by John Hart
“I need information about Tyra. Where she worked. Other friends. Other boyfriends. Anything that’s not right. I need a place to start. If anyone can give that to me, it’s Sara.” He slowed the big car. “This is her street.”
“Looks expensive.”
“That’s her place, the third one down.”
Chance watched the condo as the car slid to a stop at the curb. The curtains were closed. A banged-up Mercedes was parked in the driveway.
“That’s Tyra’s car. The one she wrecked at Jason’s.”
“Does Sara have a car?”
“I don’t see it.” Gibby stepped out onto the street, and Chance followed him to the sidewalk, then up five steps to the stoop. “That doesn’t look right.” The front door stood ajar.
“Come on, man. Just ring the bell.”
But Gibby was already inside, so Chance followed him to a living room littered with empty wine bottles and dirty glasses. “That’s not right, either.” Gibby pointed at an open window, curtains stirring in the breeze. “Air conditioner is running. I can hear it. Sara!”
Gibby took the stairs two at a time, and Chance followed at his heels. The first bedroom was a mess, clothing everywhere, the bed unmade. “Tyra’s, I think.”
The second bedroom was more neatly kept, with pale, pink walls and views on to the park across the street. The bed was slept-in but empty, a pile of tiny clothes beside it. Terry cloth short shorts. A tank top. Chance picked up a framed photograph: two girls in the Mercedes, top down, one of them flashing a peace sign at whoever held the camera. “That’s her?”
“The blonde with the peace sign. The other one is Tyra.”
The blankets on the bed were thrown back, the fitted sheet pulled free at three corners. A water glass had spilled on the bedside table. The lamp was knocked over and broken. On the far side of the bed, Gibby found a wad of wet cloth balled against the second pillow. He picked it up. “It’s wet. It stinks.”
“What is it?”
Gibby dropped it on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Something bad, some kind of chemical. I think we need to call the cops.”
“You mean your father?”
“Not my father. Not this time.”
* * *
It took Burklow twenty minutes to get there, and he came inside with a wary glance. “Your call was pretty cryptic.”
“I thought we should talk in person.”
“Tell me first why you’re here.”
His eyes flicked from Chance’s face to mine, and I answered with a shrug. “I wanted to talk to Sara.”
“I mean, why are you inside her apartment?”
“The door was open.”
“So you walked in?”
“Basically.”
“All right. Walk me through it.”
There wasn’t much, but I told him what I knew. The rumpled bed and broken lamp, the wadded-up ball of sticky, sweet-smelling cloth.
Burklow cocked an eyebrow. “Sweet-smelling, but with a burn?”
“Back of my throat, yeah.”
“What else?”
“A back window is open, too, air-conditioning running on high.”
“What did you touch?”
“The door. The banister. The rag on the bed.”
“That’s it?”
“The glass on the bedside table. I stood it upright.”
He pointed at Chance. “What about you?”
“I didn’t touch a thing.”
“Which room is Sara’s?”
“Top left.”
He glanced at the stairwell, then studied the living room for long seconds, taking in the bottles, the dirty dishes. “Why didn’t you call your father about this?”
“We’re not really talking.”
Burklow made a sound in his throat, his eyes on everything but me. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”
He examined locks at the door and window, then took the stairs up. He was back in two minutes, very cop. “Come with me.” We followed him to the front door. He checked the sidewalks and the street. “Did anyone see you come inside?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But people were around?”
“Yeah, sure. Cars. Bikes. Regular people.”
“Anyone especially close or paying particular attention?”
“Ken, what’s going on?”
“You boys need to leave.”
“Why?”
“Listen, kid. You called me for help, and I came. Now, I’m saying jump, and that’s what I need you to do.”
I didn’t move. I made a point of it.
“All right, damn it. Fine.” Ken leaned in close, more cop now than ever. “The window’s been forced, but the front door is undamaged. That means someone came in through the back, and left by the front. Could be a simple burglary. Smash and grab. Happens all the time. But the rag you found—that sweet smell—that’s chloroform. It’s an anesthetic.”
“What are you saying?”
“Forced entry. Chloroform. Signs of a struggle. Worst-case scenario, someone took her.”
I said, “Jesus, Sara…”
“That’s worst case for her. We haven’t talked about you.” I touched my chest, and his features hardened. “Listen, son. Tyra’s dead and Sara is missing. Martinez and Smith already have doubts about you, especially Martinez.”
Chance said, “Wait. What doubts?”
Burklow scowled, but answered the question. “After Tyra turned up dead, they found Gibby here with Sara. Given the circumstances and timing, any cop would wonder—victim’s roommate with the suspect’s brother—but these guys are assholes, too, and no fans of Bill, either. They’re being quiet about it, but deep down, they’re asking themselves if Jason was working alone or not, and if not, who else was involved. Gibby knew Tyra. He knew where she lived and what she drove, maybe her patterns and movements. He’s been romantic with Sara—that means inside access, familiarity. Now this thing with Sara … the timing is a problem.”
I understood at once. “Because Jason is in prison.”
“If something has happened to Sara, it is literally impossible that Jason had anything to do with it. Martinez and Smith will think, Accomplice…”
“And if people here saw us…”
“Easy, now. Let’s not panic.” Burklow put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Chance’s. “You boys were never here. You get me? You know nothing of chloroform or a jimmied window or a broken lamp. You didn’t call any cops. Understand?” We nodded, and he gave us both a squeeze. “Go on, then. Get the fuck out of here.”
* * *
For me, the next minutes passed in a haze. I made a left turn. I stopped at red lights. Burklow thought Sara had been taken. Chance had little doubt that he was right.
“We could have walked in on him. Do you hear me? A few minutes earlier, and he might have killed us, too. This close, man. This damn close.”
He’d said something similar twice already, but I didn’t care about the same things as Chance.
“Dude, I am talking to you. This close!” Chance showed a thumb and finger, half an inch apart. “Can you at least acknowledge that?”
I shook my head, thinking entirely different thoughts. “We need to do something.”
“Do what?”
I thought, Find Sara, save Jason.
Chance must have understood because he said, “Pull over, Gibby. Park the car.”
“Why?”
“Just park the car.”
I turned into a Rexall parking lot and stopped beside a strip of dirt littered with pull tabs and cigarette butts.
“Turn off the engine.”
I did that, too. It was hot in the shade. Traffic blew past on the four-lane.
“Now tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we should find the guy.”
“We talked about this.”
“You talked about it. I listened.”
“Find the guy. Shit. Just find him. I mean,
look at your face! Find him!” Chance got out of the car, and traffic blew past. “I’m going to buy some smokes.” He went inside, and stayed for a long time. When he came back, he was calmer. He lit a cigarette, and hung his arm out the window. “How would you do it?”
“I have no idea.”
“And if you did find him?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Damn, Gibby … just … shit.” He tossed out the cigarette, barely smoked. “You’re an impossible friend. You know that, right? A pain-in-the-ass, impossible friend.” I kept my mouth shut. “Don’t smirk like that.”
“It’s not a smirk.”
But it kind of was, and Chance knew it.
He said, “Okay, genius. What next?”
“We need a new car,” I said. “Before my mother finds out we stole this one.”
“How do you propose to find a car?”
“Come with me.”
I walked to a pay phone across the lot, and dropped in two dimes. “Becky, hey. It’s me.”
“Gibson French, I was hoping you might call.”
“Was there ever a doubt?”
“Well, you did see me in my underwear.”
“All the more reason.”
She laughed.
I got to the point.
“Listen, Becky. I need a favor.”
* * *
When I stepped from the phone booth, Chance was waiting. “She’ll help,” I said.
“She doesn’t have a car.”
“No, but Dana White does.”
I started walking, and Chance trotted to catch up. “You know that Dana White is not exactly our friend.”
“True.” I slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac. “But Becky said she only looks like a brittle bitch.”
“She actually said that?”
“Yeah.” I laughed a bit. “She did.”
* * *
Half a block from home, I saw Becky, as lovely as ever in a T-shirt, denim shorts, and the same white vinyl boots where I’d seen a safety pin in the zipper, standing at the curb by Dana White’s car. I stopped before I got too close, told Chance to get out, and drove on before Becky could get a good look at my face.
That part was going to be tricky.
My mother’s car slid into the garage as if it had never left, and I skulked out of the driveway in a half crouch. On the street, I tried to keep the limp out of my walk, but Becky already had one hand up to cover her mouth. Either Chance had told her what happened or she had better eyesight than I thought. Up close, I saw the shine in her eyes, though she hardened quickly.
“Let me see,” she said. “I can handle it.”
I removed the cap first.
“Glasses, too.”
I took off the shades, and Becky studied the cuts and the cruel, black stitches. “Chance said it was bikers.”
“That’s right.”
“Because you were asking questions about your brother.”
“He didn’t kill anybody.”
Becky said nothing.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you have a good heart.” She placed soft hands on my face, and kissed the places that hurt. “I believe I like you more now than ever.”
Her hands stayed on my face until Chance cleared his throat, making it awkward. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”
“What if I don’t want to go home?”
“You can’t come with us.”
“Because it’s dangerous?”
“Look at my face, Becky. Something like this could happen again, or something worse. I don’t even have a plan.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should,” I said.
But she crossed her arms, unmoved and unmoving. “Do you want the car or not?”
27
Reece prowled the secret hallways, and could barely contain himself. The girl. The risk. All his life he’d been a careful man. Pros. Cons. Possibility. Reece did not believe in God, but if he had a religion, it would be this: don’t get caught. He measured his days by the discipline born of that religion. Target selection. Target acquisition. He could spend months making a choice and a plan only to abandon both at the slightest sign of risk to the secret life he’d made.
But that was before the girl.
X had said to wait, but Reece had not—he could not—and no scale in the world was large enough to measure that risk, not with X involved.
Still dazed by his own audacity, Reece checked the security feeds, verifying that the front gate had locked behind him and that the motion sensors were armed and active. The system was state of the art, designed and installed by an ex–Secret Service agent for a hundred-thousand-dollar flat fee, in cash and nonnegotiable. There were eighteen cameras on the grounds, another dozen in the house.
Leaving the monitors, Reece poured a glass of I. W. Harper bourbon. He was not a big drinker, but adrenaline was making him twitchy, and this particular bourbon seemed to help.
“The only bourbon enjoyed in a hundred and ten countries.”
It was a popular slogan, and his father had enjoyed repeating it. Reece could see the old man, now, the quick wink and the quick drink.
Hurry on now before your mother gets home …
A railroad engineer, he’d died when Reece was seven, crushed between two cars after an unfortunate fall. Reece’s mother had been strong enough to hold the family together, but she’d left him, too, killed by esophageal cancer when Reece was only twelve.
Finishing the bourbon, Reece left the security monitors, and followed one of the secret corridors that crisscrossed the north wing of his house. He had other places, of course—safe spaces of his own and others that X made available—but the north wing was for someone special.
Sara was the first.
At the next corridor, Reece turned sideways to squeeze between the wall studs and plywood. A single bulb gave enough light to see, but Reece didn’t need it. He knew every corner and turn, every room beyond the gypsum board, and every safe place to watch. It’s why he’d built the north wing in the first place.
The secret places.
The watching.
He imagined the rooms as he passed them.
Bathroom, bedroom …
The girl would stir soon, and he’d be there to watch and listen. He wouldn’t touch her, of course—not for days or even weeks—but the intimate moments mattered as much: the dressing and the self-care, the small rituals enshrined in the days and nights of women across the world.
At the next intersection, Reece turned left, squeezing down another corridor.
Kitchen, living room, closet …
He stopped behind the wall of the master bedroom, where he could watch through the two-way glass or any of the small holes, so perfectly concealed. But this was the beginning, so Reece took a ladder up, and crept along the ceiling joists until he was above the bed, and could see down through the light fixture. Sara had not moved since he’d arranged her with such care: the blond hair on one shoulder, the sheet that covered her just so. He could have dressed her differently, of course, or undressed her. But Reece was a watcher first, and patient; so he closed his eyes, and in the dimness smiled.
Her name was Sara.
She was his.
* * *
When Sara woke, it was like rising through a black cloud, everything soft and supported, a slow drift upward. For a moment, she was at peace. But there’d been that splinter of a dream: gray light from the street and noise in the room, a man’s face as he’d pressed her into the bed and clamped his hand across her face. She’d tried to scream, but choked, instead, on something sickly sweet and wet, his voice horribly gentle, as he’d leaned even closer.
Breathe it in …
In her mouth and lungs, the taste, like a sickness.
That’s my good girl …
That part had been the worst: the lifted jaw and eager eyes, the small teeth in an expectant mouth. She’d tried to figh
t, but had no strength. A fading room. A fading self. At the end, she’d tried to beg, but the lips had gone, and the eyes had gone.
Just a dream, she thought.
But the taste was in her mouth.
Sara bolted up in a room she’d never seen.
It was real.
His sweat had dripped onto her face.
Bile filled Sara’s throat, and she puked it out onto a bedspread as pale and pink as the walls around her. She saw a metal headboard painted white, curtains the color of turned cream. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t unsee the room.
It was a bedroom.
She had no clothes.
She buried her face in a strange pillow; afraid to scream, afraid he would come.
Him.
He.
All she knew were the strong hands and the moon of his face, the open mouth and the teeth, like a child’s teeth.
That’s my girl, he’d said.
My good, good girl.
Sara screamed into the pillow; she had to. She wanted to be sick again, to make herself empty; but reality was the one thing she couldn’t vomit out. When that fantasy passed, she went looking for her courage. To do it, she kept her eyes closed, and focused on her heartbeat, then on the breath in her lungs. She reminded herself of all that she’d survived in twenty-seven years: the bad boyfriends and the back-alley abortion, the fight with her parents and the year she’d lived rough in Haight-Ashbury.
When she thought she could, she opened her eyes. A wooden floor. Baseboards painted white. Risking more, she saw a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, a dresser with a lace doily, a vase of plastic daisies. Small rugs lay on the floor. There was a vanity, a mirror, framed photographs of people she’d never seen.
Covering herself with a blanket, she picked up one of the photographs, a black-and-white shot of a young family in front of a roller coaster and clapboarded buildings with signs advertising beer and popcorn and ocean bathing. A small boy held a bag of peanuts. Only the father was smiling.
Sara put the picture down.
No noise in the room.