The Bear

by Dustin Stevens

  Making a non-committal sound, Wyatt thought on things a moment. “Still doesn’t give us a whole lot. Has to describe at least a decent chunk of the men in this part of the state right now.”

  That part, Reed had already thought of, refraining from adding that it also included most every hipster between Columbus and OKC as well.

  “I figured,” Reed said. “Herc said he didn’t remember anybody new coming in that matched that description, but he said he’d go back through the video for us this evening. I left my number with him, just in case.”

  “I’m guessing he paid in cash?” Wyatt asked.

  “Yeah,” Reed replied, having asked the same thing himself, knowing even as he did that they wouldn’t be lucky enough to get a credit card receipt.

  More silence followed, the quiet punctuated only by a few low and muted grunts. Imagining that Wyatt was jotting down notes, Reed waited it out, playing back his last conversations to make sure there was nothing he’d left out.

  Some small talk, a bit of personal speculation from both men, but nothing pertinent to their investigation.

  “I’ll do a little digging over here,” Wyatt said, his voicing rising as he finished his writing, returning his focus to the call. “Without raising too many flags, I’ll see if there was any mention of somebody like that, maybe take a lap or two in the cruiser and see if I notice anything.”

  The gesture would prove futile, Reed already knew, but he could empathize with the feeling. Often, in the absence of real leads to follow up on, he found it was best to keep doing something.

  Not to appease his conscious, but to keep it all at the front of his thoughts. To make himself keep mulling over things, analyzing and reanalyzing them from different angles, until something eventually shook loose.

  It didn’t always work, but it definitely beat the alternative.

  In his experience, doing nothing tended to result in guilt or anger, neither of which did anybody much good.

  “Also,” Wyatt continued, “I called over to CSC, talked to a woman that worked in the admin office there. She said with it being finals week, a lot of the students were already finished, campus was starting to thin out.”

  Having not made the connection earlier, Reed conceded that it made sense. Nobody stuck around once they were done, especially in the last days before summer break.

  An unfortunate turn, especially considering neither Curt nor Serena’s sister confessed to knowing any of her friends.

  “I was able to track down a professor of hers,” Wyatt continued. “Woman named Beatrice Laub in the nursing department. Said she’d be glad to speak with us, but she won’t be in town until one.”

  “Good,” Reed said. One was a bit later than he would have liked, but it was something. At the very least, it would give them some time in the morning to get a feel for the campus. Maybe even a taste of the type of foot traffic the place got, how conspicuous someone posted up to watch might be.

  “We’ll be there,” he said. “Also, I wanted to let you know I’m going to call my tech guy and ask him to do some poking around for us tonight.”

  The first response was a quick grunt, followed by, “Yeah, I was thinking about that. Probably not a bad idea. Kids today have more of a social media life than an actual social life. Might be something there we can use.”

  Reed had considered that as well, though after the general consensus of the various people in her life, he couldn’t imagine Serena to have a robust online presence.

  Not that social media even began to scratch the surface of what he knew his guy could help them with.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The next call required Reed to go a little deeper into his phone log. Down to someone who he would have considered, at best, a necessary evil as recently as two years ago but who, since, had become an indispensable part of many of Reed’s bigger cases. A person who was so invaluable at what he did that the 8th Precinct had entered him into the payroll system as an official consultant.

  And who - perhaps most surprisingly of all - had actually become someone Reed would consider a friend.

  Reed’s first encounter with Derek Chamberlain – or as he insisted on being called upon first meeting anybody, Deke – was more than a decade before. Still a beat cop in the 19th Precinct at the time, he and his new partner Riley Poole had been assigned to look into a rash of vehicle break-ins around the Columbus suburb of Hilliard. For more than a week, the two of them had slammed themselves against the case, trying in vain to make some headway as vehicles continued to be vandalized.

  At which point Riley had the idea to call a friend of hers from college. Touting him to be a computer savant, she claimed he would be able to access surveillance cameras of businesses surrounding the incidents, giving them real-time access to the perpetrator’s appearances and modes of getting away.

  At the moment, Reed had had serious concerns.

  Three days later, he had a commendation for helping put an end to a public nuisance that was fast causing unrest in the community.

  Over the ensuing years, Deke had cycled in and out a few times, lending the occasional hand as Reed and Riley worked their way up from patrol officers to detectives. At the same time, he had managed to build himself into one of the top cybersecurity experts in the world, all from the sanctity of his grandmother’s basement.

  A spot he still lived in to this day.

  Not until Riley’s passing, though, had the two really started to work together with any regularity, finally gaining an understanding – and eventual respect – for the skillset the other brought to the table.

  In the backseat, Billie let out a single sound as she rotated in a quick circle. Under her weight, the car shifted slightly as she lowered herself onto her haunches. Positioned upright on the center hump between the two individual seats, she sat squarely in the middle, staring back at Reed through the rearview as he placed the second call, again putting it to speakerphone.

  “Yeah, I know,” Reed said. “Your time is coming. I promise.”

  Pausing, he added, “I hope.”

  The call went to six rings, long enough that Reed was prepared to leave a message, before being snatched up. The first sound to be heard was faint panting, followed by a familiar voice saying, “Hey, man.”

  “Hey,” Reed said. “This a bad time?”

  “Naw,” Deke replied, letting out another long breath before depositing himself in a chair, the sound of it clear over the line. “Was upstairs finishing up dinner with grandma. Had to run to get down here.”

  For years, Reed had seen the basement dwelling Deke lived in, replete with water bed, oversized television, and every video game console known to man, as nothing more than a den of arrested development. A place for the guy who was built like - and vaguely resembled - a human palm tree to hide from the world.

  Only in recent months had he finally started picking up on the signs of Deke’s grandmother’s condition and the real reason he chose to stay in the home with her.

  “How’s she doing?” Reed asked.

  “You know,” Deke said, his usual drawl that made him sound something akin to a California surfer than a Midwestern tech wizard on full display. “Good days and bad.”

  Reed didn’t fully know. He’d been quite fortunate, his parents both in good health, his grandparents all passing in fairly uneventful fashion years before. Thus far, the most impactful loss he’d suffered was Riley’s, an incident that was quick and unexpected, taking her long before her intended expiration date.

  His only hope was that he never had to completely come to understand something like what Deke was going through.

  “How you doing?” Deke asked. “I thought you were on the road right now? Oregon, or something?”

  “Oklahoma,” Reed corrected. “And I am, actually sitting outside my folks’ house as we speak.”

  “And you’re calling me?” Deke said. “That can’t be good.”

  Every part of Reed wished that he could say that wasn’
t the case. That he was merely calling to catch up, see how everything was going. Check in on Deke’s grandmother or see if he was still in contact with Della Snow, the young woman they had worked together to save a few weeks before.

  That he didn’t call only when he needed a hand or when something was wrong.

  No matter how much evidence might be piled up to the contrary.

  “You got some time to look into something?” Reed asked, bypassing an apology, knowing full well that Deke would only brush it aside. “Completely your call, not one hard feeling if you’re booked.”

  Letting out a long sigh, Deke took a moment. He considered what Reed had just said before responding, “Do you remember early on, when we could barely stand each other?”

  Understanding the question was rhetorical, that both were intimately aware of how the relationship had started, and even continued for the majority of the time they’d known each other, Reed remained silent.

  “The reason I did it was, obviously, Riley. And not just because she told me to, either.”

  Both corners of Reed’s mouth drew up, a low chuckle sliding out.

  That did sound exactly like something she would do.

  “And it wasn’t just because you clearly cared about her as much as I did and had her back out there every day. It was because she always said that even though your approach was sometimes – hell, most of the time – off, you always meant well.”

  Warmth spread across Reed’s cheeks as he stared down at the phone. While the message did sound exactly like something his partner would have said, it didn’t mean he was any more prepared to hear it.

  Certainly not from someone like Deke.

  “And you’ve never given me a reason to doubt either part of that,” Deke finished, levity threaded through his voice, signaling that the moment was behind them.

  This time, the smile grew large enough to pull Reed’s lips up over his teeth, shaking his head slightly.

  “So, what’s up?” Deke asked.

  Starting with being at the filling station the night before, Reed ran him through the full story. He fleshed out his interactions with Wyatt and the reaction from the local authorities, including the people he’d spoken to thus far and who they were slated to meet with the next day.

  Start to finish, it took him almost seven full minutes to get it all out. By the time he was done, he saw his mother poke her head out around the side of the house, wagging the spatula at him, signaling that dinner was ready whenever he was done.

  Waving back in understanding, Reed sat in silence, allowing Deke to process everything. Thinking it through, he made a series of mutterings, none loud enough to be deciphered, none intended for a response.

  “Okay,” Deke eventually said, his voice still a bit detached as he worked his way through what he’d just been told. “Do you have access to a laptop right now? iPad? Anything like that?”

  “Yeah,” Reed said. “My folks have a desktop. What do you need?”

  “Everything you’ve got thus far,” Deke said. “Girl’s name, her appearance, her school. Address and phone number if you’ve got it. Whatever there is, I want it all.”

  One item at a time, Reed committed them all to memory. Each thing he knew Deke would probably be able to track down if he had to, but sending it all over would put him that much further ahead, as well as eliminate any chance at a mistaken identity.

  “Just as soon as we hang up,” Reed affirmed. “We were thinking social media, but anything you can find would be appreciated.”

  “For sure,” Deke said. Pausing, he seemed to consider things another moment, as if running over some sort of mental checklist, before saying, “Another missing girl, and another batch of internal politics. If I didn’t know better, I’d say these things have a way of finding you.”

  Reed couldn’t say much to refute the first thing, the appearance of two abducted women in such a short period almost too much to be coincidental.

  As for the latter, he couldn’t help but think that was starting to just become the price of doing what he did.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The entire lower half of Serena Gipson’s leg felt like it was resting in a vat of ice water. Like she had been walking through knee-deep snow with nothing protecting her skin from the cold. Like frostbite had taken hold, gripping her limb from the knee down.

  As a nursing student, Serena had seen severe burns before. She had heard victims talk about the experience, describing the same sensation she now felt.

  Caused by the searing of nerve endings, by neurons attempting to fire across broken pathways, it served as confirmation that the last thing she remembered before passing out some hours before was real. That it had happened.

  That the son of a bitch had carried a blowtorch and a metal brand into the room, had made her watch as he heated it to a red glow, and then seared the skin of her lower leg, marking her for life in a way that could never be removed.

  Confirming the incident, hanging like a low cloud in the room, was the smell of burnt flesh. So strong it tickled her nostrils, made her eyes water, the putrid scent promised to linger, unable to escape the enclosed space.

  Lying flat on her back, Serena stared up at the ceiling. At some point while she was unconscious, knocked cold by an overhand right to the opposite temple as she tried to squirm away from the glowing iron rod coming toward her, the four bulbs overhead had gone out.

  Without a window, there was no ambient light in the space, not even a single line along the outside of the door. Nothing but total darkness, plunging her into a world of black.

  Coupled with the feeling in her leg, a tremendous throbbing gripped Serena’s head, ping-ponging between the blow she’d received the night before and the one she’d taken just hours ago. Both sides of her face felt swollen and misshapen, no part of her wanting to encounter her reflection right now to see what that bastard had done to her.

  Just as no part of her wanted the lights to come on in the morning, forcing her to see whatever was beneath the heavy wrap she knew now encased her leg.

  With her eyes open, Serena could see absolutely nothing. Like staring into a darkened void, she allowed her gaze to glaze over, sensory deprivation setting in. Lost in her own thoughts, she had nothing more than recollections of the last day, trying in vain to make sense of what had happened.

  The last point of reference she had was leaving work on Wednesday night. Of bidding farewell to Curt, finishing the mopping, and then locking up so she could feed her mother and put in a few hours of studying.

  She recalled stepping outside, the air finally beginning to warm up, summer fast approaching. She remembered the guy filling gas cans at the Sinclair Station. She remembered walking through the alley, blasting along to “thank u, next” by Ariana Grande.

  And then, short bursts, none more than a few seconds long, all ending in pain.

  All featuring that same sadistic bastard.

  Feeling her eyes narrow slightly in the dark, Serena pulled to mind every detail she could. She thought about the way the man looked, barely able to conjure his face to mind, most of her interaction with him spent ardently trying to avoid eye contact. She tried to place the sound of his voice, a ring, a tattoo, anything that might help her identify him.

  Or where she was.

  Or something.

  Anything.

  Forcing herself past the throbbing in her head, to ignore the ripples of pain that sprung up with each facial expression she made, she was able to focus just enough to come up with two irrefutable truths.

  Never in her life could she remember seeing this man. If she had, it was only in passing, a face in a crowd and nothing more. Not enough to be considered an interaction, or to give her any reason to linger on the encounter.

  Just as she knew that there was no way she had done anything to deserve what was happening to her.

  Pulling in a deep breath, Serena allowed her eyes to close. She felt the moisture that had collected in the corners, the swell
ing forming unnatural contours, trapping it in place, keeping it from rolling down her cheeks.

  Twice the man had called her Molly. He had made a point to refer to her by that name, each usage bringing more animosity to the fore.

  Whoever this man was, whatever he was after, it had something to do with that name. The reason she was now being held captive, her face beaten into a misshapen mask that had probably left her unrecognizable, was because of somebody named Molly.

  The reason that if she ever managed to walk out of this place, it would be on a leg that was permanently marred with whatever symbol the man had just ingrained in her skin.

  One at a time, the realizations came at her, each heightening the feelings of tension, of apprehension, of terror that had taken root within her.

  Each paling next to the fact that she still had no idea who Molly was, or what that might mean for her.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  For the second night in a row, Reed was awoken by the sound of his phone buzzing. With his mind racing from the day spent investigating, replaying interviews, searching for the connective tissue that might illuminate something he had missed before, he had only just drifted beneath the surface of slumber, only a single pulsing vibration needed to pull him awake.

  Snapping his eyes open in the darkened room, he shot a hand out, snatching up the device. With nothing more than a glance, he clocked the name on the caller ID before pressing it to his face.

  “Mattox.”

  The instant his voice became audible, Billie appeared by his side. As if appearing from nowhere, her darkened form melded with the shadows. The only things that were visible were her eyes, a pair of shiny circles floating beside the bed.

  Inching closer, her hot breath landed on Reed’s forearm, silent assurance that she was near.

  “It’s Deke.” Despite the world outside being completely void of light, he sounded wide awake, as if he had been pounding away since they had spoken hours before. “Sorry for calling so late.”