After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” And then she clicked off. Cassie was left holding the phone and staring out the window. The fire was burning low in the wood stove, the dog curled into a ball and Trent . . . where was Trent? She heard a floorboard creak overhead and remembered he’d gone upstairs to sort out bills in the bedroom he used as an office.

  She wanted to tell him about the phone call, but told herself she should deal with it herself; she couldn’t always go running to her husband. Hell, what a mess!

  A headache started to form behind her eyes. She found the remote for Trent’s television, clicked on the flat screen, and scrolled through the stations until she found the cable channel that was hosting mystery shows. Sure enough, slated to be aired within a few minutes was Justice: Stone Cold. The subtitle read: Terror in Ice. The caption read like a horror story from her past: Reporter Whitney Stone reviews the case that terrorized a small town in Oregon where celebrity actress Jenna Hughes was hunted and kidnapped by a serial killer who had targeted her and her daughters.

  Cassie’s heart sank. Jenna’s stalker was part of a month-long marathon of shows on serial killers. It seemed from the menu that the hour-long shows were running back-to-back, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And as she checked the listings, she realized that this week, every twelve hours the show about the freak who had held her and her mother hostage ten years ago would run.

  Over and over.

  She shivered. Remembered the fear, the stark terror of waking up in his ice-cold lair, knowing that both she and her mother were doomed.

  She dropped the remote and stared at the television as the program started. First there was Whitney Stone’s face, perfect makeup, long, black hair, hazel eyes staring into the camera’s lens. She was serious. Dressed in black. The screen behind her in shadows.

  “We all know that Allie Kramer is missing, her whereabouts unknown, her condition undetermined. Police are investigating her disappearance as a missing person’s case, but there is always the fear that she may already be dead, her body hidden, maybe never to be found.”

  Cassie’s throat closed and she felt faint.

  But Whitney Stone plowed on. “We at Justice: Stone Cold are currently investigating Ms. Kramer’s disappearance and the bizarre events that happened in and around the set of her latest film, Dead Heat, which premieres soon. I promise you, we at Justice: Stone Cold will ferret out the truth, through exclusive interviews with Allie Kramer’s sister, Cassie, an actress in her own right, but with far less star power than that of her sister. There are questions about her relationship with her estranged sister and rumors of a love triangle between Allie and Cassie Kramer and Cassie’s husband, Trent Kittle.”

  To Cassie’s horror, pictures of Allie, Trent, and herself flashed onto the screen while Whitney’s voice continued. “Who is this man?” A close-up of Trent, unshaven, in jeans and an open shirt, lounging against a western facade, one booted foot propped against the weathered boards of what appeared to be a saloon. Cassie recognized the picture as one he’d used when he was briefly a stuntman looking for work in Hollywood while dating her. “If that isn’t enough scandal in this bizarre tragedy,” Whitney went on in a voice-over, “add in the fact that Allie had been involved in a white-hot affair with her costar, Brandon McNary.” Trent’s image faded to be replaced by a sexy head shot of McNary smiling slyly into the camera. “Could he have played a part? All these questions will be answered in the next installment of Justice: Stone Cold. But tonight’s story is dedicated to another portion of Allie Kramer’s life, when she was still an impressionable teen, a schoolgirl in a small Oregon town, her mother, Jenna Hughes, a famous actress who had escaped the pressures, stress, and yes, dangers, of Hollywood.”

  Cassie backed up until her calves hit the edge of the couch, where she dropped onto the cushions. Her eyes were trained on the screen and the debacle that was unfolding.

  Turn it off.

  Her common sense was silently screaming at her.

  Don’t watch this. Do not!

  In a poorly acted sequence with commercial breaks cutting into the action, the story that had haunted Cassie since her teenage years was played out. She saw unknown actresses play the parts of her mother, her boyfriend, Allie, and, of course, herself. A man who resembled the murderer was also on-screen as he stalked the actress who played Jenna and re-created the terrible ordeal that she had lived through. Interspersed were actual clips from news reports of the horror that had claimed their lives.

  In one sequence of footage of her family that had been shot just afterward, Jenna was ushering her children inside the house, waiflike Allie was clinging to her mother, while Cassie threw a dark, angry look at whoever was manning the camera. Quickly, Jenna eased her daughters through the door and away from the public’s eye, but outside, even with the door firmly shut, the camera kept filming, sweeping across the wide front porch to focus on a window where Allie appeared and stared through the glass panes. Then the picture on the screen changed, morphing into Allie nearing adulthood. The same wide-eyed innocence was visible on the older Allie as she stared through another window. That now iconic image had become the poster for Wait Until Christmas, one of the films that had caught the attention of the American public and propelled Allie into stardom.

  A cold shiver ran down Cassie’s spine as the image faded back to the first shot again, of young Allie peering through the window of the family home. Even at her tender age, just after a life-shattering ordeal, Allie had been able to exude an ethereal quality. But in the next second, that image was destroyed as Jenna appeared and quickly yanked her daughter from the window. A second later the blinds snapped shut.

  “Cass?” Trent’s voice brought her back to the present. He took one look at the television. “What’re you doing? What is this?” He found the remote on the floor and clicked the TV off. Then he gazed hard at Cassie.

  “I wanted to see what Whitney had to say.” She felt compelled to defend herself.

  “And?”

  “Probably not a good idea.”

  He tossed the remote onto the couch. “You okay?”

  She nodded, not really sure.

  He waited, the fire hissing, the dog snoring softly, the seconds ticking by. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “I can sleep down here?” she asked, motioning to the couch.

  “If you don’t watch any more trash TV.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” she mocked.

  “Or you could come upstairs.”

  “With you?”

  “Definitely with me.” His smile was an invitation and she wondered what it would hurt. They were married, not that their marriage was the crux of her hesitation. They’d slept in the same bed last night. Nothing had happened between them, except for the fact she’d felt more secure and safe than she had in months.

  But now there was a tiny gleam in his eye, the hint of sexuality that stirred a response in her. It wasn’t the sex itself that scared her, it was the emotional devastation that was sure to follow any intimacy.

  It had happened before.

  “I think I’ll stay down here.”

  His lopsided grin became more pronounced, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Suit yourself.” He found the sleeping bag and pillow in the front closet again and tossed them onto the leather couch. “Hud will keep you company. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  He pushed away from the doorjamb, walked to the front hallway and locked the door, then headed up the stairs, his boots ringing on each step and echoing in her heart. Should she just quit fighting it? Follow him up the stairs? Forget about all the pain of their short marriage? Actually start over as he’d suggested?

  Biting her lip, she eyed the leather couch and the sleeping bag and pillow lying on the cold cushions. The rain was beating a soft tattoo against the windowpanes and she told herself she was just being stubborn. A night in Trent’s bed did not a commitment make. Nor would it compromise any of her
moral standards, whatever they may be. Sleeping with Trent’s body curled next to hers wasn’t some kind of sin or sign of weakness. It didn’t mean that she’d decided to throw out all of her convictions or suspicions. It wasn’t as if they were in a battle and he’d won.

  It was just comfort.

  Well, and sexual attraction.

  She glanced over at the sleeping dog. Though Hud didn’t appear to open his eyes, he thumped his tail. “Sorry, Buddy,” she said, heading for the stairs where she intended to follow her husband. “You’re on your own tonight.”

  She was on the third step when her cell phone beeped, indicating she had a text. Pausing, she saw that the text was from Brandon McNary and that her battery life was low. She couldn’t remember when she’d charged it last or if she’d even packed her charger in her hurry to leave LA.

  .ru in PDX?

  She considered not answering and didn’t respond immediately. Another text came through.

  need to see u. ASAP! info on AK

  Cassie’s pulse jumped. Information on Allie? Now? Bullshit. But she didn’t want to just brush him off. He was the last man Allie was involved with, and maybe he knew something he hadn’t imparted earlier.

  She replied: coffee tomorrow am?

  The response: now. Important.

  She typed: I’m in Falls Crossing. Then she added: With Trent.

  McNary replied quickly: come alone.

  Cassie: What is this?

  McNary: if you want the info meet me at Orson’s at 11:30

  Cassie: Sorry. No cloak and dagger cryptic crap for me.

  McNary: You’re the only 1 who can help.

  Cassie: I’m not.

  McNary: guess what she said about u was true all go no show. She knew u didn’t care about her

  Cassie: Not true

  McNary: prove it

  Cassie: Don’t have to.

  She waited for the next text but it didn’t come. Agitated, she stood on the third step and contemplated heading upstairs. To Trent. To safety. To . . . oh, hell, who was she kidding? She couldn’t just go to bed and pretend McNary hadn’t tried to reach out to her.

  But why?

  Late at night, it didn’t make any sense.

  But then, what had in the disappearance of her sister? Nothing. At least McNary was willing to talk to her. Unlike Little Bea or Dean Arnette or a lot of people associated with Dead Heat and Allie.

  She looked up the remaining steps of the staircase and at the dark floor above. Knowing she was giving in to emotions over judgment, she started typing. What if he was on the up and up? What if Allie needed her? What if, for some unknown reason, it was imperative that Cassie go alone? I’ll be there, but if this is some kind of sick joke, Brandon, I swear, I’ll kill you!

  For a second she considered hurrying up the rest of the flight and telling Trent about her plans, but she knew what his response would be, what any sane person’s responses would be.

  Something along the lines of: “You’re not going alone.”

  Or: “Why don’t you just call the police?”

  Or maybe: “This sounds like big trouble or a twisted prank. I don’t care what he said, I’m coming with you.”

  Her heart wrenched. Having Trent with her would be a helluva lot more comforting and probably safer, though she wasn’t really worried about her safety. She could handle a self-serving sleaze like McNary and Orson’s was a well-lit, popular bar in Portland; she’d be okay.

  After hitting the send button, she turned back, collected her purse, keys, and jacket, then headed through the front door and into the wet Oregon night. She hoped Trent was already asleep, that he hadn’t heard the dog’s soft woof as she’d grabbed her things, nor caught the noise of the latch clicking as she’d quietly pulled the front door shut behind her.

  What are you doing?

  Are you crazy?

  That nagging voice whispered to her as she clicked on the flashlight app on her cell phone, its bluish beam illuminating the wet grass, weeds, and puddles. Moving quickly, head ducked against the rain, she picked her way along the path to the gravel parking area near the garage. A security lamp mounted on a pole near the barn gave off an ethereal light, creating the illusion that the barn, silo, and garage’s shadowed facades loomed larger around the graveled parking area.

  “Don’t be a fool,” she whispered as she reached her car and slipped noiselessly behind the wheel. Before she had time to second-guess herself, she cranked on the ignition and looked up at the house to the second story and Trent’s dark window. The shifting light of a television backlit a figure standing near the glass.

  Cassie’s heart lurched. Her head began to pound. She blinked, felt the blackness calling to her, beckoning, but she fought it. Her hands, despite the cold were suddenly sweaty against the wheel.

  “No!” she said aloud. “Not now!”

  She couldn’t afford to lose time tonight, to have hours unaccounted for. As her headache began to thunder, she set her jaw and thought about Trent, how she’d deceived him.

  She’d text him the second she was in Portland, but for now, she hit the gas and took off, turning on her headlights and wipers and telling herself that it didn’t matter what Trent thought, she didn’t have to answer to him, she could do anything she damned well pleased.

  She gritted her teeth against the pain of the headache, possibly brought on by her deception. Of course she hadn’t outwardly lied to him, but by not going upstairs and telling him what she was going to do, she’d kind of misled him. Omission rather than admission.

  But this could be her best chance of ever finding her sister.

  Then again it could be a big waste of time.

  She’d find out soon enough.

  CHAPTER 24

  Trent swore under his breath as he watched the disappearing taillights of Cassie’s Honda. He’d hoped she would come up to bed. He’d hoped they’d make love. He’d hoped she’d spend the rest of the night and maybe her life with him.

  But, of course, that had been too much to expect.

  Snagging his keys off his dresser, he charged down the stairs when he heard a beep from his cell phone indicating a text had come through. Cassie?

  His jaw tight, he glanced at the phone’s tiny screen and frowned. The message was a brief note from Carter:

  Checked with L Sparks of the OSP. Larry Sparks was a lieutenant with the Oregon State Police. While at Jenna’s house Trent had filled Carter in about the search for the 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe. Luckily, Carter hadn’t balked at the source of the information, and had later confirmed that Sparks had promised to do some checking with the stipulation that Detective Nash of the Portland Police Department be kept in the loop. Neither Trent nor Carter had any problem with making certain the Portland PD was informed. Trent figured the more cops who were searching for Allie Kramer, the better.

  Carter’s text continued:

  9 vehicles: 07 Hyundai Santa Fe, Arctic white, beige interior etc. in the tri-county area. No plates with bucking horses.

  No surprise there. Nine vehicles was a start, though the tri-counties didn’t include outlying counties in Southern Washington and out here, east of the Portland metropolitan area. Trent walked to the kitchen and found the dog on his heels. “Not this time, boy,” he said as he snatched his hat and jacket from a peg near the back door. “You hold down the fort.” After cramming his hat onto his head, he slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and turned up his collar. Rain peppered the ground and the wind tore down the gorge as he jogged to his truck. Once inside, he switched on the ignition and dialed Cassie’s cell.

  “Pick up,” he said, hearing the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Come on, damn it!” With the phone tucked to his ear, he turned the truck around, then hit the gas and started racing down the lane leading to the county road. He heard her phone click to voice mail. Damn! “Saw you take off. What’s up? Call me.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.

  Why the hell hadn’t she told h
im where she was going?

  The simple answer was that she didn’t want him to know.

  “Screw that,” he ground out as he reached the county highway and, with a quick look in either direction, cranked the wheel.

  Fishtailing, the truck slid on the wet pavement before the tires caught. His cell phone jangled and he saw it was Carter. He picked up and wrestled with the idea of asking him if Jenna had heard from Cassie, but decided Carter would share that info if he had it and he didn’t want to worry Cassie’s parents . . . yet.

  “Kittle.”

  Carter’s voice was deep. Serious. “You saw my message about the tri-county area,” he stated.

  “Yeah, just got it.”

  “Sparks found about seven more scattered around the state, but the thing of it is, there are no Oregon license plates with an image of any kind of bucking bronco. Wyoming? Yes. Oregon? No.”

  Of course, that would have been far too easy, Trent thought, scowling through the windshield as the truck’s tires sang against the wet pavement.

  “So either your info is faulty, or you misunderstood.”

  “He said a bucking bronc. I was there.” Frustrated, Trent snorted through his nose. He’d almost known this would turn out badly.

  “Could he have been talking about the license plate holder? Not the plate itself, but some kind of decorative bracket fixing the plate to the SUV?”

  “Maybe. But he seemed pretty sure of himself.” Of course Rinko was a patient in a mental hospital so he lost some credibility there.

  “There are plate holders with any kind of image you want, you know. Like the name of the dealership, or if you’re a sports fan, you can get one for your favorite team, like the Trailblazers or the Oregon Ducks or Oregon State Beavers or whatever. Also, local dealerships offer to decorate plate holders.”

  To Trent, looking for a decorative license plate holder with a horse on it was a long shot, a stab in the dark.

  But what else did they have to go on?

  “Sounds good,” he said, and clicked off, then turned the wipers onto the fastest speed offered. He tried his wife’s mobile number again.