Search for Her

by Rick Mofina

  “Oh my.” The man held up one finger, nodded to his cousin to surrender the door, allowing Grace into the foyer as he disappeared.

  Her heart beating faster, Grace surveyed the decor in a new light while struggling with questions swirling in her head.

  The man returned with an envelope. It looked like junk mail, some sort of coupon offer for clothes. He studied it for a few seconds.

  “I found this the other day between the fridge and the counter. It must’ve fallen there during her house-sitting days. Here you go.”

  Grace accepted the envelope. Saw the name on it: Sherry Penmark, and a San Diego address. Trying to make sense of what occurred, Grace stared at it in her hands before thanking the professor and his cousin. Then she hurried to her car.

  * * *

  Grace’s pulse quickened as she drove out of Mission Valley, heading for the address on Sherry’s letter.

  It was only minutes away.

  Why would Sherry mislead her into thinking that she owned the town house? Grace remembered the few times in the past months when she’d wanted to visit, Sherry had given excuses. “It’s a bad time, a water pipe burst.” Or, “I’m getting a room painted.” They must’ve been part of the deception. But why?

  Confused, Grace sped south on Qualcomm Way over the freeway and multiple lanes of traffic. The road climbed up from the valley, curving into the community of North Park.

  Grace navigated through blocks of neat homes deeper into the neighborhood of University Heights, passing the white stucco walls of a Catholic high school for girls.

  Sherry’s address led her beyond the school and into an enclave of quiet narrow streets of mostly single-level, flat homes with clay roofs, neat lawns and feather duster palms.

  Getting closer, she continued down a street lined with towering palms, passed a sign that read: NOT A THROUGH STREET.

  The address on the envelope was at the end. No one was in sight, as if the neighborhood was asleep. Grace parked and got out. The area was peaceful, birdsong filling the air.

  Sherry’s house stood on a corner lot, a white two-story frame model, built in the hope that arose after the Second World War. Its paint had blistered in places, a few shingles had escaped from the roof, the front porch appeared sunken and slats were missing from the white wooden fence that hemmed in neglected shrubs.

  Parked well into the driveway and nearly concealed by overgrowth was Sherry’s Traverse. All of its doors, including the rear hatch, were open.

  “Sherry?”

  No answer. No one was there.

  Grace walked down the driveway, past the SUV to the back door of the house. She knocked.

  No answer.

  She knocked again, harder, and the door creaked open.

  Ninety-Two

  San Diego, California

  Sherry Louise Penmark.

  “That’s the name of the person who’d rented the red Hyundai Santa Fe from us,” Phil Matson told Elsen and McDowell from United Liberty Coast’s office in San Francisco.

  Investigators moved fast, running Penmark’s name through local and national databases.

  “Here’s Penmark’s San Diego address,” Elsen said. “It matches the address on her California driver’s license and the registration of a white Chevrolet Traverse.”

  “The Hyundai was returned to us on the date noted there, with no issues and has since been rented out. We can locate it,” Matson said.

  “Phil, we’ll get more warrants, but we’ll need to seize that vehicle and put it on a flatbed for processing,” Elsen said.

  “We’ll work with you on that,” Matson said.

  The Las Vegas detectives turned to Emery Moore, who’d joined them along with several senior San Diego commanders, to determine how to move on Sherry Penmark’s address.

  “We’ve checked Penmark’s name,” Captain Kathleen Brockway said. “So far, she’s got a clean sheet, no arrests, no warrants.”

  Elsen nodded.

  “Now that you’ve got this new information, we can go a couple of ways,” Brockway said. “Option one, Penmark, being a family friend, could be harboring a runaway. She’s misguided in her efforts but no harm done. We could send a car over, knock on her door for a conversation.”

  Elsen and McDowell didn’t say anything, waiting for the captain to offer another option.

  “Option two, if you believe Penmark kidnapped Riley Jarrett and is holding her, then we set up on her house, wait for her to come out and get rolling. That gets her safely away from the house. We grab her then check the house for the girl. End of story.”

  “Option two,” Elsen said, past giving anyone the benefit of the doubt.

  “Done,” Brockway said. “We’ll get things moving.”

  Ninety-Three

  San Diego, California

  “Sherry?” Grace pushed the door open wider before stepping inside. She was met with a wave of stale air emanating from the darkened house.

  “Sherry!” Grace raised her voice. “It’s Grace, are you okay?”

  Met with silence, and fearing Sherry’s possible concussion may have caused her to collapse, Grace continued into the kitchen.

  Pizza boxes, take-out bags and wrappers, some holding half-eaten spoiled food, littered the counter. Unwashed dishes were heaped in the sink. Flies buzzed around it all. Grace covered her mouth with her hand.

  Leaving the kitchen for the living room, she stopped.

  In the dim light, in the center of the room near the sofa and cluttered coffee table, were three plastic moving boxes in various stages of being emptied, or filled, some with clothing, others with file folders. Grace noticed a sun hat and sunglasses on the coffee table then froze. Her eyes shot to the ceiling.

  A floorboard above her had creaked.

  “Sherry?”

  Grace went to the stairs, the worn steps squeaking as she made her way to the upper floor.

  Standing in the shaded light, she looked up and down the hall. A sudden stirring came from behind a half-closed door. Grace went to it, picking up a current of foul-smelling air. The hinges grated as Grace swung the door open, her eyes widening.

  Riley lay on the bed.

  In that instant Grace saw her arms outstretched, her wrists bound with rope to the headboard. She was gagged, groggy. Her skin was blotched, her hair stringy. She was wearing her Friends T-shirt and shorts. Her feet were bare. The bed was damp, soiled. Fast-food containers were strewn about; pill bottles and water bottles stood on the night table.

  “Riley!”

  Grace rushed to her, Riley sputtered into her gag, shaking her head as Sherry, lying in wait behind the door, swung a baseball bat into Grace’s stomach.

  Grace’s knees buckled.

  Sherry delivered a second blow to the back of Grace’s neck, knocking her unconscious.

  * * *

  Moving quickly, Sherry dragged Grace across the floor to a corner of the room, sat her up and used plastic zip tie handcuffs to bind her wrists and ankles. Unable to find a gag for her, Sherry went to Riley, who’d been watching in her muzzy state. She unfastened Riley’s bindings before zip-tying her wrists in front of her. Then, using a firefighter’s carry, she hefted Riley across her shoulders.

  Sherry got her downstairs and out of the house before laying her on the rear floor of her SUV. She checked the plastic handcuffs on Riley’s wrists, her gag, to ensure they were secure. Then she zip-tied her ankles.

  Riley’s eyes were half open, as if she was semiconscious.

  “I’m sorry I had to do this,” Sherry said. “Soon all this will be behind us.”

  She covered Riley with a blanket.

  * * *

  Sherry returned to the bedroom, setting a small tin can on the floor.

  She bent down and tapped Grace’s face until her eyes fluttered open. She struggled through her fog,
looking around in disbelief.

  “Sherry.” Grace winced in pain from the blows. “What’re you doing? Why—what—I don’t—”

  “How could you move across the country knowing that I was part of your family, too? You didn’t think about me. You just took Riley and left me.”

  “What? What’re you—I don’t under—”

  “I missed her so much, and when I saw that you left her behind—”

  “You followed us to the truck stop?”

  Grace’s eyes ballooned when Sherry reached for the can. A red tin can. She saw the words Paint Thinner on it.

  Pungent vapors assaulted Grace’s nostrils as Sherry removed the cap.

  Grace screamed. “Don’t do this! You’re my friend! Sherry, please!”

  * * *

  Riley had pretended to be drugged and docile.

  For the last day—or was it two?—when Sherry was not watching, she’d been spitting most of the pills she’d given her behind the headboard.

  She couldn’t believe what Sherry was doing. Alert now, Riley squirmed out from under the blanket, determined to escape from her bindings by recalling self-defense videos she’d seen online. Wriggling her body, she sat up, examining the handcuffs on her ankles.

  Riley knew plastic zip ties had a locking bar, and what she needed to do to get free was lift the bar from the tracks of the zip tie with a shim. A fingernail might work.

  Steadying herself, she used her longest nail and began working at lifting the bar, applying pressure. Her nail broke.

  Riley whimpered, her shoulders sagged, but she refused to give up.

  She clawed off her gag for air.

  Concentrating, she tried working on her ankle cuffs using another fingernail when a shaft of sunlight captured something amid Sherry’s folders and papers scattered on the car’s floor.

  Paper clips.

  With the fingers of her cuffed hands she pinched a clip, carefully removed it from a sheaf of papers, unfolded, twisted and reinforced its edge, positioned it, then began working on the lock bar on the zip tie around her ankles.

  The first attempt failed.

  “Come on, come on!”

  * * *

  Sherry’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly while she held a disposable lighter before Grace, who had tears streaming down her face.

  “Things happen for a reason, Grace. That’s why I moved to San Diego, not to help you, but to claim what is mine.”

  “Please!” Grace shook her head. “I can help you! Sherry, don’t do this.”

  “Oh, how the stars aligned.” Sherry nodded with satisfaction then stood. Taking up the can she splashed a little solvent on the floor near the door.

  Ninety-Four

  San Diego, California

  Marked San Diego patrol cars moved quickly, establishing an outer perimeter focused on the address for Sherry Penmark.

  They’d sealed off and stopped all traffic in a four-block radius while unmarked units had moved to various choke points near the residence, using the layout of the neighborhood to their advantage.

  Elsen and McDowell were in their rental. Other SDPD officers in unmarked vehicles were nearby, all of them concentrating on the target building.

  The air was strangely quiet until the handheld radio San Diego police had given the Las Vegas detectives crackled in their car.

  “We’ve got movement.”

  A woman in a large hat and sunglasses got into an SUV and began driving slowly down the street, traveling half a block before sirens yelped, emergency lights in grilles flashed, engines roared, rubber squealed on asphalt. Instantly the SUV was boxed in by two unmarked cars.

  Detectives in plain clothes with badges on chains, guns drawn, surrounded it.

  “Shut your vehicle off!” a detective said. “Toss the keys to the street. Get out of the car with your hands behind your head, fingers entwined.”

  Car keys tinkled to the ground as the frightened woman complied. Her body trembling, she was handcuffed and patted down. Within minutes police discovered the woman was not Sherry Penmark—but could not rule out that she may have been assisting her.

  Other officers, with Elsen and McDowell, had gone to the residence where they found Andrew Pierce, aged seventy-two, but no sign of Riley Jarrett or Sherry Penmark.

  “Dear Lord, what’s going on?” Pierce, shocked by events, said to Elsen. “That woman used to house-sit here—this is not her home!”

  “Where does she live?” Elsen said.

  Pierce closed his eyes, struggling to remember the address on the envelope he’d given to Grace.

  Ninety-Five

  San Diego, California

  Backing out of the bedroom, Sherry sprinkled paint thinner on the hallway floor.

  She stepped backward carefully, down the hall then the stairs, sprinkling solvent as she went. She continued throughout the main floor, the living room and the kitchen, backing near the rear door where she’d emptied the can.

  Smiling, she reached into her pocket for the lighter, lit it then tossed it to the floor, igniting a fine thread of fire.

  When she turned to leave, Riley swung a shovel, hitting the side of her head and knocking her out.

  Riley, her wrists still bound but her ankles free, dropped the shovel, rushed around Sherry, dodging the flames, to the kitchen where she seized a knife from the cutlery drawer.

  Riley sped up the burning stairs, braving the heat and smoke, navigating small walls of fire.

  She flew to her mother, dropping to the floor, using the knife’s serrated blade to saw through her bindings.

  As the fire grew, they both began coughing as Grace freed Riley’s wrists with the knife. Their eyes stung as fire, sparks, ash and dense smoke swirled.

  Small bits of the walls and ceiling fell around them, then everything turned black.

  * * *

  A neighbor walking her dog spotted the flames and called 9-1-1.

  Within minutes sirens wailed. Emergency vehicles converged on the burning house, turning the tranquil corner of University Heights into a war zone.

  Firefighters laid lines, attacking the blaze, which had engulfed the two-story structure. Crews succeeded in pulling out an unconscious adult female from the rear entrance and two more unconscious females from a room on the second level.

  More sirens howled as paramedics rushed the three victims to hospital in Hillcrest.

  * * *

  Riley’s eyes flickered. She felt the oxygen mask covering her face. In the torpid haze she had the sensation of floating on a cloud while a siren blared.

  What’s happening?

  Through paramedic radio dispatches she’d discerned that three patients from a fire were being transported in separate ambulances.

  All were alive—one was critical.

  She stopped floating. Then there came the clacking rattle of the gurney’s wheels extending. She was rolled through automatic doors.

  Fluorescent lights streamed by on the ceiling as her gurney moved down a hospital hallway. She smelled disinfectant as her status—something about mild shock, first-degree burns and smoke inhalation—was being called out.

  They wheeled her into an emergency treatment room curtained on both sides, transferred her to the treatment bed.

  Masked faces hovered around Riley as she overheard voices nearby discussing how all three fire victims were now there—one on either side of her curtain.

  Suddenly behind one of the curtains came tense, stress-filled orders accompanying urgent activity from the medical staff that went on for several minutes before a long, flat, resonant beep. Then switches were snapped.

  A few moments later a soft voice said: “Calling time of death...”

  Death?

  Several more moments passed as fear flooded Riley’s heart. Who died behind the curtain?

 
; At some point she could hear the soft bits of conversation between two emergency people on the other side.

  “...That’s for the doctor...explain that her last words when she was transported... ‘Tell my daughter, Riley, I love her.’”

  My daughter.

  Riley lost her breath, pain catapulted her back to the night her father died. She fought for air.

  Not Mom, not my mom!

  Screaming, Riley pulled herself up from her bed, grasped the curtain in her fists to tear it away—I have to save my mother—she can’t leave me—but she was seized by nurses, pulling her back.

  “MOM!”

  Riley fought a losing battle, sobbing, unable to breathe.

  It took three nurses to subdue Riley while a fourth nurse slowly drew back the curtain on the opposite side.

  Riley saw her mother. Alive.

  Semiconscious, she turned her head. Grace smiled at her through her tears. Riley rushed to her side.

  Epilogue

  The corridor in the hospital gleamed.

  Standing in a waiting area, John and Blake steeled themselves as the doctor, stethoscope collared around her, approached them.

  “Riley’s suffered smoke inhalation, first-degree burns to her hands, arms and feet, mild shock, dehydration, weight loss but she’s going to be okay,” the doctor said.

  Breathing in, John nodded.

  “Grace has blunt force trauma to the back of her neck. So far we see no signs of neurological injury. She has two fractured lower ribs. None of the organs appear punctured. We need to do more imaging tests. She received first-degree burns on her hands and neck and underwent smoke inhalation, as well. Otherwise, she’s in good condition.”

  With small smiles, John and Blake exchanged glances. “Can we see them?” John asked.

  The doctor removed her glasses and glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll have to wait. Police are still talking to them.”