Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1)

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Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1) Page 30

by Lisa Regan


  Mitch’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Yeah, just so long as he didn’t tarnish the family name.”

  Connor stood and paced the deck. He looked every bit as disgusted as I felt. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

  Reynard had ruined so many lives, and in spite of Connor’s assurances that he would be caught and punished, he was free and he had taken another girl. Another life ruined. When would it end?

  I took a breath and swallowed the bile that rose at the back of my throat. A plan was already half-formed in my mind. I couldn’t sit idly by anymore trying to live a normal life as a raging insomniac with no appetite, sustaining myself on the scant details of Emily’s case. I had to do something.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  I hadn’t been on an airplane since I was thirteen. My father had taken us to Washington, DC, on a short vacation. As the plane lifted up, airborne on rumbles and thundering speed, my body was pinned to the seat cushions. The insistent pull of gravity caused a fleeting sense of fear, which was quickly overcome by guilt. I knew my family would be beside themselves with worry, but as they had pointed out to me repeatedly since I had come home, I was an adult now. I was free to come and go as I pleased. I had my driver’s license for just that purpose. My family didn’t want me to feel restricted in any way after having been a prisoner for the past decade.

  Of course none of that made it okay to steal Brianna’s driver’s license and credit card to fly to Houston without telling anyone. But that’s just what I did.

  Once we were at cruising altitude, the steady hum of the engines and the off-balance sensation of flying lulled me into a warm, deep sleep. I fought it to no avail. I had planned to use the time on the flight to mentally review my plan and figure out what I would do next if I didn’t get what I wanted. But I hadn’t slept for weeks.

  When a flight attendant shook me awake, the plane was empty. She handed me my carry-on bag, and I made my way into the bustling airport. My eyelids were heavy. I felt groggy. I paused outside the gate, looking for the signs to baggage claim. Once I made my way there, I found a rental car company.

  The woman at the counter studied Brianna’s license for a long time. “That was taken when my hair was short,” I explained awkwardly. I prayed that Brianna and I looked enough alike that I could pass for her. Mostly, I needed her credit card. I had been reborn into the world as a twenty-five-year-old woman. I had no resources of my own other than my trust fund, which Tom oversaw for the time being, and I knew he would never have sanctioned this trip. The woman at the rental car desk looked me over, a skeptical arch to her brow. A few tense moments ensued, and then wordlessly she pushed the paperwork across the counter for me to sign.

  With the key to a rented Nissan Sentra in hand, I stepped out into the thick Houston heat. I blinked against the sunlight. My eyes burned from exhaustion and the sudden brightness of daylight. I used the directions given to me by the rental car agent and found the hotel within minutes. Continental breakfast was being served when I arrived. I grabbed two croissants and the biggest cup of coffee I could find and headed to my room.

  The room was airy but dark and sterile in the way all hotel rooms seem to be. It was a way station with stark white walls and a double bed. I dropped my bag on the floor and climbed onto the bed. I had purchased a map of the city at the airport. Now I spread it before me on the bed. I called Brianna and left her a voice mail explaining what I had done. I had considered not contacting my family at all until my mission was complete, but that didn’t seem fair to them after all they had been through. After I hung up, I noticed I had two missed calls. One from my mother and one from Connor. My heartbeat quickened, and I felt a distinct pain in my emotional core.

  I knew my family and Connor would be worried about me, but it couldn’t be helped. I had wasted ten years of my life standing by and doing nothing. Now a young girl’s life hung in the balance. I felt responsible for her. I hadn’t been able to save myself or Sarah—Miranda. Even Alison had spent a month in the dark confines of a closet before I rescued her. But now I was free, and I could do something to save Emily.

  My days of standing idly by were over.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  As he sped to Mitch’s house in a department-issued vehicle, Connor tried Claire’s cell phone. Just as Jenny had predicted, he got no answer. It switched over to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and sweat soldered his shirt and jacket to his frame.

  Jen had called him twenty minutes earlier. She said Claire had gotten up early and taken her car. She hadn’t left a note, and no one had seen or heard from her for several hours. Jen and Rick met him at the door. Jen wrung her hands nervously. Behind her, Rick stood stock-still, an unnatural pallor to his face. Connor imagined that this is what they must have looked like over ten years ago when they realized their daughter had been abducted.

  “We’re sorry,” Jen said. “We didn’t know who to call. She’s not answering her phone. We didn’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay,” Connor assured them.

  “We just got her back,” Jen said, her voice cracking. Rick moved toward her and pulled her into his arms. His hands were shaking.

  Connor urged them both toward the couch, where they sat down. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe she just doesn’t realize her cell phone is off. We’ll find her. Let’s just take a breath, calm down, and we’ll make a list of places she might have gone.”

  Brianna’s voice reached them before she was through the front door. “Houston,” Brianna said. Connor hadn’t even heard her pull up in the driveway. Her short hair was in disarray, her eyes wide, and her face every bit as pale as her father’s. She held out her cell phone, as if offering it to them. “She left me a voice mail. She stole my driver’s license plus one of my credit cards and went to Houston.”

  Jen’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Houston?”

  The news was like a slap to the face. Immediately, Connor thought of the look on Claire’s face just two days earlier when Mitch had told her about Reynard’s long history of luring and molesting young girls. He should have known. He closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm.

  “Houston, Texas?” Rick said.

  Connor opened his eyes and looked at Claire’s parents. “That’s where Reynard Johnson’s family lives. Mitch just got back from there, remember?”

  Still, the Fletchers looked baffled. Brianna walked over to the couch. “She said she was going to try to find Emily Hartman,” she said.

  Connor shook his head. “She went after him,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  The Johnson estate was just as Mitch had described it to me. It was huge, stately, and imposing. It was a complex easily the size of the city block I’d grown up on, if not larger. A faded salmon-colored stone wall surrounded it. At the front was a locked gate with an intercom and three cameras situated in different places, triangulating the entrance with their electronic eyes.

  The gate and long wall were unexpected. Coming here had been an abstract idea gaining force and momentum in my mind in the last twenty-four hours. I hadn’t had the time or the foresight to figure out how I’d get in. In my mind’s eye, I just appeared inside the Johnson household, confronting the first family member I happened upon.

  But now I was locked out. I walked several yards west of the gate until I found a piece of crumbling wall beneath the overhanging bough of a large tree that stood on the outside of the estate.

  Almost the instant I saw the tree, I decided to sneak in. I doubted anyone would let me in, and I had no time to coax or cajole my way onto the grounds. Emily had no time. The sooner I found Reynard, the sooner she would be free. I climbed the wall using the trunk of the tree for support. Dropping to the grass on the other side, I dusted my palms on my jeans and walked resolutely toward the Johnson mansion.

  I was spurred on by the memory of Alison huddled naked in that closet filled with the put
rid smell of fear, filth, and vomit. That had been me. That was Emily now. I didn’t know her—that was true—but in a way, saving her felt like saving myself. When I reached the front door, I did not knock. I let myself in and went in search of someone who would give me answers whether they liked it or not.

  The foyer was enormous with vaulted ceilings and marble-tiled floors. My footsteps echoed in the cool chamber. The floors, walls, and furniture were all swathed in muted earth tones. For a moment, I felt as if I’d stepped into a mausoleum. There were heavy double doors on both sides. A large set of stairs lay ahead of me and to the left of that, a long dark hallway. There was nothing inviting about the place. Even the still-life paintings adorning the walls were flat and unexpressive.

  I wrapped my arms around my middle and looked around. As I turned back in the direction of the front door, I was startled by the appearance of a young Hispanic woman. I didn’t hear her enter. It was as if she materialized out of thin air. She was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved indigo sweater. Her hands were clasped at her waist. She was petite, shorter than me, her features small and refined. Her black hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, revealing a round face and coal-black eyes.

  The woman stared at me with a solicitous expression. She was waiting for me to notice her. I wondered how long she’d stood there, watching me in silence.

  “You are trespassing on private property,” she said with a slight Spanish accent. Her face was a stone mask.

  I stepped toward her, but she remained unruffled, like a statue. “I’m here to see Sheila Johnson,” I said, and marveled at how strong and certain my woman’s voice sounded when I felt nothing like that on the inside.

  “Mrs. Johnson does not entertain trespassers,” the woman replied.

  The statement sounded strange from the woman’s lack of inflection. Her words were clearly scripted. “I will call the police now,” she added without a hint of threat in her voice.

  “Please do,” I said calmly. “While they’re here they can arrest Mrs. Johnson for aiding and abetting and obstruction of justice.”

  For a fleeting second, confusion furrowed the woman’s brow and livened her dull eyes. Then she said, “Who are you?”

  I lifted my chin. “Claire Fletcher. I’m here about Reynard.”

  The woman swallowed. She waved a hand toward the double doors on her right. “Come,” she said.

  She escorted me inside the large drawing room and waited for me to sit on one of the brocaded couches positioned in the center of the room. “Wait here,” she instructed.

  She was gone for ten minutes, and when she returned, her affect was as flat as ever. “Reynard is not here. Leave now.”

  My fists clenched. I stood and my legs trembled with rage. I moved within inches of her and stared down into her face. “I want to speak with Mrs. Johnson right now,” I told her.

  “Mrs. Johnson will not be meeting with you.”

  “Reynard has kidnapped another girl. You tell Mrs. Johnson I want to know where he is, and I’m not leaving until I find out.”

  The woman did not reply. She returned my stare. Something was working behind her eyes. Maybe she had thought I would simply leave. Maybe now she was deciding whether to return to Sheila Johnson for further instructions. A long, tedious moment passed. When she swallowed, the delicate brown skin of her throat quivered.

  I broke eye contact with her when a movement behind her caught my eye. There was a crack in the double doors we’d entered through. A big brown eye peered through at me. The woman seemed unaware of the spy, all her concentration focused on my face. From the dark sliver between the doors, the eye held mine. The door cracked open a bit more, revealing the owner of the peeping eye. It was a young boy, no older than seven or eight, pale and thin with sandy-blond hair.

  I opened my mouth to speak, and the boy pressed a finger against his lips in a shhh motion. He looked over his shoulder and back at me. Quickly, I cleared my throat, signaling my understanding. The door closed just as quietly as it opened. I looked back at the woman.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  She didn’t respond.

  I leaned in closer to her, the simmering rage in the pit of my stomach making me feel menacing for the first time in my life. “I’m here to see Sheila Johnson, and I am not leaving until I do. So you have a choice. You can stare at me all day or you can go tell your boss to get her ass in here, but keep one thing in mind—every second Sheila Johnson wastes with this stupid game could mean the difference between a thirteen-year-old girl living or dying. If she dies because your boss is too much of a coward to come out here and face one of her son’s victims, she will be held responsible and she will pay—trust me, she is going to pay this time.”

  I was exaggerating a bit. I didn’t believe Reynard would kill Emily—he needed her to fulfill his perverted fantasies—but given enough time, he would murder her innocence and any chance she might have at a normal life. In the depths of the woman’s onyx eyes I saw confusion and something akin to fear. “Wait here,” she said before spinning on her heel and leaving the room.

  Once she was gone, I counted to ten and crept into the hallway. I pulled the doors closed behind me and stood listening in the hallway. I wondered if I had imagined the small boy peering through the door when I felt a little hand slip into mine. I had not heard or seen him approach. Big brown eyes stared up at me with solemnity. Again, a single finger crossed his thin mouth, urging me to be silent. I nodded.

  I had no idea who he was—a grandchild or a child of a staff member, but his eyes told me to do as he instructed. He led me deeper into the hallway, past darkened walls and grim-looking doors. The house was both cavernous and cloying. I felt a whole-body shiver as we made an abrupt turn and entered a doorway that led to a staircase.

  Still grasping my hand, he led me up the stairs. His footsteps made no noise. Beside his muted movements, my own steps caused slight creaks that sounded like thunderbolts cracking the silence. Again, I shivered and looked at the boy. For a moment, I wondered whether he was real or a ghost haunting the Johnson mansion, guarding its secrets.

  We turned left at the top of the stairs. My feet sank mercifully into plush mauve carpeting. Moving down the hall, we stopped at the third door on the right. The boy rapped once and pushed it open. He released my hand.

  “Go,” he said.

  I stepped inside and jumped when the door swung shut behind me. Another short hall lay before me.

  A female voice that sounded like wind chimes called to me. “Come.”

  I followed it into an apartment contained within the huge house. It was a world apart from the confines of the elegant dark mansion, decorated in a southwestern motif. Colorfully braided rugs adorned the floors. Indigo beaded lampshades caught my eye. Native American shadow figures and pottery dotted the simple shelves and tables.

  A wafer-thin woman with long, thick chestnut hair lay on the couch. Her skin was ghostly pale, making her dark hair and ruby lips all the more striking. She wore a long white linen dress.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  I dropped into a rocking chair across from her. I didn’t know what to say. I stared at her. She smiled, an enigmatic curve to her pouty lips, jarringly sensual and penetrating.

  “You’re the Fletcher woman,” she stated.

  “Yes.”

  She appraised me, her eyes roaming up and down my body like hands. I shifted and straightened my spine.

  “I’m here because—”

  “I know why you’re here,” the woman cut in. “My mother stonewalled you.”

  I nodded, inwardly startled to surmise that she was Sheila Johnson’s daughter. I searched her face for some resemblance to Reynard. There was nothing there save the simmering, calculated hostility that glowed in her eyes.

  The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. “That’s right. The Queen Mother expelled me from her loveless little womb, the same as Reynard.”

  Hearing her say his name was strange—there
was a lilt of familiarity to it but also contempt.

  “My nephew keeps me informed of all visitors of interest to me. He’s a very good child in spite of this family’s influence. I’m trying to keep him that way.”

  “By teaching him to sneak around and spy?”

  She was more amused than defensive. “My dear, you do not grow up in this family, you survive it. Some things that I encourage are necessary evils.”

  “Where are his parents?”

  “His mother, my sister, is somewhere in Europe, spending a large quantity of the family fortune on things that will never change who she is or what”—she hesitated—“happened to her. His father? A weeklong fling in Barbados. God knows what became of him.”

  “Tell me where Reynard is,” I said.

  “I don’t know where he is, but I will help you. Patience, Claire Fletcher.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I blurted out, face flushed.

  “So you think he’s taken someone else?”

  Through gritted teeth, I replied, “Yes.” She said nothing so I repeated, “I don’t have time for this.”

  The woman’s expression did not change. “What will you do when you find Reynard?”

  I looked her straight in the eye. “Make him pay,” I said flatly. I had no idea how I was going to make my abductor pay, but I didn’t share that with her.

  She smiled wide, revealing a perfect set of teeth.

  “You’re his sister,” I said. “Which are you? Jane or Carolyn?”

  “Carolyn,” she said. “But everyone calls me Lynn.”

  I had the sensation of free-falling, my stomach suddenly defiant of gravity, floating somewhere up near my throat. My face must have paled considerably, because Carolyn—Lynn—Johnson arched one shapely eyebrow. She looked strangely pleased by my reaction, like a precocious child testing the tolerance of an adult and winning. I stared at my lap, where my resting hands trembled.

 

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