Close to Home

by Lisa Jackson

  “They brought me here a while ago. Last Friday night. My name is Rosalie Jamison.” She was yelling at the top of her lungs, wondering if the other girl were scared spitless, or if she was deaf.

  “The missing girl?” a faint voice asked.

  “Well, yes. These cretins captured me and brought me here. I’ve been alone ever since. Until tonight. Until they brought you here.”

  “Oh. My. God.” And then the girl began to cry again, sobbing and blubbering.

  “Hey!” Rosalie yelled. “Stop it! We have to figure a way out of here.”

  Still the weeping continued.

  Oh, this was going nowhere. “Who are you?”

  “Wha—?”

  Good Lord, the girl was a moron! “What’s your name. I’m thinking it’s not Star.”

  “Oh.” Sniffle, sniffle. “C-Candy.”

  Rosalie inwardly groaned. That was just as bad.

  “C-Can. Candice Fowler.” Did the girl stutter, or was she just scared out of her mind? “You’re . . . you’re the girl on all the posters. I’ve seen ’em around town, and there was a safety assembly at school, but I . . . I didn’t think . . . Oh, noooo.” She was sobbing again, wailing and crying.

  “Stop it!” Rosalie yelled. “Pull yourself together. We’ve got to find a way out of here. Tell me what happened. How you got taken. What they said. How they did it. If you heard their plans. We have to work together, you got it?” She was shouting at the top of her lungs over the partial walls of the stalls and Candice’s crying jags.

  Hesitantly, her voice sometimes fading, Candice finally explained that she’d been walking home from a friend’s, taking a shortcut, not really paying attention to anything but her phone, when she’d been “squeezed” by the two men—one the driver of a Prius, she thought, some kind of hybrid car that was so quiet she hadn’t heard it overtake her, and the other guy, smaller and wiry, who had subdued her. She’d freaked out and had no idea where she was, just wanted to go home.

  Now she was crying again, bawling for her mother, swearing she was a “good” girl and this kind of thing shouldn’t happen to her.

  “I, uh, I uh, I can’t have this happen. I want my mom!” she yelled and then squealed like a stuck pig. “Eeeeooow! Oh, God, I saw a rat. Swear to God. I’ve got to get out of here. Help! Help!” She pounded on the door and then started crying again.

  “Calm down! This isn’t going to work. You have to quit crying.”

  “But I saw a rat and I peed myself!”

  Give me strength,

  “Seriously, Candice, shut up and listen. We have to work together, and we might not have much time.”

  More wailing, including a horrible ear-piercing shriek that would certainly ensure all the rats in the area would run for cover, but that, unfortunately, no savior would hear. Wherever this barn was situated, Rosalie feared, it was too far from any kind of civilization for even a shriek like that to catch someone’s attention.

  Candice kept at it, screaming so loudly that Rosalie thought the remaining panes in the windows overhead would shatter and the dead in three counties would wake.

  Too bad no live people would hear.

  Flopping back on her cot, Rosalie decided to wait for Candice to give up or go hoarse. Because she was useless. That much was obvious. The new girl hadn’t been in the barn for half an hour and already Rosalie realized Candy or Lucky or whatever Rosalie decided to call her was a pain in the backside. No doubt she’d turn out to be more of a hindrance than a help.

  It was all Sarah could do to keep her legs steady. The confrontation she’d been dreading for seventeen years wasn’t over, of course, but the worst part, the owning up to her secret, was out, and that was a relief.

  Where would they all go from here?

  Sarah had no idea, but she was determined to take one step at a time. Reaching the kitchen, she expected to find Gracie hovering near the archway, on one foot and the other, wanting to be a part of the action.

  Instead she found her daughter seated on a stool at the kitchen counter. Her legs were swinging, and she was engrossed in what at first appeared to be homework. However, when Xena, the not-so-great watchdog, finally noticed Sarah’s arrival and began thumping her tail on the floor, Gracie visibly jumped, and Sarah saw that the workbook was actually a leather missive that looked worn and about to fall apart.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asked.

  Gracie looked up guiltily. “Nothing.” Attempting to stuff the book into her backpack, she nearly fell off the stool. The book tumbled to the floor, where Sarah scooped it up.

  She was still distracted by what was happening in the living room, but she forced herself to focus on her youngest. Turning the book over in her hands, she finally zeroed in on it. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” She flipped through the yellowed pages of a smooth, faded script. “This looks like someone’s diary.”

  “A journal,” Gracie said.

  “Whose?” she asked, but she felt the flesh on her arms raise. She knew even before Grace said, “Angelique Le Duc’s. See the date.” Grace pointed out a barely legible entry, but it didn’t make sense.

  “But the date is at the beginning of the journal and near the time she disappeared. How could she have written it?”

  “Allegedly disappeared,” Gracie corrected. “Maybe that was all a big lie. Maybe she was hiding out or being held prisoner or something.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  Her eyes slid away.

  “Grace?” Sarah prodded.

  “In . . . the basement.”

  Sarah went cold inside, a visceral reaction that still attacked her from her time of being locked in the basement by her brothers—a prank that had lasting consequences. “What were you doing down there?”

  “Just looking around.” Her slim shoulders rose and fell in an “it really doesn’t matter” shrug.

  “She was snooping, like she always does.” Her face pale, Jade appeared in the doorway.

  “Where’s Clint?” Sarah asked.

  “In the living room. He wants to talk to you.”

  “How’d it go?” Sarah queried tentatively.

  “How do you think it went? Just effin’ perfect.” She found the box of cocoa and began brewing herself a cup. “I wouldn’t keep Daddy Dearest waiting too long if I were you,” she warned as she opened a pack of instant mix with her teeth.

  “Is he mad?” Grace asked.

  Jade made a sound of disbelief. “Duh.”

  Girding her loins, Sarah handed Gracie the journal and warned, “We’ll talk about this later. Tu le sait, je parle français.”

  “What?” Grace asked.

  “She said, ‘You know, I speak French,’ ” Jade translated.

  That caught Sarah up. “Wow.”

  “So, I learned something,” Jade said.

  As Sarah lifted her hands in surrender, Grace asked, “Can you translate this for me?”

  “Yeah, maybe later. But in the meantime, don’t go into the basement or the attic or anywhere until we know that it’s safe.”

  Gracie tucked the diary into her bag again. “It’s safe.”

  Sarah remembered the feeling that the house was being observed from the outside and occupied by the spirits of the dead on the inside.

  But for now, she needed to talk with Clint. Putting all thoughts of ghosts and tragic ancestors aside, she headed to the living room.

  CHAPTER 23

  As he nosed his truck into the pockmarked parking lot of the Columbia Diner, he felt the urgency, the pressure of the operation, coming to a head. He had to step things up, and that took a helluva lot of planning.

  Get in. Get out.

  The whole operation depended on him and his partner—who was a moron at best and a complete idiot at worst.

  Already, they had spent too much time between abductions, thereby giving the cops more time to investigate, and that was dangerous.

  So now he had to be extra careful not to draw attention to himself. He n
eeded to go about his business as he always had, keep to his routine and his cover, ensuring that no one would suspect he was the mastermind behind the kidnappings.

  He pulled into his usual parking space on the access road side of the diner and, after locking his truck, strode inside. A couple of guys were standing outside in heavy jackets, their shoulders hunched against the wind gusting down the gorge as they smoked, the tips of their cigarettes glowing red in the night. Each nodded as he passed, and he returned the gesture, though he had no idea who they were. Probably regulars like himself.

  Inside the diner smelled of overcooked coffee and grilled onions. Country music was audible over the sizzle of the deep fat fryer and general conversation in the brightly lit, narrow restaurant. He took a booth near the entrance, right across from the cashier’s station and the case of “fresh-baked” delicacies that, at this time of night, consisted of a solitary piece of key lime pie, a few cookies, and half a coconut cake—not that he cared.

  A few customers littered the booths and stools at the counter, none he recognized, some probably drivers of the big rigs parked outside. The waitress, Gloria of the ever-changing hair, hurried up to him, her usually harried expression doubly so.

  “Hi,” she said with a quick smile, her lipstick long faded, her mascara still thick. She handed him a plastic menu. “Anything to drink?”

  “Beer. Whatever you got on tap.”

  “We have half a dozen,” she said, and before she could start rattling them off, he held up a hand.

  “Bud.”

  “You got it. Oh, and just so you know, we’re out of the special, the salmon, but the cod’s real nice tonight.” And she was off, ostensibly in search of his beer. He glanced at the menu and didn’t much care what he ate. Food was fuel. That was all. Especially at this stage of the game. He watched a couple truckers pay for their meals, then head outside, talking as they made their way to a semi parked on the river side of the diner.

  A few minutes later, Gloria reappeared. “Here ya go!” She slid a beer onto the chipped Formica table. “You decided?”

  “B.L.T. No tomato.”

  “So just a B.L.?” she said, forcing a smile as the joke fell flat. From the kitchen the sound of silverware crashing to the floor was followed by an audible “shit!”

  Gloria rolled her eyes. “Fries with that?”

  “Sure. That’s all.”

  “You got it.” Not bothering to write the order down, she started for the kitchen when something on the television screen mounted over the archway at the entrance caught her eye. She made a strangled little sound, her hands with their red-tipped nails covering those faded lips. “I’m sorry,” she squeaked, and tears actually welled in her eyes.

  He glanced at the television, and there, big as life, was a picture of the girl he’d come to think of as Star.

  “Oh, my God, it’s just so awful,” she admitted. “No one knows what happened to her.”

  “She worked here, right? I remember her.”

  “Oh, yes. And such a sweet, sweet girl.”

  He didn’t respond, but wondered if they were talking about the same person.

  “She was here that night, and I should never have let her walk home. They think she was taken near here, on her way home.” Gloria actually shuddered. “I can’t sleep thinking about how if she’d just listened to me, and waited for me to take her home, she’d be here today, waiting tables and collecting tips.” Another little squeak.

  “They have any idea what happened?” he asked casually.

  “Just that she was nabbed.” She cleared her throat. “They haven’t found a body.”

  “Any chance she just ran off?”

  Gloria whipped her head around to stare at him, and he instantly regretted pushing it. Shit, he had to be careful. “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes teenagers just take off.” He offered her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “You’ll see, she might come back.”

  “Well . . . we can only hope,” she said, then took off again to take another order from a couple who had grabbed stools at the counter. He sipped his beer, watched the television, and reminded himself to not talk too much. Loose lips sink ships, How many times had he given his partner just that warning?

  And yet he was anxious to hear more, to learn what the police might be thinking. The reporting on the case was spotty, in his opinion, so if the cops were anywhere close to figuring out what had happened to Star, they were keeping it to themselves. He needed inside info from the department, as the operation was going into overdrive this weekend and he couldn’t afford to screw up. The pressure was on.

  Gloria returned with his sandwich and, after again asking if he needed anything, was off to the kitchen. Catching glimpses of the television, he spread his sandwich with ketchup and listened to the news with half an ear. He learned from a reporter standing in front of the Sheriff’s Department that there were “no new leads” in the case of the missing teen and saw nothing about the second girl. Apparently the authorities hadn’t been contacted about Lucky; if they had been, the press hadn’t gotten wind of it.

  Only a matter of time, he thought, sipping from his beer as he watched the screen. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told his partner that it took a lot of planning to pull off a kidnapping, especially with the authorities and nervous parents on alert. And now the ante was upped. He’d figured on two, possibly three more. But five? He would have to be clever. And he’d have no time to maneuver. Grabbing Rosalie was easy, and he knew the authorities would think she was probably a runaway. Hadn’t he ensured it with that fake boyfriend he’d conjured up? It had gone seamlessly, his alter ego Leo “meeting” her in the chat room she’d mentioned to him once while serving him a hamburger and french fries. He’d also learned that she longed to go to Colorado and connect with her “real” dad and that she hated the series of husbands and boyfriends her mother had hooked up with. So Leo had hailed from around Denver. The seed was planted, the flirting quick and sexual, and the rest had been easy. As someone who understood the Internet and computers and how to form an IP address that was virtually impossible to locate quickly, he’d been able to reel Rosalie in and create a reason why she might disappear off the face of the earth. The second girl wouldn’t be considered a runaway, though, and as stupid as the police were, they could easily put two and two together and recognize both girls had been abducted.

  And now five more?

  He wasn’t a fuckin’ magician.

  Grabbing a french fry, he dunked it in its little paper container of ketchup before taking a bite. Maybe he should move on; just use the two he’d picked up, maybe grab two more and haul them all across the border into Washington or, better yet, Idaho. Then find the next ones at a new location. But it would take time, money, and a new hideout he didn’t have. Plus, his partner was right: he needed someone to help him. Unfortunately he’d chosen poorly, as his “friend” was an idiot.

  First things first. He’d stake out the McAdams place again as soon as he finished here. The McAdams girls would be the final targets . . . or . . . what about Sarah, the mother? The thought wasn’t new, but it was infinitely more attractive now that he needed so many. He could wipe out the whole damned family in one swoop. Sarah was old for what he had in mind; the younger girls were better choices. But she was pretty enough, and smart too. But odd. Well, that in itself set her apart and held its own appeal. He warmed to the idea as he took another swallow of beer. Would the authorities zero in on him if all three women disappeared?

  Worth considering.

  He’d been so lost in thought, he’d ignored his sandwich and the television, and as he took his first bite he nearly choked when he saw the image of Sheriff Cooke flash onto the screen. He steeled himself, but the news was only a recording, a tape of the one press conference the Sheriff’s Department had held. Again, there appeared to be nothing new in the investigation into the disappearance of Rosalie Jamison.

  Smiling, he licked the ketchup from h
is lip with his tongue and watched Jefferson Dade Cooke evade the questions while attempting to look authoritarian, as if he were indeed “the man” in charge.

  He couldn’t help but snort his disdain. An able adversary, the sheriff was not.

  And that was just fine with him.

  Sarah found Clint standing in front of the fire, warming the back of his legs, staring at the far wall, but viewing, she suspected, a place in the distance that only he could see. At the sound of her footsteps, he swung his gaze toward her.

  If she’d hoped to find forgiveness in his eyes, she was disappointed.

  If she’d thought she’d see understanding in his features, she was totally let down.

  If she’d believed they could work things out now that he knew the truth, she’d been a fool.

  “Jade said you told me the truth only because she figured it out,” he greeted her.

  “That’s essentially correct. I was going to let you and her know when the time was right.”

  “And that would be when?” He made it sound like he didn’t believe it would ever have happened.

  “One of the reasons I came back here was to tell you,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “Jade needed to know and you did too, and now we all have to find a way to move forward.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

  “I haven’t exactly had time to work out a parenting plan,” he pointed out, adding dryly, “give me a couple more minutes.” Sarah couldn’t think of how to respond, so she just stayed silent. After several tense moments, he said, “I guess we’ll have to consult our lawyers.”

  That woke her up. “I’d like to keep lawyers and judges and social workers or whatever out of this. I was hoping that you and I—and Jade too, as she’s seventeen—could work out some kind of arrangement.”

  “Arrangement?” he repeated with derision. “I had a son.” He hooked a thumb at his chest. “I know what it’s like to love a kid, to provide for him, to worry yourself sick over him. There was no ‘arrangement’.”