Six scattered dim bulbs, each suspended from a black cord attached to the bare ceiling rafters, cast poor light in the subterranean room. No clue in this artificially-lighted, windowless room as to the time of day. Unless someone or something lurked unseen, like the dog, she stood alone in a large, clutter-packed cellar.
Was this a basement somewhere or the basement in his house? If the former, she could be anywhere; if the latter, at least she was still in McLean. She wolfed down several bread slices and finished the water. In the shadowy corners of the basement stood odd-sized cardboard boxes, clusters of dusty cans and jars, old furniture, books, china, kitchen pans, suitcases, decorations, a wardrobe, records, tools, rope, laundry equipment and both full and empty canning jars—a dirty, disorderly scattered accumulation of at least thirty years! Heavy dust covered everything, untouched for decades, everything except the door to the box that had been her room and the clear path of activity worn across the dusty floor between it and the basement stairs.
If his house were above this, had he moved here recently? Why else the newly bought garage sale furniture now in his living room? But if so, wouldn’t the house sell with an empty basement? Maybe he rented, the landlord’s full basement a contingency of their lease agreement? Or maybe he inherited it, a beneficiary who hadn’t yet cleaned out this mess in property he now owned? Or maybe this cellar had nothing to do with where he actually lived.
Turning, she considered her task. On the floor by the sink lay broom, mop, bucket, cleansers, rags, trash bags and some empty cardboard boxes. “Clean up and organize,” he’d said. She assumed that meant grouping like items together, exactly as one might for a garage sale. She snorted wryly at this sardonic comparison. Hoping she correctly understood what he expected, she plunged ahead to impress him with her work and maybe buy survival a little longer.
The heavy old desk in the corner resisted pushing, so she grouped other furniture around it after first sweeping the floor beneath. Checking the desk drawers one at a time, she found only paper scraps, pencils, rubber bands, paperclips: the usual office debris.
His acceptance of her servant proposal was sheer luck, but now she needed more than luck; she needed a plan. As she swept, four distinct goals crossed her mind.
First, look for clues about this man in items she found here, clues to increase her understanding of him and maybe shape a survival strategy.
Second, look for more evidence of Tina’s presence: fresh digging in the floor or recent mortar in a wall where he’d hidden... something? She winced at the chilling portent of such clues.
Third, she must find or create a weapon to defend herself.
Fourth, escape!
Aware her very life might depend upon the outcome of this “job,” she bent to the broom with energy. This first job could be her last, irrespective of how well done. Or his satisfaction here might lead to cleaning elsewhere, perhaps above ground, with doors and windows offering escape. Otherwise, freedom in this enclosed cellar indeed served as a second prison, just one larger than the box. Earning a ticket out of the basement was critical!
The corner sweeping complete, she pushed and carried the other furniture from various spots around the basement to the desk. Her back hurt and her head ached, but concentrating on the work helped her push pain to the back burner. Small end tables and lamps weren’t difficult; the ancient overstuffed chairs finally responded to hard shoving, and the rusty old divided laundry tub, complete with ancient wringer, rolled at last on squeaky but functioning wheels.
Beside an aged treadle-style sewing machine sat a big rectangular sewing box. Lifting the lid exposed hundreds of thread spools, needles, pins, thimbles and the myriad accessories of a serious seamstress. “Yard goods” read a big cardboard box on the other side of the sewing machine. Inside, she found stacks of folded fabric and remnant scraps. The owner apparently made her family’s clothes and probably the curtains and tablecloths, too.
The scuffed suitcases she gathered together felt empty, but she opened each, finding predictable small trash but no clues like travel stickers or luggage tags showing names and addresses. She also investigated closed tins, old purses and small boxes.
Next, she wiped off the dusty shelves, sliding jars, ceramics and rusted food cans together at one end. From around the basement, she gathered glass, china, household items and rusting tools to line all the remaining shelves but one. There she arranged salvageable books and magazines, previously strewn about helter-skelter. Might the book titles provide insight about their owner, as at some estate sales? No, these seemed random titles without a discernable pattern. Flipping a dozen or so open, she found no owner’s name or inscription.
As she lifted a last heavy book, the musty dictionary fell open in her hand. She wondered irrationally if this page, chosen by fate, held an omen. Would it be “E” for Escape or “D” for Death? No, it opened to the “I’s”. She cringed. “I” as in Imprisoned or Impossible?
But her eye fell upon “Intelligence.” She read: “readiness of comprehension; the capacity to meet situations, especially if new and unforeseen, by a rapid and effective adjustment of behavior; also the native ability to grasp the significant factors of a complex problem or situation.”
She clung for a moment to the fragment of hope this passage invited, but closing the book and shoving it onto the shelf she wondered how intelligence dealt with an unpredictable maniac. Discouraged, she rubbed her forehead with her hands. Was this madness really happening?
Willing herself forward in the gloomy light, she approached piles of cardboard boxes. First she swept. Then she pushed and shoved the largest cardboard containers to an area where she could stack smaller ones on top. Some were so heavy she could hardly inch them across the floor. If only she had time to open and examine every one. “Christmas” on one, “Linens” on another, “Pillows and Cushions,” “Clothes” and so on. Should she take time to open them and learn if the contents matched the labels, or were these reused boxes with old labels meaningless to their current contents? She’d investigate them only if she had time at the end.
The few tools she found and arranged didn’t translate into lethal weapons, though she needed to defend herself. A garden trowel, a level, bolts, nails, a vice, safety glasses, a set of small graduated wrenches. No hammer, axe, shovel or sharp clippers. A short rusty screwdriver, its rod about 4” long, looked better than nothing; easy to hide, it at least gave her the illusion of some protection. Where to put it? Near the stairs seemed handy. She looked for an inconspicuous but conveniently accessible hiding place. And that’s when she saw them.
CHAPTER 32
Jason’s first reaction was annoyance. Gone all day and now at six o’clock, no sign of Jennifer and no sign of dinner. Not even the courtesy of a phone call explaining she’d be late. Her obsession with these silly garage sales and the resulting “warehouse” in the garage were generally tolerable, but completely losing track of time… She’d gone too far this time!
He dialed her cell phone, got the recording and at the message prompt said, “Jen, where are you? E.T., phone home!”
His second reaction was concern. At seven o’clock, still no Jennifer, no explanation and no previous behavior like this on her part for comparison. Like anyone, she could focus narrowly on something exciting enough to temporarily block a normal sense of time. He’d done this himself at his computer, swearing he spent only ten minutes while an hour passed. But daydreaming to the exclusion of reality was not like Jennifer, nor was failing to phone to assure him not to worry.
He scrutinized the large scheduling calendar on her desk where she recorded her meetings, appointments, clubs, events, luncheons, family birthdays and anniversaries. Entries filled most of the squares, but this particular Saturday showed a blank.
He tried her cell phone again, first pressing the paging option, then leaving another message. “Jen, where are you? At least phone to let me know you’re okay. Do you want me to eat alone or wait for you?”
H
is third reaction was anxiety. No word by eight o’clock indicated something wrong. His mind wandered over possibilities. Could she be at a meeting she’d forgotten to mention or stopped to visit Denise, or another friend or one of their children? Could she have run out of gas or had an accident with the car? But surely she would call, unless too seriously injured. In that case, was the next step to call the hospitals?
Again, he tried her cell, leaving a curt message this time. “Jen, I’m worried. Please call home ASAP to let me know you’re all right.”
Should he call the police? He picked up the phone, stared at it a moment, and cradled it. How would it sound? “My wife is two hours late for dinner. Please start a manhunt.” Yet how long should he wait; wouldn’t acting right away make sense if she were in trouble? They involved the police fast when Tina disappeared, but she was still missing. He felt the hairs on his neck prickle.
Becca wandered into the kitchen at dinner time. “Where’s Mom?”
“Not back yet,” Jason said. “Any idea where she might be?”
Hannah joined them at the table. “No, but that’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry, we’ll just snack.”
Teenagers. It’s all about them. Jason watched as they filled plates with leftovers and faded into other rooms, apparently unconcerned. Good old Mom always returned!
He phoned their other children, on the chance she’d stopped by or they’d remember her mentioning plans for tonight. No enlightenment, just polite concern and requests to let them know when she turned up. After all, this was Mom and moms like theirs didn’t just disappear!
Shortly after 8 p.m. Becca announced, “We’re going to a movie, Dad, unless you want us to stay here with you to wait for Mom? There’s a good reason she’s late. You know Mom!”
He thought he did know “Mom.” That ’s precisely why he was so worried. He wondered at his daughters’ entirely different take on the same situation, envying their casual lack of worry. They seemed to agree about Jennifer’s normal dependability and self-reliance, but did their comfort zone demand such indestructible parents that other possibilities were unthinkable?
“No,” he said, not yet wanting to alarm them unnecessarily. “Go on, but take your cell phones.”
“Okay, but we can’t have them on during the show.”
“Good point,” he acknowledged. “I forgot about that. Is Adam going along?”
“No, he’s on duty tonight.”
“Ah,” mumbled Jason, as a plan formed. “Well, have fun!”
With effort, he watched the ticking wall clock inch toward nine o’clock. Then he uncoiled like a spring, picked up the phone, dialed the police station and asked for Detective Iverson.
“He’s out on a call right now. Would you like his voice mail?”
“I... yes, I guess that’s what to do.” After the buzzes, Adam’s recording and the beep, Jason spoke to the answering machine.
“Hey, Adam, this is Jason Shannon. We seem to have a little problem here and would appreciate your input. Actually, we need your input. Please call me, whenever you get this message, no matter how late.” He repeated the home phone number.
By ten o’clock, Jason felt fear. He phoned Fairfax police and again asked for Adam, who still wasn’t back. “Look,” he said to the operator, “this may be… this is an emergency and I must speak with Detective Iverson. Would you contact him to phone me right away, please?” He gave her the call-back information.
Moments later the phone rang and Jason spilled out the story to Adam.
“Sir, I can initiate a few things, checking traffic accident reports just like we did in Tina’s case. I can also start some unofficial snooping that might help.”
“What if she hit a deer or ran off the road and down an embankment? No collision report would show up for that, but she could still be in trouble.”
“True, sir, but we usually hear about those before long. Someone usually sees or hears something. Our patrols also look for unusual roadside situations. Why don’t you sit tight for a few minutes while I get some information? I’ll call you right back.”
“Thanks, Adam. This means a lot!”
“Glad to help, Sir, and try not to worry. There’s…”
“…usually a simple explanation.” Jason finished the detective’s sentence. “Yeah, I know…”
CHAPTER 33
When the phone rang ten minutes later, Jason grabbed the receiver and gripped it hard against his ear. Could it be Jennifer?
“Hello,” he said expectantly.
“Sir, it’s Adam. We have no recent reports of serious traffic accidents involving your wife or of injuries to anyone unidentified. No reports of off-road one-car incidents, although that remains a possibility. Why don’t you come down to the police station? I’ll meet you there and we’ll talk about what to do next. And Sir, could you bring a recent photo of your wife?”
“All right, I’ll be there as fast as I can. And Adam, thank you again. Thank you!”
“See you shortly, Sir.”
Jason’s mind raced. Where could he quickly find a picture of Jennifer? Boxes of photographs sat in a closet upstairs, but shuffling through them would take too long. A wonderful picture of Jennifer sat on his desk at work, inaccessible at the moment.
He hurried to his desk in the study and searched the passport file. Finding hers, he opened it and studied the picture. Though several years old, the flattering color photo captured her smiling face, alert blue eyes and shoulder length honey-blond hair. His breath caught as he thought of her perfume and that this woman he loved might be in terrible trouble somewhere this very moment.
Pocketing the passport, he scribbled a hasty note for the girls and started out the door, only to halt abruptly at the garage. What if Jennifer returned after he left? He dashed off a second note to her, taping both to a dining room chair where anyone entering the house couldn’t miss them.
Ten minutes later he arrived at the police station.
Adam met him in the lobby and they shook hands. “Hello, Sir, still no word from her? Okay, have you her vehicle license plate number handy so we can post an alert? Good,” he handed the information to the reception desk with some instructions. “Let’s go back to my office.”
Minutes after they sat down, another policeman joined them, introducing himself as he shook Jason’s hand. “I’m Detective Bardonner. Glad to meet you, Sir. I’d like to sit in on this.”
“Fine,” said Jason. They pulled chairs up to the desk. “ What do we do now?”
Bardonner spoke first, “We don’t want to alarm you with what we’re about to say, but may we speak frankly?”
“Of course,” Jason agreed, stiffening.
“Absent probable explanations for your wife’s disappearance, a traffic accident, for instance, we must consider other possibilities,” Bardonner explained.
Jason looked expectantly from one detective to the other, overtaken by uncomfortable déjà vu. His last visit to this police station with Denise involved filing Tina’s missing person report, her disappearance still a frightening unsolved enigma.
Adam cleared his throat, “As you know, Sir, from the MacKenzie situation, we’ve had three women mysteriously go missing from this area in the last five months.”
Jason’s polite smile faded instantly, alarm registering upon his weary face.
Bardonner shifted in his seat, leaning closer to Jason. “In situations like this, we look for patterns, but we’ve had trouble profiling this since their ages, appearances and circumstances of disappearance differ. Also, none of them have turned up, alive or dead, so we have no matches there. The common denominator we do know is they’re all females and all from this part of Fairfax County. This could be coincidental to your wife’s absence or…” Bardonner wondered whether to describe their serial-killer theory, “…or it could be related,” he finished.
Jason lurched forward in his chair. “You think someone kidnapped her?”
Seeing the worry on Jason’s face, Adam said, “Sir,
technically anything is possible until we learn what actually happened, but what this means for you and for us is rather than treating your wife’s case as a routine missing person, we can throw more ammunition at this.”
“Did any of the other women’s families get ransom notes?” Jason asked.
The detectives exchanged patient looks. “No ransom notes so far, Sir,” Adam said.
“Where does that leave us? If not kidnapped for ransom, then...” Jason’s voice trailed away.
“We can only guess at that answer,” said Bardonner, quickly changing the subject. “What we want now is your wife’s description, when you saw her last and when you realized she hadn’t returned home… that sort of stuff. Plus we’ll post her picture, if you brought one for us.”
Jason handed him the passport.
Bardonner stood. “Adam, will you help him complete these forms while I get her picture copied and distributed?” Turning to Jason, he added. “Then we’ll have a few more questions. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Bardonner left, closing the office door on his way out. Each case took its own direction, but he didn’t like where this one pointed.
CHAPTER 34
Adam indicated the papers on the desk. “These questions are pretty straightforward, Sir. Her name, birth date, weight, height, hair and eye color.” He slid the forms toward Jason, who bent over them in concentration, his pen moving carefully across each page.
Bardonner returned about the time Jason finished. “Would you like coffee or something to eat?” Jason declined. “Okay, then, let’s get started. When did you see her last?” Bardonner asked, taking notes.
“At breakfast. Then she headed out to garage sales about 11:00,” Jason recalled. “The newspapers should list many of those addresses, telling us some of the places she went, though we wouldn’t know in what order or whether she found others not advertised.”
Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) Page 16