Peeved, she opened the door without thinking, and he was there.
Not a neighbor. Not anyone who should have been able to get onto the property without authorization.
"Gabe?" she said, the word starting as a statement and lilting into a question.
"Hey, sweetie."
She was so surprised to see him, at first she didn't think to ask how he'd gotten through the gate. "You're not supposed to be here."
"Didn't we have this conversation yesterday?"
"I mean it. You can't amp; I mean, we can't amp;"
"Can't keep meeting like this?" He was smiling, trying to be funny, but somehow it wasn't quite coming off.
"You have to go."
"I just got here."
"I think my mom is coming home." In her excitement she forgot that she never called Robin her mom in Gabe's presence.
"Not likely. Your mother's a workaholic, remember?"
"No, something's going on today. She's all freaked about something. I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be at a neighbor's. I'm going there now. And you're taking off."
"That's not very friendly, short stuff."
He had never called her by that particular term of endearment before, and she didn't care for it.
"I have to go. You do, too. Okay?"
"Take a ride with me."
"What?"
"Come on, take a ride. It's a nice day."
"Are you crazy? I just told you, myRobin's on her way back. I can't go riding around with you."
"Sure, you can. Break the rules. Be a bad girl."
"Gabe, I'm sorry, but I'm going to a neighbor's apartment, and then I have to call Robin and find out what's got her so stressed. I'll talk to you later. You can e-mail me"
"I don't think so."
She lost her patience. Gabe was standing in the doorway, blocking her exit. "Okay, don't e-mail me. Whatever. But I'm going."
"You are going. With me."
"I already said"
"With me," he repeated, and she looked down and saw the gun that had appeared in his hand as if by a magic trick.
Her mind wasn't able to take in the reality of what her eyes saw. "What is this?"
"It's called a kidnapping, Meg. Which is appropriate, seeing as how you're a kid. A stupid, annoying kid."
The words shocked and hurt her almost as badly as the sight of the gun itself.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
"Guess you're not hearing too well today. I want you to take a ride with me. Will you do that? I'd advise you to say yes."
"Yes."
"Good girl. Now here's how we'll do this thing. You'll walk next to me through the courtyard, and you won't do anything dumb or you'll never make it to the front gate. Got it so far?"
"Yes." Her voice was low and far away.
"My car is parked down the street. We walk to it, and you get in on the driver's side. Slide over, with me next to you the whole time. You don't yell or run or fight me or do anything else that will get you killed. All right?"
"All right."
I thought you loved me, she wanted to say. I thought we were soul mates.
But she didn't say it, because she knew it would only make him laugh.
She did exactly what he said, trying nothing heroic, because any heroic gesture was sure to get her killed. She kept expecting him to explain, or at least to talk, to say something, but he seemed to have other things on his mind.
Even when the car pulled away from the curb and roared north to Wilshire, he remained silent, lodged behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed in what soldiers called a thousand-mile stare. He might have been a dead man, or a man in a cataleptic trance. The only thing that proved he was alive and alert was the dull pressure of the gun against her ribs.
It was a handgun. She didn't know what kindshe didn't know anything about guns, had never wanted to know about them. She assumed it was loaded, and she assumed that if she tried to open the car door and throw herself out, it would blast a hole in her heart.
There was no realistic chance of leaping from the car anyway. He had made her fasten her seat belt before starting out. At the time, she had found it almost funny that he would care about her safety. Now she understood that safety had nothing to do with it. He wanted her strapped in so she couldn't escape without unbuckling herself. Jumping out of the car was a nonstarter.
The same held true of all the other maneuvers that ran through her head as the car shot onto the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway, rushing toward the downtown skyline. She imagined herself waiting until the car took an offramp and was idling at a stoplight, then rolling down her window and screaming for help. She imagined waiting until he forced her to get out somewhere, then wrestling the gun away. Or locking him out of the car and driving off, the keys conveniently still in the ignition.
Hopeless plans.
She couldn't outthink him, couldn't outrun him. couldn't do anything except let him take her wherever it was they were going.
She wished she could think of something to say, if only to show him she wasn't afraid, but her mind seemed to have frozen up.
"Guess I was too hard on you back there," Gabe said suddenly, breaking the long silence.
She didn't answer.
"Calling you a kidthat was out of line. I mean, sure, you're young, but that's some quality pussy you've got to offer."
She averted her face, afraid to let him see her sprinkle of tears.
"I've had other young ones like you. I gotta get 'em young and ripe. It's the only way to ensure the ultimate in, you know, fuckability. You're one of the best I've had. You go all-out, every time. You're so goddamned eager to please."
"Shut up," she whispered.
He took the exit for Vermont Avenue, slowing to thirty miles an hour. "I don't know what it is about high school girls these days," he said. "When I was growing up, they weren't like they are now. Girls of your generationyou're fucking Lolitas, all of you. Sex ed might have something to do with it; I don't know. Maybe there's something in the water. Whatever it is, I'm not complaining."
"I hate you." She spoke the words so softly, she didn't think he'd even heard.
"The only downside is that the law makes me a criminal just for doing what comes naturally. Fucking legal code is a hundred years out-of-date. This isn't the Victorian era, for Christ's sake. Girls today, they hit fourteen, fifteen, they aren't virgins. Well, of course, you were. I popped your cherry pretty damn good, didn't I, short stuff?"
She ground her jaws together.
"My point is, you were ready. Your motor was revving; you were primed. Hell, it would' ve been cruel not to do you. And if somebody was going to tax your ass, who should it be? Some dumb high school jock, or a man, an experienced man, who could guide you through it, teach you, ease you along?"
He turned to her, and she saw him smile.
"When you get down to it, I was doing you a favor. Helping you get a good start in life."
"Yeah," she whispered, "you're a saint."
He surprised her by laughing aloud. "Point taken. So I'm not exactly a candidate for humanitarian of the year. But I didn't do you any harm, either."
"Until you kidnapped me."
"That's different. That's business."
"Business? How?"
"Never mind how."
She looked away from him, out the window. She didn't know this part of town. It was south of where her mom worked, not far from USC, but in an even worse neighborhood. She thought it must be South-Central. The streets were treeless and unpopulated, zoned for industrial use. Warehouses and salvage yards and big rambling buildings that might have been factories passed on both sides of the street. Nearly every building was encircled by a high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. Graffiti bloomed on fire hydrants, alley walls, even parked cars. In the distance sirens sang out. Hearing them, Meg felt a rush of hope, which quickly faded as the sirens trailed off in another direction.
"They'
ll catch you," she said softly. "They'll know you did it."
"I don't think so. Nobody can connect me with you. I took all the necessary precautions. Never even told you my real name. No way I'm giving my name to a girl who could get me busted for statutory rape."
"I wouldn't have told anyone."
"I couldn't be sure of that, could I? You might blab to one of your pajama-party girlfriends. I couldn't risk it. Couldn't tell the truth about myself to some airhead cheerleader I was banging."
Airhead cheerleader. The words burned like acid. He chuckled as if he knew it.
"And here we are," he added.
They had arrived at a massive brick-and-stone building that seemed ancient, like some fortress from medieval times. It was vast, taking up most of a city block, its parking lot empty and forlorn. There was no sign over the entrance, and the few small windows had been boarded up. Another one of the ubiquitous security fences surrounded the building and its grounds.
"We can't get in there," Meg said. "It's closed off."
"O ye of little faith."
Gabeor whatever his real name wasguided the car around to an alley at the side of the building, where a rear gate was secured by a rusty padlock. Gabe pressed the nose of the car against the gate, pushing it inward, straining against the chain that held it closed, until finally the chain snapped and the gate swung wide.
"Crappy security they got here," he said with a laugh.
He drove through and parked by the building.
"I'm getting out now," Gabe said. "I'm taking the keys. You could try locking yourself in the car, but I'll just unlock the door, and then I'll be mad. You could also try screaming for help. Does this look like a neighborhood where screaming for help would prove effective?"
"No," she said.
"You're very observant."
He left the car, walked around to the passenger side, and hustled her out, the gun held loosely in his hand.
"Now what?" she asked.
"We go in. This way."
The gun pointed toward a door in the building's brick wall, a few yards away. She approached it, her shoes crunching on broken glass and dead leaves.
"It's open. Just push."
She did. The doora heavy door of solid metaleased open with a groan. Beyond the threshold, there was dim, wavering light and a smell of age and rot. She stood motionless, afraid to go farther.
"Inside."
Her face felt hot, her head all stuffy, as if she'd just come down with the flu. She wasn't sure she could force her legs to move. They felt stiff and numb.
"Go," he ordered, shoving her from behind.
She stepped forward, into air heavy with dust motes. She heard rustlings from distant corners.
A whimper escaped her, and Gabe laughed.
"You said you wanted excitement in your life," he said. "Looks like you got your wish."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Robin checked her wristwatch for the thirtieth time. "Meg should have called by now."
"Whose apartment did you send her to?" Wolper asked.
"Mrs. Grandy. A neighbor in the building. Retired schoolteacher. I see her around all the time, but I don't know her phone number and I couldn't find it in the book amp;"
"I'll get it for you."
"I told Meg that if Mrs. Grandy wasn't there, she should go to another neighbor, Mr. Haver. He works at home."
"I'll get that number, too."
Wolper took out his cell phone and made a call. While he was talking, Robin dared another look inside the waiting room. The deputy had been taken away, but the misshapen pool of blood remained, thick on the carpet. It troubled her that she could think of the man only as "the deputy." He had delivered Gray to her on many occasions, but she had never looked at his nameplate, never learned his name.
"Okay, Doctor." It was Wolper, handing her a sheet of paper with two phone numbers written on it. "Use my phone," he said. "We'll keep the office line clear for now."
She punched in the first number, praying to hear Meg's voice. But the person who answered was Mrs. Grandy. "No, dear," she said in response to Robin's question. "I haven't seen her."
"Were you out? Did you just get in?"
Mrs. Grandy chuckled. "You know me better than that. With my arthritis and my bad hip, how often do I go out? I've been here all day. Is anything the matter?"
"Everything's fine. Thank you." Her hand was shaking as she entered the second number. Wolper watched in concern.
"Mannie?" she said when Haver answered. "This is Robin." She cut short his reflexive attempt at small talk. "Is Meg there?" She was not. "You haven't seen her?" He had not. He offered to go to her apartment and ring the doorbell. Robin almost said yes, but she couldn't drag another person into this. "No, it's okay, Mannie. Thanks." She hung up and looked at Wolper. "Not there. She's not there."
"Calm down. Call your home phone. Maybe she hasn't even left yet. In the meantime I'll have West LA send a squad car."
She made the call while Wolper talked to a uniformed officer, who got on his radio. The phone in her condo rang four times before the answering machine clicked on. Meg had recorded the message: "Cameron residence. Mother-and-daughter psychiatric consulting services available at an exorbitant fee." Then a beep.
"Meg, if you're there, pick up. Meg? Meg, pick up, please."
No answer. Robin ended the call.
"Patrol unit's on the way," Wolper said. "They have permission to enter the premises?"
"Yes, of course."
"That's what I told them. How long ago did Gray leave?"
"Twenty-five, thirty minutes."
"I doubt that's enough time to get across town."
"It's a straight shot on the freeway."
"The freeway's always jammed at this hour."
"Almost always. Maybe today he got lucky."
"Even if he did, you told Meg to exit the apartment."
"What if she didn't listen?"
"Why wouldn't she?"
"She's always on my case about being overprotective. And I didn't have time to explain what was going on. She may have thought I was being hysterical."
"You don't strike me as the hysterical type."
"Tell that to my daughter. I probably am overprotective, honestly. She's always telling me not to worry so much. Maybe she decided to ignore my phone call."
"Do you think she would do that?"
"No. But amp; where is she?"
"He hasn't got your daughter, Robin."
She didn't answer. She rose from the couch and paced the office, flicking glances at her wristwatch.
"What's taking so long? Shouldn't they have called in by now?"
"There's about a ten-minute response time," Wolper said.
She went on pacing, her heart beating in counterpoint to the ragged rhythm of her steps.
Her head throbbed. She had told the paramedics she was fine. She had assured Wolper that she hadn't blacked out. She'd lied. She was not fine. She had been struck on the head and had lost consciousness for an indeterminate time period. She was suffering from a headache, intermittent blurred vision, and amnesiathe moments before her injury were a blank. All of these were symptoms of concussion. She could be bleeding intracranially. But she refused to submit to an exam, because an exam would lead to hospitalization, and she could not be hospitalized right now. She couldn't sit still for a CT scan. Not until she knew about Meg.
Her mind went back to the young buzz-cut officers watching her from behind shaded lenses, asking her if she believed that the gang members who attacked her deserved rehabilitation. She'd said everyone deserved a chance. But where to draw the line? She had wanted to help Gray, but maybe she had only helped him to get loose. And now maybe he had Meg.
She could handle anything that affected no one but her. But if Gray had Meg amp; if he killed her amp;
Gray had already murdered a deputy, and now he might be running through his old, familiar MOthe drive to the desert, the slow crawl of hours, then the bull
et to the brain. He had done it five times before, and now he could be repeating the same stereotyped behavior pattern, replaying the well-worn tape.
One of the uniformed cops, whose name, she had learned, was Beecher, stepped into the office, rover radio in hand. "A-forty-three's at the residence. They found the front gate jimmied open."
Robin sank onto the couch. "Oh, God."
"Why would he need to force the gate?" Wolper asked. "He took your keys."
"My car keys. Not the house keys. That's a separate set."
Beecher was listening as the dispatcher relayed communications from the West LA unit. Robin heard only screeches and squawks, but apparently the noise was intelligible to the patrol officer. "They've found the door to the unit ajar. They're going in."
She bit back a moan. There was an endless period of silence before the radio crackled again. "The unit is empty. No sign of your daughter, Dr. Cameron."
The words seemed hollow and unreal, like a line of dialogue in a movie.
"Was there a struggle?" she heard herself ask.
Beecher shook his head. "They haven't reported any indications of violence."
"They should talk to the neighbors," Robin said dully. "One of them may have seen something, heard something."
"They will, Doctor. That's standard procedure."
Standard. But there was nothing standard about any of this. She felt her control slipping.
She sank onto the couch, her lower body going numb.
Years ago, on a trip to Oregon, she'd been caught in a snowstorm while driving through the Cascade Mountains, and her tires had lost traction on the icy road. The sickening sense of the road surface sliding out from under her, the car yawing toward the guardrail, the steering wheel useless in her hands amp; that was what she felt now, as her world and her life spun away.
Some kind of barely repressed hysteria hiccuped inside her, threatening to break out in a flood of screams and sobs. She pressed down on it with the full force of her self-control, refusing to fall apart when Meg was in danger and needed her. Later there would be time for helplessness, but not now.
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