The Devil's Closet

by Stacy Dittrich

  “Do you love her, Eric?” I didn’t know if I wanted the answer or not.

  After a long moment of silence, he answered, “Yes, CeeCee, I do.”

  It was hard to hear, but at least I knew this time it was really the truth. At long last. He wasn’t finished, but I already knew what he was going to say.

  “But I still love you, and if I had the choice right now, I would give anything to work things out with you.”

  “I still love you, Eric, but you and I both know the damage is done and it’s over. I could never look at you the same again, and you couldn’t look at me. I’ve slept with Michael now and you know that and no matter what you might say or think, you’ll never get past it. Not to mention the lack of communication we’ve had the last several years. After Murder Mountain you’d always say, ‘I’m here if you need me,’ but then would shut me out the minute I tried to talk. I felt very alone.”

  We remained quiet for a while. I saw I hadn’t shut the hotel room door all the way. Michael could hear every word. It was just as well; I wouldn’t have to explain everything later. I needed to hang up with Eric but had one more thing to say.

  “Eric, you should call her. If you really do love her, call. She’s carrying your child and she needs you right now.” My stomach turned while I said this, but I knew it was right.

  He admitted he had to. Then we said that the first moment it was safe, we would talk to the girls, agreeing not to throw Michael and Jordan in their faces. They would need a long transition, Selina especially. It would be a considerable amount of time before they learned about the baby. It was an hour and a half later by the time our conversation finally ended. I was drained.

  Poor, poor CeeCee, he thought as he watched. So sad, so sad. If she only knew just how much sadder she was going to be. The thought made him want to clap his hands with joy, but he couldn’t make a sound. She might hear him since she was still out on the balcony, crying like a small child. “If you weren’t such a whore, my dear…” he whispered. It would be impossible for him to sleep tonight, feeling so anxious about the upcoming Grande Finale. He looked at his watch, a cheap silver knockoff that had somehow managed to keep time for the last twenty-five years. He refused to replace it, paying small amounts here and there to keep it running. It was a sentimental attachment. It had been with him during each and every one, just as it would be with him tonight, for the very last. The last guest was special, oh so special! She would ensure he would be remembered always, especially after tonight. With such an important father, his special guest would bring a reign of redemption from here to heaven. Along with the redemption would come the vengeance that he had waited for this very long time; vengeance against CeeCee Gallagher, a vengeance he had dreamed of for over two decades.I stayed outside for another half hour, mindlessly gazing at the interstate. It had been another mentally exhausting day.

  When I finally went back in the room, I leaned against the bathroom door and looked at Michael, who said nothing.“You heard most of my conversation.”

  He nodded, but got up from his chair and came over. He pulled me into a comforting, forgiving embrace that seemed to last forever.

  “The only thing I have to say or ask is, are you sure I’m who you want? No matter how many times you said it, I’m still not convinced. I’m not going to lie to you, and as much as this might scare you right now, I want you to be my wife someday. Not tomorrow or next week, but when you’re ready. That’s how much I love you and can’t live without you. But it’s up to you to figure it out and keep to whatever decision you make. Most important, whatever decision you make has to be for the right reasons, and not out of fear of hurting me or Eric.”

  I pulled away. “I’m sure now, Michael. You’re who I want, who I need, and who I belong with. Who I’ve always belonged with. I should’ve realized that when I thought you died on Murder Mountain. I didn’t think I could go on.”

  We embraced again, completely silent. Too many words had been said too many times. Somehow I felt we may have been very near the end of all our problems. The tension released when we heard Michael’s stomach growl and both of us laughed. It was an unusually warm night, so it was lovely to be able to walk to the nearest restaurant. Despite being a little more relaxed, I still didn’t have much of an appetite. Today’s events essentially still squashed it.

  Michael expressed concern over my eating and sleeping habits, and promised that when the case was over, he was taking me away on a much needed vacation, anywhere I wanted to go.

  The promise sounded wonderful, but a trip was a long way off. There were way too many things that needed to be taken care of before then, my planned stakeout that night being the first. I thought about waiting until Michael went to sleep and sneaking out, but after all the truth telling this afternoon, I didn’t feel right about it. Back in the room after dinner I took both of his hands in mine and sat down with him on the bed.

  “Michael, do you trust me?”

  He looked baffled and a bit dismayed, worried there was yet more to be hashed out. “Of course I do. Why?”

  “I’m not talking personally, Michael. I mean professionally.”

  He looked even more confused. “CeeCee, get to your point.”

  I told him. Not everything, but most of it. I told him that I had been investigating the case behind the lines and had found something, but I couldn’t tell him what it was right then. I wasn’t sure about my find yet and the less he knew, the better off he’d be. I told him I was close to being sure who the killer was, but I needed a little more time.

  I told him I had to go out that night and he’d have to take my word for everything and simply trust me.

  “Trust you! You know who the killer is? Is that where you’ve been? My God, CeeCee, what’s the matter with you! After Murder Mountain I thought you would have learned!”

  I had prepared myself for that reaction, but I wouldn’t budge about giving him any more information. He certainly wasn’t finished.

  “Where do you think you’re going tonight?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  He was floored. “You can’t tell me?” Now he was getting angry.

  “Michael,” I said coolly, “you can’t know. I have nothing on this guy yet. Think realistically. If I get caught and the FBI finds out you knew about it, you’ll lose your job—if they don’t throw you in jail first.”

  “Jesus! What the hell are you doing, burglarizing houses?” I felt my blood pressure rise a tad at his reference. He said it jokingly, but if he only knew. “I won’t let you leave here tonight until you tell me. I picture you going out and getting yourself killed, or at least federally indicted. Prison or a graveyard are two places I really don’t care to be visiting.”

  Before I could argue back, his cell phone rang. He looked like he didn’t want to answer, but picked it up. “What is it!”

  He laid the phone down. “Oh, fuck!”

  “What?” I barked. Michael didn’t curse very much, and it always scared me when he did.

  “He took another one. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I tried to get what I could while we half ran to the car, but Michael didn’t know all that much. The agent had merely given him an address and told him another seven-year-old girl was taken. Curiosity got the better of me, so I called the communications center to find out who lived at that address. When I found out, there was nothing I could do but hold the phone and stare into it.“Oh, no,” I muttered.

  “Who is it?”

  “The Richland County commissioner’s daughter, Brooklyn Phillips.”

  “A county commissioner’s daughter? That’s really pushing it. The killer definitely made a statement, didn’t he?” Michael started to drive even faster.

  “Yes, he did. I’d like to see Howard explain himself out of this one. The killer flat out told him he’d take another child unless I was put in charge.”

  As I’d expected, the Phillipses’ house was complete chaos. Michael and I co
uld barely get across the front yard. Neighbors and family members were screaming at the top of their lungs, and FBI agents and cops were swarming everywhere; there was no sense of order whatsoever. I assumed nothing vital to the crime had happened in the front yard since everyone was traipsing around so much.

  Inside the house, the two idiots from the FBI were standing near Commissioner Alex Phillips and his wife, Jean. Some lady held a bucket in front of Jean, who was vomiting into it. The commissioner was rubbing her back and trying to soothe her, though he didn’t look too good himself.

  I’d always gotten along with him, and he maintained his position as one of the top supporters of our police department. This was a great benefit to us since he held the purse strings.

  I saw good old Supervisory Agent Earl Howard come into the room from the kitchen. I just leaned back against the wall, crossed my arms, and said nothing. He went directly to Michael, glowering at me along the way. I happily returned the same. He spoke to Michael for about five minutes before returning to the kitchen.

  Michael filled me in on some of the details. Brooklyn had gone through her nightly routine of taking a bath, eating a snack, and going to bed. Alex and Jean, after tucking Brooklyn in, stayed downstairs and watched television before they decided to turn in.

  When Jean checked on Brooklyn later, her bedroom window was open, the screen had been cut, and Brooklyn was gone. The house only had one floor, and the couple had been in the family room about a good hour before checking on their only daughter. An entire hour for the killer to get away. They never heard a sound.

  My attention was torn away from Michael by the shouts of Alex Phillips. Agent Howard had come back into the room.

  “What are you going to do? You don’t have a fucking thing, do you? So help me God, if something happens to her, I’ll hold every one of you people responsible!”

  Of course, Agent Howard gushed about how they were doing everything they could and were following up on some good leads.

  “That’s a lie, and you know it,” I said loudly. Gauntlet thrown down.

  Both men turned to look at me. I stayed in position, straight-faced and staring down Agent Howard.

  “Detective Gallagher? CeeCee.” Alex stood up. “What’s going on? What do you mean?”

  “Commissioner, I’m so very sorry about Brooklyn. I strongly suggest you find Sheriff Stephens immediately to find out what the FBI is doing to find your daughter, and he’ll tell you. Not a goddamn thing. And find out how much they’ve already botched this entire case.”

  Michael grabbed my arm. “CeeCee, don’t,” he whispered in my ear.

  I jerked away to find Agent Howard less than an inch from my face. “Detective Gallagher,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “you’re treading on very dangerous ground here. At this rate, you’ll be lucky if you’re out of federal prison by the time you’re eighty, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have anything to say about it, Agent.” The sheriff, who had come in and heard every word, stood behind Agent Howard.

  “Sheriff, with all due respect, this is federal jurisdiction….”

  “Right, it is. Agent Hagerman is still the lead agent. However, as of right now, Detective Gallagher will be named before the media as the lead investigator. You, sir, are no longer needed, and if you call your boss—he’s expecting your call, by the way—you’ll find you’re on the next plane out of here. Those orders are directly out of Washington.”

  I guess the governor and his brother came through. A little late, but it was better than nothing. Agent Howard turned, saw the smile on my face, and looked back at the sheriff. As if the sheriff’s word wasn’t enough, Agent Howard called his boss in front of all of us.

  Seeing his face pale told me the person on the other end wasn’t too thrilled with him either. Agent Howard slammed his phone shut and walked out the front door without saying a word.

  “Sorry it took so long, CeeCee. All of this could have been prevented.”

  Alex Phillips demanded to know what was going on, and the sheriff told him the truth. He told him about the letter, the threat the killer made, and how Agent Howard had ignored it. Alex looked devastated.

  “CeeCee, you know I trust you. I can’t take this. I really can’t. Please, find my little girl.” He began to cry.

  I felt my own eyes well up. It was difficult to speak. “Alex, you know I’ll do everything I can.”

  He nodded slightly, then went back to tend to his wife. It was a quiet few seconds before the sheriff took charge.

  “CeeCee, it’s your show now. You and Michael. Technically, it’s still an FBI case, but I’m going out right now to announce to the media that you’re in charge. Hopefully, our psychopath will see it soon and not take another child and, God willing, release Brooklyn Phillips.”

  It was evident Michael had relaxed considerably since the departure of Agent Earl Howard. He immediately took the reins, ordering agents to clear the front lawn and get everyone who didn’t belong out of the house. Anyone without a specific job to do there was to be out looking for the child. Suddenly everything felt under control.

  It was time for me to leave. All the bases were being covered and I had to finally take care of the most important part of this case, finding out more about Jim Carlson. I motioned to Michael, letting him know I needed to leave.

  “What do you mean you have to go? Oh no, if this is what you were telling me back at the room—forget it! You’re not going anywhere until you tell me first.”

  “You said you trust me, now prove it. I’ll be fine. This is extremely important and it can’t be done any other way. We don’t have time.”

  “You promise me that if something goes wrong, even in the slightest, you get your ass back here, or call me. And I want to hear from you in exactly one hour. If I don’t, I’ll assume something’s wrong and act accordingly. Agreed?”

  “I promise. One hour.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was out the door and heading to Jim Carlson’s, making just a quick stop at my house to throw on my burglary gear. Chances were no one would be at the Carlson house, but I had to be extremely careful. I thought of something on the way home and drove back to the abandoned factory to check the Dumpster to make sure the garbage bag was still there. Luckily, it was. I grabbed it carefully, since I had torn it open, and dumped the contents inside a new garbage bag before throwing it in my trunk. I wished I hadn’t promised Michael an hour; I was going to be pressed for time as it was.To get a look at Jim Carlson’s house, I had to drive around the block a few times. It was totally dark, and the black pickup truck his neighbor described wasn’t in the driveway. I parked on the next street over and waited a few minutes to see if anyone turned on a porch light or was sitting outside. It was a warm night and people might stay up later. I also needed to listen for dogs, people sneezing, coughing, talking, chains rattling, anything that would indicate a witness could be around.

  Once I was satisfied I was alone, I grabbed my bag of tools off the front seat and slowly got out of the car. I hadn’t had time to get one out of the impound lot, but it didn’t matter. All I had to do was say I was watching the house if anyone saw my car.

  I put in the earpiece attached to the portable radio on my belt. I needed to hear if anyone called the police department about a suspicious person or car on this street. The radio was pretty quiet, so I felt safe to begin my adventure.

  I darted through two backyards to get to the back of Jim Carlson’s house. By this time, I was sweating and breathing hard, so I took a moment to settle down a little before entering the house. I approached the back door, took out my lock-picking set, and went to work. Surprisingly, the door was already unlocked. I took my bag and ran back to the first yard I crossed, the place where I had noticed an old wheelbarrow lying upside down behind a shed, alongside some other thrown-away gardening items.

  I placed my bag underneath the wheelbarrow since it didn’t look
like an item the homeowner would check daily. I left the bag there in case I had to quickly get out of the house. If I had to move quickly, who knows if I would remember to grab it. This way, I could always come back later and retrieve it.

  Now, with my radio, turned-off cell phone, gun on my belt, and flashlight in hand, I returned to Jim Carlson’s back door.

  The doorknob squeaked when I turned it. Noises always seemed to be magnified a thousand times when you’re doing something illegal. I looked around yet again, then went in, quietly closing the door behind me. My eyes soon adjusted to the dark.

  I was in the kitchen. There was an aluminum table and two folding chairs substituting as a dinette set. The countertops were bare; no toaster, microwave, or utensils. It was horribly hot, and my heart rate was raising my own body heat, making me utterly miserable. Plus, I was nervous. Something just didn’t feel right.

  I stood in the same spot in the kitchen for several minutes, listening to the crickets chirping outside along with the sound of my own labored breathing.

  I finally mustered the courage to open the refrigerator. It was completely bare. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.

  This was nothing like when I’d been in Carl Malone’s house. I should’ve been more nervous there since I knew for a fact it was occupied. Here, it was anyone’s guess whether someone lived in this house. The atmosphere seemed very wrong.

  I waved my instincts off as overactive imagination and ventured through the kitchen doorway, slowly poking my head around the corner in the dimness. I was hesitant to use my flashlight in an open room with uncovered windows because someone outside might see me.

  The room adjoining the kitchen was bare. It looked like it should’ve been a living room, but there was no furniture to indicate that. There was no wallpaper. When I ran my hand down the nearest wall, paint flakes began to chip off. I stood in that spot for several minutes listening like I did in the kitchen.