal agent who’d met him at the crime scene that both he and Mrs. Gilstrap would cooperate in order to find the person who’d done this.

  Jack went to the first triage nurse who lifted her head and made eye contact with him.

  “Twyla Gilstrap?” he said. “Brought in by ambulance an hour ago?”

  “You are?”

  “Family.”

  She jerked her head in the direction of a hallway of curtained treatment rooms. He glanced between the gaps of the curtains until he found the one with Sandy’s voice high and emotional coming from within. He raked back the curtain and both faces—Sandy and Twyla’s—turned to look at him. Twyla was dressed in a green hospital gown, but her naked feet were still black with dirt, her fingernails still chipped and grimy.

  “Jack!” Sandy lunged at him, wrapping her arms around him. “You did it! You brought my baby home.”

  Jack eyed Twyla over Sandy’s back and gave her a feeble smile.

  “How you doing, Twyla?” he asked, gently disengaging from Sandy.

  “How does it look like I’m doing?” she said, her face streaked with tears.

  “The doctor says she’s not hurt physically, thank God,” Sandy said, hurrying back to Twyla’s side, “but she’s had a very bad experience.”

  “Do you know who did this to you?” Jack said, moving closer to the treatment table. The overpowering odors of hospital disinfectants helped mask the girl’s smell. The best medicine at this point would probably be a bath.

  Twyla looked at Sandy. Her eyes were blue and deep set, just like all the Burtons. Her lips were full, too, like Jack’s.

  “Twyla, darling, this is Jack,” Sandy said. “He has been with me during this terrible, terrible time.”

  “Did you know the guy who did this to you?” Jack repeated. He kept his face friendly, his voice firm.

  “She says she doesn’t,” Sandy said, reaching for Twyla’s hand. “Eugene didn’t let her see his face.”

  “It wasn’t Daddy!” Twyla said, snatching her hand away from Sandy. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “But, darling, you said you never saw the man’s face or heard his voice.”

  “I don’t have to hear Daddy’s voice to know him! You think he could carry me, feed me—even with me blindfolded—and I wouldn’t know it was him? It wasn’t Daddy!”

  Sandy turned to Jack. “She’s upset. She might even have some kind of amnesia after what she’s been through. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “How did he grab you?” Jack asked. “Ethan said he left you at Lenox Square and you never showed up for your nail appointment.”

  Twyla hugged herself. “Some girl came up behind me and handed me a note. Said my dad gave it to her. The note said he was in the parking garage and I should meet him there. I couldn’t believe he was in Atlanta. I ran all the way there. When to the garage—there was nobody there. I looked around and all of a sudden someone pulled a bag over my head and shoved me in a car trunk.”

  She was shaking and Jack had to resist the urge to wrap his arms around her.

  “So your dad did do it!” Sandy said. “That confirms it!”

  “You just hate him so bad you want it to be him,” Twyla said, pawing at the tears flowing down her cheeks with grubby hands and leaving dark streaks down her face.

  “But I’ve talked to him, face-to-face, angel. He admitted it.”

  “I don’t believe you. There’s no way he’s in Atlanta.”

  “I called his place of employment,” Jack said, watching the girl’s face carefully. She looked lucid. “They said he wasn’t there.”

  “Of course not,” Twyla said. “He always goes fishing the middle of October. Goes to West Virginia every year.” She narrowed her eyes at her mother. “You know that.”

  “I know you need to rest now, sweetheart.”

  Jack felt another piece of the puzzle click into place. “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “Eugene takes an annual fishing trip?”

  “Every year,” Twyla said. “Has done as long as I’ve been alive. Mom knows. Tell him.”

  Jack turned to look at Sandy, his hand running through his hair. The disbelief of the moment blossomed into something so monumental he was sure he was about to lose it.

  “Well, he didn’t this year,” Sandy said, looking at Twyla, not looking at Jack.

  He stepped into the hall, his breath was coming fast and hard. He stood for a moment, looking but seeing nothing, feeling everything, his mind flying faster than his thoughts could keep up. Suddenly, he pulled Sandy’s phone out of his pocket and scrolled through her photos. He found what he was looking for and sent the jpeg as an attachment in an email. He punched in one of the last numbers he’d called.

  “Hello?” Ethan answered immediately.

  “Hey, I’m sending you a photo of the guy who asked you for directions.”

  “You know him?”

  “It’s a wild guess. Text me back if you recognize him.”

  “Okay.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “Like I was run over. Twice.”

  Sandy stepped out into the hallway and gave Jack a questioning look.

  “Okay. Let me know,” Jack said, before hanging up and looking at Sandy. She slapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes round over her fingers.

  “Oh, please don’t tell me there’s more bad news,” she moaned. “Is it Mama? Has she been hurt?”

  Jack stared at her. “Were you expecting her to
be?”

  “What? No…I thought that call was about Mama. I guess I’m just so used to bad things happening lately…”

  Her words were the same old Sandy patter he’d gotten used to hearing in the past six days, but there was a hardness in her eyes Jack had never seen before. Later, he would say it was that look she gave him, standing there in the hospital corridor. It was a blatantly calculating look—as if she were trying to decide how much he’d figured out. And it was the look that when he saw it finally illuminated the whole sordid picture. Up until then, he had no other reason beyond a few clues, but that look—as stark as the laugh from an unrepentant serial killer—made everything come together without a single word.

  His phone dinged alerting him of an incoming text. He looked at the screen.

 

  Jack glanced at the picture of Jay he’d found on Sandy’s phone and sent to Ethan.

  “Why did you send me to Quincy’s?” he asked.

  She stopped her reentry into Twyla’s room, but didn’t turn around. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I didn’t send you anywhere.”

  “It wasn’t Eugene you met in the parking lot. It was Jay, wasn’t it?”

  Now she did turn around. She seemed to have given up the effort of appearing surprised.

  “What makes you think so?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

  “I looked at the photos again of you and the guy in the car. The guy is mad as hell. But you’ve got one hand on the steering wheel like you’re waiting for your latté order, not phased one bit.”

  She hesitated, her expression unreadable.

  “Yeah, not at all the weepy, cowering mess I’ve had on my hands for the last week,” he continued. “Almost not the same person at all.”

  “Nice image. Thank you, Jack. ” Her lip curled with disdain.

  “You think I won’t testify against you?”

  “Testify to what? What crime do you think I’m guilty of? Surely you’re not suggesting I planned my own child’s kidnapping?”

  The way she said it, smooth, emotionless—almost proud—was when Jack knew without a doubt that was exactly what she’d done. He dropped his hands to his side.