Out of Her Mind

by Ragan, T. R.

  It was nighttime, which made everything more difficult to see. Sawyer adjusted the computer screen’s brightness, which helped a little, just as a man came into the picture. Sawyer whistled through her teeth. The guy was massive. Leaning closer, she watched the man approach the person sitting on the bench.

  Before Sawyer could take another breath, the man grabbed hold of the person, held them close to his chest like a sack of grain, and carried the person off. His victim was hardly moving. Sawyer gasped when another figure stepped out from behind a tree and appeared to karate chop the back of the man’s neck. All three figures were on the ground suddenly, rolling out of sight.

  Shit.

  Sawyer’s adrenaline was pumping as she watched the video again, this time freezing each frame. It wasn’t a karate chop the third person—a tall, slender person with the same dark shoulder-length hair—had used on the man. It was a stun gun. She knew that because she saw a spark of light right before they all tumbled to the ground.

  Next, Sawyer compared the hair of the person sitting on the bench with the hair of the person who appeared from behind a tree. The hair was identical, the same dark color and blunt cut at the shoulders.

  Although she’d much rather spend her time working Riley Addison’s case, multitasking and juggling more than one story was part of the deal. She would pay Christina Farro a visit and see if the woman would be willing to talk about Otto Radley’s recent release from prison.

  If Sawyer intended to give the public the other side of the story, she would need to talk to the victims whose lives had been altered because of these men. She knew firsthand that most victims never forgot an assault. Even nonviolent crimes left victims confused and angry. Survivors like Christina Farro who suffered long term usually went through life triggered by sights, smells, and noises, especially on the anniversary of the crime.

  It angered Sawyer that Otto Radley had been released. If the public could understand that rapists knew exactly what they were doing and nothing would stop them, maybe attitudes toward victims would change. As it stood now, many believed it was the victim’s fault. There was no easy answer to putting an end to rape, but settling the burden on the shoulders of women who’d been sexually assaulted needed to stop.

  After gathering her backpack and files, Sawyer stopped by Palmer’s office. It was nine thirty, and he still wasn’t in. Odd, she thought, since he was never late. Her next stop was Derek’s office. The room was dark. She thought about leaving a note on his desk, but decided there was such a thing as overkill.

  Outside, the sun warmed her back as she walked across the parking lot toward her car and noticed a flat tire. Damn.

  She opened the back door and got rid of her stuff. As she examined the tire, someone called her name. She looked over her shoulder. It was Geezer. A short man with black spiky hair and big ears. A camera was strapped around his neck. He carried the rest of his gear in a bag with a wide strap. “What’s going on?” he asked as he drew near.

  “I don’t know. I have a gash in my tire.”

  He knelt low and took a look. “Usually if someone was going to slash a tire, they would use a pocketknife, but this looks like it was done with a larger knife that a chef might use.”

  Sawyer raked a hand through her hair, wondering why someone would purposely ruin her tire. She took out her phone. “I should call someone.”

  “Does your car insurance cover roadside assistance?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me take care of it.” Geezer set his bag on the ground, and she didn’t protest when he lifted his camera from around his neck and set it on top of the bag. “I’ll need you to open your trunk.”

  Sawyer did as he said, thanking him profusely for helping, glad he was wearing denim and a T-shirt. Although she didn’t know Geezer very well, she found his willingness to jump in and help her heartwarming.

  While Geezer loosened the lug nuts and then used the jack to raise her vehicle, she said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the pictures you took at Mark Brennan’s house when he was arrested. Did you take pictures of the front of his house when it was first discovered that Riley was missing?”

  He unscrewed the lug nuts and removed the flat tire. “Yes. I took pictures the day after she went missing and again when the Music Man was arrested.”

  The Music Man was what the press had been calling Mark Brennan. “Any chance I could take a look at the pictures?”

  He grabbed the spare tire from her trunk, slid it in place, and tightened the lug nuts. “I’ve got a couple of deadlines to meet, but I should be able to pull those up for you at the end of the day. Does that work?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Once he lowered the vehicle, Sawyer put the equipment and flat tire back in her trunk. “I owe you a drink,” she said.

  He brushed himself off. “No need. Just put in a good word for me next time you talk to Palmer.”

  “I’ll do that. Palmer wasn’t in his office earlier,” she said. “Any idea where he’s at?”

  “Doctor appointment. The old man is having difficulties with his heart.”

  Sawyer’s heart sank. “How bad is it?”

  “High cholesterol,” he said. “He’s getting a screening or something to see if his arteries are clogged.”

  Sawyer didn’t like the sound of that. Palmer could be a pain in the ass, but she looked up to him, respected him, and didn’t like the thought of him being sick.

  “You’re good to go,” Geezer told her as he gathered his camera and bag.

  “Thanks.”

  “Any idea who might have sliced your tire?”

  “No,” Sawyer said, wondering if the same person who had left her the envelope on her doorstep was responsible.

  “Stay safe,” Geezer told her before walking off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Harper was out of breath by the time they got Bug upstairs.

  Psycho, Cleo, Lily, and Harper had carried Bug upstairs and set her on top of a sleeping bag on the floor, her back against the wall. Psycho not only brought a needle and thread to the construction site where The Crew was hiding out, she also brought a couple of Xanax pills for Bug to take and a good ole leather belt for her to bite down on, just like they did in the movies when someone needed surgery without anesthesia.

  They all found a seat and waited for the drugs to take effect.

  “Looks like another one bit the dust,” Psycho said, referring to the dead man downstairs.

  “What are we going to do with the body?” Lily asked.

  “Leave him in the woods,” Bug said in a weak voice.

  “We could bury him,” Cleo offered.

  Psycho gave an adamant shake of her head. “No. None of us are prepared for that. It took us half a day to dig a hole big enough for Otto Radley. This place isn’t isolated enough . . . Too risky.”

  “What do you propose?” Harper asked.

  “I know of a place an hour away in Pollock Pines. After I finish sewing Bug up, I have to run home for a flashlight and a tarp. When it’s dark enough, we’ll roll the body in the tarp and place him in the trunk of Bug’s car. We’ll take two cars. Harper will drive with me in my car, and we’ll lead the way.”

  “Why do we all need to go?” Lily asked.

  Psycho fixed her gaze on Lily. “Because Bug is injured and we’ll need all the help we can get, carrying deadweight.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to dump him on the side of the road somewhere?” Cleo asked.

  “We need to do this right,” Psycho said, unable to hide her frustration. “If the animals don’t get to him before he’s found, investigators won’t know what to make of finding him naked in the woods. We need to keep them confused. Once Bug sends the information regarding QB’s embezzlement via email or whatever method she decides to use, the public, not to mention his family, will go berserk. If all goes well, his deeds will become the focus, sending authorities on a wild ride as they search for clues in all the wron
g places.”

  “Shouldn’t you sew her up now?” Lily asked. “She’s bleeding through the cloth again.”

  “In a few minutes,” Psycho said. “I want to give the drugs time to take effect.”

  “Why does it feel like we’re the bad guys?” Bug asked, wincing when she tried to adjust her hip to one side.

  “That fucker downstairs ruined multiple lives,” Cleo said. “Fuck feeling bad. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Harper didn’t say anything, but it seemed as if Cleo had hardened since they joined forces.

  “Is all this bullshit worth it?” Psycho asked. “Yeah,” she said, answering her own question. “Otto Radley and QB won’t be hurting anyone else. End of story.”

  “What about Brad Vicente?” Lily asked.

  Psycho rolled her eyes. “Big deal, he lost his penis. I’ve never seen an inmate give so many interviews. He’s still a thorn in my side.”

  “You wanted to teach QB a lesson,” Cleo reminded Bug. “And you did. You taught him the ultimate lesson—don’t fuck with me.”

  “It could have turned out different if the system had worked,” Harper said.

  Lily snorted. “In your dreams.”

  Cleo looked at Harper and asked, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  Harper tried not to show her surprise. She didn’t want to discuss her pregnancy with The Crew, but now that the cat was out of the bag, fuck it. “I am pregnant. Why do you ask?”

  Cleo had taken a bite of her unfinished burrito. She swallowed, then said, “Hormones are kicking in and making you soft.”

  “Maybe so,” Harper said. “Now is probably a good time to let you all know that after we finish taking care of Cleo’s frat boys, I’m done. It’s time for me to put my bitterness and anger to rest.”

  “What about you?” Cleo asked Psycho. “Any plans for the future?”

  “Whatever happens with The Crew, I’m good. I’ll just keep doing what I always do . . . taking things one day at a time.” Psycho’s fingers brushed over the scar on her neck. “It’s worked for me so far.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  On her way to Stockton to talk with Christina Farro, Sawyer got a call from Aria.

  “I’ve been trying to call you for the past hour. Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been busy. Somebody sliced my tire.”

  “That’s fucked up,” Aria said. “You need to arm yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so, but I don’t like it one bit. Did you get my message about Bob Upperman?”

  “No. You found him?”

  “I did. His name is Alexander Robert Upperman, and he lives in Midtown. I left him a message. Hopefully he’ll return my call. Otherwise we might have to go to his house unannounced.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Have you heard from Paige Owens?” Aria asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I have one more yearbook I want to collect and then I’m going to the hospital to see if I can find a way into Mrs. Addison’s room. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. And Aria, thanks for everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “You’re the most badass Brooks sister of the three of us. You would be fine.”

  The apartment building where Christina Farro resided looked like any other severely neglected apartment building in the area. The puke-pink paint was chipping away, and the stairs were littered with garbage, including drug paraphernalia. Sections of chain-link fencing, rusted and warped by time, encircled the property and served no purpose.

  Sawyer walked up three flights of stairs and knocked on the door to apartment 313. Nobody appeared. Listening carefully, she heard no sign of life inside. She turned toward the railing to take in the view of the parking lot. What she thought was a public park across the street turned out to be a cemetery. A man was walking around and removing dead flowers from markers. The wrought iron fence was still intact. The gate was shut. She was too far away to make out whether the man was a groundskeeper or a visitor who liked things neat and tidy.

  Sawyer turned back to apartment 313 and was about to knock again when footsteps sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder and recognized the woman immediately. “Christina Farro?”

  The woman sort of nudged Sawyer out of her way and slipped her key into the lock. “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Sawyer Brooks. I work for the Sacramento Independent. I’m doing a story on the Black Wigs.”

  Christina stepped into her apartment and disappeared into another room, leaving the door open behind her.

  Sawyer poked her head inside, but didn’t go in. “The Black Wigs are what the media are calling the women who wear disguises and appear to be cleaning up the streets, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, I know who you’re talking about,” Christina said as she returned wearing a fresh T-shirt. “It’s all old news, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but I’ve been asked to update the public.”

  Christina made a face. “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah,” Sawyer said with a half-hearted chuckle. She continued to stand at the door after Christina Farro had once again wandered to the back of her apartment. It had taken Sawyer forty-six minutes to get here. She wasn’t going to give up that easily.

  “You can come in if you want,” Christina said when she reappeared. “I needed a quick change. I’m good now.”

  Sawyer stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

  Christina gestured toward the couch. “You thirsty?”

  “No, but thanks,” Sawyer said, taking a seat.

  Christina filled a plastic cup with water from the faucet, then joined her, taking a seat in a recliner. “So why are you here? What does your story have to do with me?”

  Sawyer sat up tall, notepad and pen in hand. “I’ve decided to take a different approach from what’s been all over the media. I plan to focus on the survivors. I want my readers to know what these men have done and how they’re getting away with ruining people’s lives.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “What do you think about Otto Radley getting out of prison?” Sawyer asked, pleased the woman was willing to talk.

  “I don’t give a shit. Whatever. I’ve moved on.”

  Sawyer was writing that down when Christina added, “I probably feel the same way you felt when your uncle got out of jail.”

  Sawyer looked up and met Christina’s gaze straight on.

  “Journalists aren’t the only people who know things,” Christina said. “I read the paper. I also know how to google shit. I knew who you were the minute I saw you. I know your story and you know mine. If your readers want to know something about me or you, it’s all out there. They just need to do a little work.”

  “But no matter how many hours they spend on their computers and reading Wikipedia, they still won’t know how you felt when you found out Otto Radley had been released from jail.”

  Christina smiled as she raised her glass as if to say “Cheers.” “I felt nothing. You can tell your audience that.”

  “It didn’t piss you off?”

  She shrugged. “If the FBI and the police don’t care, why should I?”

  Because he didn’t deserve to be released, Sawyer thought but didn’t say.

  “If he harms someone else,” Christina went on, “they’re the ones who will have blood on their hands. Not me.” She chugged the rest of her water. “If anything, I’m surprised they kept him locked up as long as they did.”

  “He hasn’t been seen since his release.”

  The sarcasm in Christina’s tone rang clear when she said, “That’s too bad.”

  “I have video footage of a man who could be Otto Radley approaching a woman in a park. She appears to be wearing a black wig. The images are grainy, but still interesting.”

  “So what happened—you know—to the woman?”

  “The man grabbed her and carried her off, but another woman appears with
an identical wig and used a stun gun on him. The rest happened off-screen, and I couldn’t find any reports of a mugging in the area for that time and place.”

  “I agree. That is interesting,” Christina said. “Maybe there’s more to the Black Wigs than I thought.”

  “How so?”

  “If they’re responsible for cutting off a man’s dick, that’s cute and everything, but making a hulk like Otto Radley disappear . . . Well, that’s something else altogether, isn’t it?”

  Sawyer was a bit surprised by her nonchalance. “He kept you hidden in a secret underground room without electricity. How did you cope?”

  “At first I sang to myself and made up stories. As the days became weeks and then months, I exercised to keep my blood flowing. What was interesting to me was how quickly I stopped dreading his weekly visits.”

  Sawyer lifted a brow and waited for her to continue.

  “I was always hungry and thirsty,” she explained. “His visits usually meant I would get something to eat and drink.”

  “Did you ever give up hope of getting away?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right away. There was no way out of the place. I tried pulling away a floorboard and digging my way out, but the dirt beneath was like granite, and I didn’t have any tools. There were no windows, and the door was made of steel or something. If you’ve seen pictures of Otto Radley, you know he’s a big man. Without a gun or a knife or any sort of weapon, my single-mindedness became all about staying alive. Period.”

  Christina went on answering Sawyer’s questions for twenty minutes before she pushed herself to her feet, a signal that it was time to go. She wore skinny jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, and it was difficult not to fixate on all the scars covering her arms. Christina caught her looking and stepped closer to give her a better look. “I used to hide all my mutilations. Not anymore. Every mark is a part of me. It’s who I am.”

  Sawyer liked her gumption. By the time she left, she felt a tremendous amount of respect for the woman. Christina Farro had survived three years in hell, and yet she wasn’t going to let Otto Radley ruin one more day than he already had.