Oh, God, what do I say to Dayna? What do I say to myself?
Like some heavenly intervener, Gerri Carson stepped through the door. She wore her chaplain uniform, a short strand of her curly gray hair whisked up by a breeze. I rose to confer with her in whispers, then led her to Dayna. The young woman was now in the best of hands.
Before leaving the station, I talked to another officer investigating the shooting, pulling more information from him about Neese. Then I headed for home. During the fifteen-minute drive, I prayed. For Dayna. For Amy. For justice.
And for wisdom in knowing what to do about Chelsea Adams.
Chapter 9
I arrived home to the domestic scene of Erin and Kelly in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies. A comforting sight, however messy. It never fails — those two girls spell disaster for a kitchen. Anytime they bake, sugar ends up crunching underfoot, flour spread across the counters. I took one look around the room and shook my head. I could have sworn they’d had a food fight.
“Hey, Mom.” Kelly lifted a white-coated palm and swished back her thick brown hair with her other hand.
“Hi, Annie,” Erin sang.
“Hello, girls.” I lugged my portfolio and purse over to the table and set them down. The smell of blended butter and eggs tickled my nose. “What are the cookies for?”
“For a while.” Erin grinned at me, showing perfect white teeth. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a smear of flour on one fair cheek. I gave her an oh ha-ha look and sank into a chair. “How did the interview and all that go?” Erin tore open a package of chocolate chips and dumped them in the mixing bowl full of dough.
I took in her profile, the swing of her small hoop earrings as she churned a wooden spoon through the thick mixture. Her concentrated efforts belied the anxiety she faced every time my work involved a homicide. Witnessing her own mother’s murder had plummeted Erin to the depths of pain. And the memories still haunted her.
“Fine.” I hoped the girls would let the subject drop. “Did you turn on the oven yet?”
Kelly tsked. “Mom, we know what we’re doing.”
“Hm.” I made a point of looking around. “Have you told the kitchen that?”
“We’ll clean up.” My daughter pulled out a cookie sheet, reached for some dough and balled it in her hands. I watched as she placed the large dollop on the sheet and pulled more dough from the mixture. This time it went in her mouth.
“Hey, no fair.” Erin gave her a playful smack and ate a large fingerful herself.
Kelly threw me a furtive glance, the casual veneer sliding from her shoulders like a loosened shawl. She pursed her mouth, hands forming another cookie ball. “So are you going to tell us what happened today? And anyway, do you know who that guy killed? This woman who works as the principal’s secretary — it was her son! Everybody was talking about it. She wasn’t at school, but people were leaving all these flowers and cards on her desk, and everyone was really sad.”
I rubbed my arms, feeling chilled in the warm room. Oh, God, to imagine that woman’s grief. I’d seen the lucky mother today — Toby’s mom. Whatever financial difficulties the Browns faced, at least she still had her son.
“So, Mom, did you do the drawing? Is that guy going to be caught, like now, before he can hurt somebody else?”
In other words — Before he can hurt you?
The unspoken question hung in the air. I sighed inwardly. When it came to my safety, Kelly walked the same tightrope as Erin. They both worried about me — but didn’t want to show it. A certain amount of denial came with the territory of teenage-hood. “Yes, I interviewed the boy who was shot and did the drawing. By the time I got the composite to the police station, officers already had a good guess who their suspect was. The drawing confirmed it. They’re out hunting the guy now.”
“Good.” Erin pressed a cookie ball flat with the palm of her hand. “Hope they put him away forever.”
Kelly grunted her agreement.
I looked out across the great room. “Where’s your Aunt Jenna?”
“Still working.” Kelly scratched her nose with the side of her palm, leaving a smear of flour. “But she’s gonna be done soon. She’s taking us to a movie tonight.”
“Oh. She’s not going out with Eric?”
“Huh-uh. They’re still fighting.”
I leaned back in the chair, contemplating the news. A Friday night with Jenna and the girls out. Stephen working at the video store until ten o’clock. That left the evening free for Dave and me.
“Dad wants you to call him.” Erin’s smile was all too knowing as she popped more dough in her mouth.
So now she’d turned mind reader?
“Well, I’ll do that.” I pushed to my feet. “As for you two, don’t you dare leave for any movie until this kitchen’s left the way you found it.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Kelly barked the words like a faithful soldier, and Erin mock-saluted.
Chapter 10
An hour and a half after I’d arrived home, the kitchen lay clean and sported the sweet, warm scent of cookies. Jenna and the girls had gone into town. Dave and I met to go out for dinner. We chose a small Italian restaurant, asking for a corner table. Dave reached across the white cloth to lace his fingers in mine. The heady scent of garlic and tomatoes hung in the air. Voices of patrons were a low buzz, hushed by the ambiance of diminished light and the faint strains of opera music. For a moment Dave and I merely gazed at each other. The compassion of his touch, his expectant smile soothed me like the taste of warm honey. The tension on my shoulders began to fall away.
“Feel like talking about your day?” Dave asked the inevitable question lightly enough, but like his daughter and my family, he needed to know.
I told him everything I’d learned about the case. “This girl who’s missing, Amy Flyte, she’s only nineteen. And Orwin Neese, the suspect, has a scary rap sheet. Assault with a deadly weapon, burglary. He’s beat up women. He was bold enough to run down Mike Winger in broad daylight. But if he caught Amy alone, what would he do to her? He sounds like the type who’d want to make someone suffer.”
Dave shook his head. “And this other guy who Neese threatened . . .”
“Well, maybe. But no one even knows who he is, so that’s just speculation. We’ll have to see if someone else is reported missing.”
The waiter appeared, bearing glasses of water and news of the evening’s specials. A timely arrival. Maybe Dave and I could change the subject. Dave ordered a calamari appetizer, and we laid our menus down for the moment.
He took a drink of water. “What are you going to do about Chelsea Adams?”
I focused on a bead of moisture running down my glass. “I need to call her back tonight. I should at least ask what her vision was about. I mean, just on the off chance it has anything to do with this case.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Any reason you think it should?”
“I have no idea; it’s just that her visions always seem to be . . . relevant. Know what I mean?”
He flexed his jaw, thinking. “I only remember two stories about her.”
“Yes, but those two stories made national headlines.”
He gave me a rueful smile. “Kind of like you. Only last count, you’ve got three to your name.”
“Uh-huh, thanks for reminding me.” I sat back, ran a hand through my hair. “What do you think I should do?”
“Have you prayed about it?”
“Most of the way home.”
“And?”
“And what? I’m asking for your opinion.”
“My opinion is that you should do what God leads you to do.”
I gave him a look. “Sometimes I don’t know what God wants me to do, Dave — that’s just the problem. Sometimes I need a little help.”
“Okay, sorry.” He held up a hand, palm out. “Sounds like you feel the need to talk to her some more before you make your decision. I agree with that.”
Our calamari arrived, smell
ing heavenly. My stomach grumbled. I reached for a bite and dipped it into tartar sauce. The tangy, salted flavor exploded in my mouth. I stared at a wall sconce as I chewed, thinking. Why was I making such a big deal of this anyway? All Chelsea Adams wanted was an hour or two of my time on a Saturday. A simple composite. Was that so much to ask?
My mental projector clicked on, running the film of Jenna and her wagging finger. “Don’t you go getting mixed up with her, Annie . . .”
Suddenly I thought of the time. Checked my watch. Almost seven thirty. What had I been thinking? This was unfair to Chelsea. While I sat here waffling about what to do, she waited, not knowing whether or not she would be getting up early the next morning to drive four hours —because of a vision she felt God had given her. She at least deserved my answer.
“Dave, I should call her soon.” I leaned back from our table, the intensity in my voice surprising me. “She’s just waiting to hear . . .”
He nodded with an almost weary acquiescence. “You have her number with you?”
I focused on my plate, thinking back to that afternoon. What had I done with that piece of paper?
“Yes. It’s in my purse.”
Dave gazed across the room. Conflicting emotions battled upon his features. When it came right down to it, I knew he didn’t like this. And I couldn’t blame him. Too much in his life had been consumed in the bonfire of tragedy. Anything unknown, any potential trouble for someone dear to him, he would see as spark against tinder. I reached out, laid my hand on his arm. “It’s going to be okay. If I do this — all she wants is for me to draw a face. It’s no big deal; I do it all the time.”
“Sure, I know.” He smiled with one side of his mouth.
I squeezed his arm, then reached into my purse to pull out Chelsea’s number and my cell phone. A man answered the call. Chelsea’s husband? “Oh yes,” he said when I identified myself. “I’ll get her for you.” Simple words, polite words. But I heard in them the same reticence I saw on Dave’s face.
Almost by rote, Dave forked another piece of calamari and ate it, watching me intently.
Chelsea’s greeting drifted over the line. I got right to the point. “Can you please tell me a little about your vision?”
She hesitated. I could feel her reluctance. Despite her past experiences — or maybe because of them — this was no more comfortable for her than for me. “Yes, but I . . .” She gave a nervous laugh. “I hope I don’t scare you away.”
Oh boy. Not a good lead-in.
She drew an audible breath. “I saw a small, dim room. Two people were shut up in it. A man was talking — obviously their captor.”
My eyes fastened on a small pull in the fabric of our tablecloth. All sense of zesty aromas and warm restaurant ambiance faded away. Two people. “Who were they?”
“The captives, you mean? I only saw one — barely. A female, in shadows. She was sitting on the floor, head on her knees. I can’t even tell you how old she was.”
My brain scrambled for relevant explanation. “Was the second a male?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could it be?”
“I guess, but really . . . I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
I closed my eyes, replaying our earlier conversation. “You said you saw one face clearly.”
“Yes, but only after the scene faded. The face of a young man. I don’t know who he’s supposed to be, or what tie he has to the room.”
I brought a hand to my forehead, thoughts churning.
“Annie?” Chelsea’s tone wavered. “The thing you should know is, there was a real sense of urgency. I mean, I don’t know when all this is supposed to happen, but when it does . . . those two people? They’re going to die unless they’re rescued. And their death isn’t going to be pretty.”
I straightened, my eyes locking with Dave’s. Two people . . . A female . . . The face of a young man. A shiver coiled up my spine.
“Chelsea, how soon can you get here tomorrow?”
Chapter 11
Mike Winger’s murder had stirred up the ghost voices. Now they wouldn’t leave him alone. They whispered at him incessantly.
They will find you. You murderer . . .
He stood staring at the TV screen, gripping the remote, one leg jiggling. Desperately he tried to listen to the news story. Regardless of the voices, he had to know what was going on. The reporter was talking about the killing, how they already had a suspect —
He froze.
They showed a detailed drawing by Annie Kingston.
Annie Kingston. That woman always nailed it.
She could help them find you —
“Shut up!”
He started to pace, then jerked to a stop. No. He couldn’t let the voices bug him like this. So what if they wouldn’t stop ranting? They were dead, and he’d gotten what he wanted. So who was the winner here, huh?
There was only one thing to do when they got this bad. Keep busy. Keep focused. Those voices thought they’d stop him from doing whatever was necessary? No way. They only pushed him to control things all the more.
The reporter rattled on about the killing. And Amy Flyte, the missing girl. They showed her picture. Maybe a young man was missing too, although no one knew who he was.
Now that sounded intelligent.
The story ended. He snapped off the TV. Glanced outside. The sun was setting.
Duty called.
The voices were silent. He smiled.
He turned to clomp down the stairs into the basement, mouthing a rap tune. A few delicate chores awaited.
Saturday, September 24
Chapter 12
For the second night in a row I drifted in and out of sleep, a battered vessel on dream-troubled waters. Faces and snatches of scenes ghosted my slumber, from Toby’s features cinched with pain, to Dayna sobbing over her missing roommate, to the shrouded room in Chelsea’s vision. Dawn finally seeped through my curtains, spilling light on the bedcovers. I opened heavy eyes, prayers filtering through my mind.
Whatever this day brings, Lord, help me know what I should do. Be with Chelsea and me as we meet. Show us what You want us to see.
Chelsea would arrive around eleven.
Jenna had displayed an unusual turn of attitude when I told her what was planned. Whether her reaction was due to my prayers or her feisty protection of the right to change her mind, I would never know. I do think on some level she was intrigued with the possible connection between Chelsea’s vision and the murder we witnessed. Whatever my sister’s reasoning, I left her to it. I was simply glad I didn’t have to argue with her.
At nine o’clock I wandered down our porch steps to pick the paper off the sidewalk. I couldn’t deny the game I played with myself in slowing each movement. Maybe if I sauntered, maybe if I tipped my head back to view cerulean sky, the fluttering in my veins would cease. Yesterday’s events, bookended by two nights’ poor sleep, left me feeling off-kilter and wary. All the same, I chided myself. Why was I so nervous about meeting Chelsea Adams? My only task was to hear her story, draw a composite. Nothing more.
Still, I sensed . . . something . . .
I stood on the sidewalk, breathing fresh morning air. The temperature was already in the seventies and would climb another ten degrees. Indian summer showed no sign of retreat. The beep-beep warning of heavy machinery in reverse sifted through the trees beyond our street. Apparently, the runway crew was working on a Saturday. I gazed across the width of Barrister Court at Dave and Erin’s house, their sidewalk lined with multicolored flowers attesting to the care of Dave’s hands. Something about that sight jolted my heart.
In the kitchen I poured coffee and settled at the table. Drew the newspaper toward me. The front page sported another article about the murder, this one displaying my composite of Orwin Neese and asking anyone with information about his whereabouts to contact the Redding Police Department. The story also included information about the disappearance of Amy Flyte, accompanied by her photo. I
stared at her picture, my chest contracting. She was a pretty girl, with large, round eyes in an oval face. A smile that somehow looked sad. Brown shoulder-length hair.
Oh, God, is this girl locked up in a small, dark room? If so, please help us save her.
The door to our lower level opened and closed. Stephen wandered in, sweatpants low on his hips, chest bare. His blond hair, usually gelled and sticking straight up, was matted from sleep. “Hey.” He headed for the refrigerator and opened it. I heard the thump-slide of moving containers.
“Good morning. You’re up early. You have to go to work?” I turned the newspaper over and pushed it away.
“Yeah, at ten. Where’s Aunt Jenna?”
“Working at her computer already, I think.”
“Mm.” Stephen withdrew a half gallon of milk and headed to the pantry for cereal. Plunking these on the table, he fetched a bowl and spoon and planted himself in a chair.
I watched him with quiet, weary gratitude. So much about Stephen was different — the confidence in his movements, his mellow nature, the way he talked to me. How naïve I had been in the past few years, not realizing the amount of drugs he was taking. I’d become so used to seeing my son under their influence that I’d forgotten how pleasant he could be. Oh, God, now just help him turn to You.
“That woman still coming today?” He crunched a large bite of cereal.
“Yes. In a few hours.”
“Man. She’s something else. Wish I could be here.”
I tilted my head. “You remember that much about her?”
“Sure.” Crunch, crunch. “She was in all the papers and everything when we were in Redwood City. She’s this psychic. Knows the future and who did stuff. Wouldn’t want her on your bad side.”
Web of Lies Page 6