by Leslie Wolfe
She pushed the disturbing thoughts out of her mind and focused on the history of the abductions. Maybe his evolution over time would tell her more about his location, his comfort zone. She fired up her laptop again, still standing and leaning over her desk instead of sitting, then displayed the map with the red dots marking the missing persons cases in the area. She then set the range of the report in increments of ten years, seeing where dots appeared on the map.
There was no discernible pattern in the timing of the kidnappings. The cases had been local, yes, but the order in which they appeared on the map offered no new insight.
With a loud groan, she flipped through some more screens and loaded the DMV database. There, she entered the parameters for the white Ford F-150, newer than five years, shooting from the hip. She had no idea how old the truck was, but she had to start somewhere.
“Put Texas in their past DMV history,” Elliot suggested. Maybe we can narrow it down to people who might’ve gone to college in Austin and played lacrosse for the Vipers.”
The list of white Ford trucks registered to owners in the state of California was even longer than she’d expected, returning thousands of names. Adding Texas as a filter narrowed the search dramatically, leaving only seventy-eight names across the entire state, with one big problem.
None of them were local.
The closest registered owner of a white Ford F-150 that had a DMV history with the state of Texas added lived two hundred miles away, in Marin County. He was a forty-three-year-old, Beijing-born architect.
They had nothing.
She sighed and slammed the lid of her laptop shut. “All right, I’ll take the family interviews, you go see Brent, Julie’s boyfriend.”
“Who will you see first?” he asked, walking briskly by her side down the hallway, heading for the exit.
She briefly checked the printouts. “The Costin family. Your old case.”
35
Lies
Julie never wanted to believe that was true.
When an old neighbor had told her the old superstition and the story of her birth—after having downed an unknown number of glasses of wine at her maternal grandmother’s funeral—she thought the old harpy was making fun of her. She’d managed not to cry, at seven years of age, although she’d cried all morning after seeing her grandmother’s body still and thin and surreal in the open casket. She’d dried her eyes and had walked away from the woman, shrugging off the harpy’s words until later, when she could ask her mother.
But the weight of those words had turned into an obsession, consuming her young mind. On the drive back from the cemetery, she couldn’t keep quiet about it anymore.
“Is it true you cried the day I was born, Mom?” she’d asked, interrupting the spirited conversation between her parents. She still recalled the bone-chilling silence that had followed. “Is it because I’m a girl?”
“Who told you that?” her dad had asked, his furrowed brow promising nothing good. He’d turned his head for a split second to look at her, then kept his eyes on the road, but she could still see his glances in the rearview mirror every now and then.
“Is it true?” she asked, her whimpering voice betraying the tears she’d been struggling to keep hidden.
Her mother had reached over the back of her seat and grabbed her hand in hers. “Oh, honey, that’s just a stupid superstition, nothing else.” She smiled at her through fresh tears. “I cried for joy, my dear girl. The day you were born was the best day of my life.”
Those words played back in her memory, over and over, like a broken record playing a song she loved to hear, one she couldn’t bring herself to turn off. How she wanted to believe that was true… so much, in fact, she’d convinced herself that it was the reality. She’d never spoken to that old neighbor again, simply turning her back to the woman on the street, at reunions, funerals, and other such events. The lady had to be a liar, one with no good intentions in mind. Her dad had told her to keep her distance, and she wanted nothing else.
Only nine years later, she was told that her mother had been keeping that secret from her. Julie didn’t want to believe that could be true. Not then, when she was a little girl, not when she heard her mother explain why she’d lied about that old superstition through a veil of tears, and not now, when she was lying almost lifeless on the frozen floor, and ghosts of her past were gathered around her, talking, arguing, maybe still lying.
They weren’t real. It must’ve been her imagination bringing them to life, because she was delusional from hunger and thirst, she told herself in a rare bout of rational thinking. But they felt real—as real as her mother’s warm fingers caressing her cheek, her quiet voice promising her everything was going to be all right, because she wasn’t alone.
“We’re here, sweetie,” her mom said, playing with a strand of her hair. “Your dad and I are here.”
“Is it real?” she asked, or at least she thought she did. “Was this my fate since I was born, like Betty said?”
No one answered, but her mother kept on smiling, her eyes filled with a light Julie had never noticed before, when she’d been busy disobeying her.
That next-door neighbor… She wished she could ask her now what she should have asked her all those years ago. Who were the spirits taking the firstborn daughters? Because she could tell the old woman that a man—a flesh-and-blood man—had taken her, not a spirit. Maybe she knew why.
“Oh, Mom, why didn’t you run?” she asked, but no one answered. “If you knew they were coming for me, why did you stay?”
Then she remembered, through a thick fog, as her mother’s image faded away.
She didn’t run because she waited for her to come home.
A fresh, warm tear rolled down her cheek.
In her fading mind where darkness had taken abode, she thought it was her mother’s warm fingers caressing her skin.
36
The Costins
Sherman and Virginia Costin lived on a small ranch at the north end of the town. The property bore the signs of tragedy visible in the neglect of the front lawn and whatever part of the back yard Kay was able to see while pulling in at the curb. Weeds had overtaken the lawn, their stamina threatened by the cold weather. An old tire was abandoned by the driveway, a tall thistle bush growing unperturbed at the center of it. The state of the property strangely reminded her of her own family home when she’d returned from San Francisco, only the reasons were vastly different. The home she’d returned to after being away for many years still bore the mark of tragedy, just like the Costins’ home, but her family had found closure. The Costins hadn’t.
It was starting to get dark by the time she cut the engine and the windshield wipers finally stopped their rhythmic glide across glass. She couldn’t tell without looking at the time if the sun had set already, its rays powerless against the thick cloud layer relentlessly gushing water in large, heavy drops that splashed loudly against the roof of her car.
She rushed to the front door and took a moment to brush off the raindrops clinging to her jacket before she rang the bell. A tired-looking, gaunt man opened the door seconds after she’d pressed the button. The hope that lit his eyes when she showed her badge tugged at her heart.
“May I come in for a moment? I have some questions for you.”
The glimmer of hope faded, giving way to anguish. “Yes, of course.” Shuffling his feet, he stepped aside and invited her in.
The living room was small and dim, lit poorly by a ceiling lamp with underpowered bulbs, as if the two Costins couldn’t fight the darkness that engulfed their home. Mrs. Costin sat on the sofa, pale as a specter, her long, thinning blonde hair unwashed in days, clumped together in unsightly strands. She wore a housecoat, stained generously by old and new blotches of what appeared to be cooking mishaps. A faint smell of stale food and rotting garbage filled the air, but neither seemed to notice or care. On the living-room table, a pile of unopened mail gathered dust next to a cheap pair of thick-rimmed reading
glasses. A side glance, and Kay was able to notice the kitchen sink was filled with dirty dishes, and the counters too.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, looking around for a place to sit, then choosing to remain standing.
Mr. Costin sat on the sofa next to his wife. Their hands immediately found each other and intertwined like vines reaching for support. “Do you have any news of Lauren?”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” she replied, shuddering as she ripped off the Band-Aid. “But we’re still investigating, and we have some new questions.”
The man invited her to proceed with a hand gesture, then clasped his wife’s fingers immediately.
“I know you probably told the story of that terrible day many times, but can you do it one more time? Walk me through everything that happened.”
They looked at each other, as if agreeing who was going to speak.
“But why—” Mrs. Costin started to ask, her voice trailing off as if she’d run out of breath.
She opted for the truth, at least in part. “Before moving back here last year, where I was born and raised, I worked as a profiler with the FBI in San Francisco. I’m hoping I might be able to see something or uncover something my colleague, Detective Young, might’ve missed.”
“You really don’t have any news of Lauren,” Mrs. Costin said, a tear rolling down her pale cheek. It was as if she’d hoped Kay had been lying to her. It was amazing to see the power of hope and how fiercely people clung to it, tooth and nail, against all reason and all evidence.
“I’m afraid we don’t,” Kay replied, her voice unexpectedly choked.
Mrs. Costin squeezed her husband’s hand. “Lauren vanished on her way back from school,” she said, her voice trembling and weak, forewarning of tears to come. “In September, two years ago.” She pulled her fingers from her husband’s grasp and took her hand to her chest, then clutched the lapel of her housecoat. “When she didn’t show up for dinner that evening, I knew something was wrong. Even before I called her girlfriends, her teachers, the police, I knew. It was as if someone had ripped the heart out of my chest and left a hollow in there instead.”
“Did she take the school bus home that day?”
Mrs. Costin shook her head, staring at the worn-out oriental rug under her feet.
“No, although it was raining,” Mr. Costin said. “She sometimes did that, walked home. She said she loved the mountain air in the fall. She was active, an athlete.” He paused for a moment, seeming lost. “Detective Young was here every day, telling us what he’d found out. He pounded on every door, all the way from school to here, on her normal route. Then we did the same.” Mr. Costin stared at Kay with an unspoken question in his eyes. “She’d just vanished. No one saw anything. How could someone just—”
“Most people were at work, their kids in school,” Mrs. Costin interrupted, speaking weakly. “Detective Young told us bad weather must’ve been why no one saw my baby getting…” she searched for the word, “taken. No one was outside, not even to roll their garbage bins to the curb. It was trash pickup the next morning.”
“We pleaded with the authorities to keep looking, but I think they gave up too soon. We even went to see the mayor, but I don’t know if he did anything.” Mr. Costin reluctantly let go of his wife’s other hand, then stood and started pacing the floor, looking out the window every few seconds. “We ran TV ads until we drained our retirement money. Now we wait. Virginia doesn’t work anymore.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed, putting her hand in front of her mouth. “What if she comes home and I’m not here? What if someone is looking for us, to tell us about Lauren?”
Kay bit her lip. Extreme duress had caused the Costins to act irrationally, although she could understand how Lauren’s mother would find it impossible to leave the house where her daughter might, one day, return. The lack of closure was taking a terrible toll on the Costin family. Their pain resonated with her, although she couldn’t begin to understand what that felt like.
“Tell me about Lauren,” she asked. “What kind of girl was she?”
Mrs. Costin stood slowly, then walked over to the mantel of a dusty fireplace, which had probably never been used, and retrieved a photo framed in silver. With a trembling hand, she showed it to Kay. “She’s so beautiful, my little girl. She’s smart too. She has good grades, only As.” She smiled, slightly embarrassed, averting her eyes from a brief moment. “A few Bs too, but mostly As. She wants to be a veterinarian.” She held the photo to her chest tightly with both hands, as if hugging her daughter. “I’ve been sending college applications for her. When she comes back, it won’t be too much of a problem.”
Kay’s vision blurred a little as she watched the Costins huddled together, falling apart together, waiting, hoping together against all reason. She wished there was something she could say to ease their burden, but there wasn’t anything, not in the statistics of kidnappings and missing teenage girls in the archives of the FBI, not in the local folklore, nothing. Her simple presence in their home had offered them hope that was founded solely on their belief that a miracle could still happen and that one day their daughter would be found and returned to them.
“One more question,” Kay said, hesitant to broach the subject. “Have you ever heard about a local superstition that mentions firstborn daughters disappearing?”
They drew closer, as if scared by her words. “What? Is there such a thing here?” Mrs. Costin’s eyes were rounded, as if she’d become afraid of something, an unknown threat. Then she looked at her husband for a brief, loaded beat. “It was his job… We’re not from here, originally. Sherman was offered the branch director position when the new California Star Credit Union opened in Mount Chester two years ago.” Her breath shattered and she leaned against his arm for support. “Maybe if we would’ve not moved here, she’d still be with us.”
“You moved right before she vanished?” That was an unexpected, new angle.
“No,” Mr. Costin led his wife to the couch and sat next to her. “They had me come here from the start, before they even broke ground for the new building. I chose the location, hired the contractors, bought the furniture, did everything. Hired every single employee. When Lauren went missing, the building wasn’t even finished yet.”
“When exactly did you move, and where from?”
“Almost three years ago, this August.” He paused for a moment, frowning, as if trying to recall something. “From San Francisco. I’ve been with this credit union since I graduated from college. That’s where the main office is.” He looked at Kay with renewed worry in his eyes. “Do you think this has something to do with my job?”
She considered her answer for a brief moment. Forty-three girls had been taken over almost sixty years. Chances were he was the only father that had relocated there for a new job. Victimology was going to confirm it. “No, I don’t believe so, but I’m looking at every angle.”
“Thank you, with all my heart,” Mrs. Costin said, extending her hand. Kay squeezed it gently. It felt dry and warm and frail. “We’re counting on you to bring our baby home.”
She left the house burdened by their words, with some distant, unclear thought tugging at her gut. What was she missing?
She stopped for a moment under their porch roof before bolting to her SUV parked on the street. Closing her eyes, she recapped the highlights of the conversation, but she still couldn’t put her finger on whatever was gnawing at her mind, like a tip-of-the-tongue word that was playing hide and seek in her brain. Then she checked the time and realized that she could still visit with the Guerrero family if she stepped on it.
Whatever that elusive thought was, it would come to her.
37
Brent
Brent Barcenas could strut sitting down. He represented everything that was wrong with the younger generation. A few days shy of his eighteenth birthday, per his DMV records, the young man leaned casually against the back of an expensive truck chock-full of options and custom
features, putting his bare foot on the bumper and leaning into the elbow resting against his knee. Broad-shouldered and muscular, the young man must’ve been headed toward playing college ball in some form or another. But this hairstyle almost made Elliot laugh, bleached and spiky and loaded with gel, while the sides had been buzzed, one trend short of a modern mohawk.
The house he’d just emerged from was one of the most expensive on that side of town, his parents doing visibly well for themselves. A little research into the Barcenas family told Elliot they owned an interest in a large Napa Valley vineyard, and their accounting business in Mount Chester thrived, Mrs. Barcenas being ranked the best CPA in the region. Alongside, Mr. Barcenas had a strategic financial advisory practice that was probably responsible for paying the lease on the BMW X7 Elliot could see through the lit windows of the family garage.
“This baby yours?” Elliot asked, pointing at the brand-new Ram pickup truck.
“Yup,” Brent replied with an amused, smug smile, shooting a side glance toward Elliot’s SUV. It didn’t bear any sheriff’s office markings; only two flashers hidden behind the grille told it was a cop’s car. “I bet that’s your work ride, huh?”
The kid was unbelievable. His girlfriend had been kidnapped, and he talked cars, chilled and barefoot on the rain-soaked driveway, his parents not in the least interested why the police had come banging on their door looking to speak with their son at seven-thirty in the evening.