The Missing dm-1

by Chris Mooney

  Leland gave her the number. Darby wrote it down on her forearm.

  A phone rang in the background. 'I've got to take this call,' Leland said. 'Call me back if you find out anything.'

  Darby called her mother. The phone kept ringing. She hung up, wondering if she was too late. A cold nausea gripped her as she ran home.

  Chapter 47

  The nurse shut the door to Sheila's bedroom. Her mother was inside, fast asleep. Her lungs made a sick wheezing sound as she struggled to breathe.

  'I had to increase her morphine level,' Tina said, ushering Darby away from the door. 'She's in a lot of pain.'

  'Did she see the news?'

  The nurse nodded. 'She tried calling you and couldn't get through.'

  'My cell phone is broken. I called from a pay phone. Nobody picked up.'

  'The explosion knocked down some of the phone and power lines – at least that's what they're saying on the news. She knows you're okay. A friend of yours stopped by and told he I forget his name. Are you going back out? I can stay a while longer. It's not a problem.'

  'I'm in for the night.'

  Darby folded her arms and leaned back against the wall. She was afraid to move away from her mother's door. Walking away now, Darby felt she was saying good-bye.

  'I don't think it will happen tonight,' Tina said.

  It took Darby a moment to gather the courage to ask the question. 'When, do you think?'

  Tina pursed her lips. 'Any day now.'

  After the nurse left, Darby wrote a note to her mother saying she was home and taped it to the night-stand where she kept her glasses and pills. She kissed her mother on the forehead. Sheila didn't stir.

  Darby headed into the shower. Standing under the hot water, she reviewed the things Rachel had said under the porch and at the hospital. Rachel had used the word fighting several times. I can't fight him anymore, Rachel had said. What had she said about Carol? Is she a fighter? Is she tough?

  Fighter. Fighting. Was that the key? How would Traveler know they would fight back?

  Did he pick them up from battered women's shelters? No. Those women predominantly didn't fight back. What then? Some place, they all had to connect at some place. Please, God, let me find a common thread.

  When the water grew cold, Darby toweled off, threw on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and headed downstairs to the kitchen. She checked the phone. It was working. She put on her jacket and took the cordless and her pack of cigarettes out to the back deck. The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the roof.

  She went through two cigarettes before dialing the number for Rachel's mother. A man answered the phone.

  'Mr Swanson?'

  'No, this is Gerry.' His voice was terribly quiet. Darby was sure she heard someone crying in the background.

  'Can I speak with Wendy Swanson? I'm calling from the Boston Crime Lab.'

  'Hold on.'

  A thin, trembling voice came on the line: 'This is Wendy.'

  'My name is Darby McCormick. I wanted to call and tell you how sorry -'

  'Are you the one who found my daughter underneath the porch?'

  'I am.'

  'Did you talk to Rachel?'

  'Yes, ma'am, I did. I'm sorry for your loss.'

  'What did Rachel say? Where was she all this time? Did she tell you?'

  Darby didn't want to lie to the woman, but she didn't want to upset her even more. Darby needed Wendy Swanson to answer some questions.

  'Rachel didn't say much. She was very sick.'

  'I saw the news story, the video footage, and I didn't once think it was Rachel. The woman you found looked nothing like my daughter. I didn't even recognize her. And I'm her mother.' Wendy Swanson cleared her voice several times. 'This person who took Rachel, what did he do to her?'

  Darby didn't answer.

  'Tell me,' Rachel's mother said. 'Please. I have to know.'

  'I don't know what happened to her. Mrs Swanson, I know this is a difficult time for you. And I wouldn't be calling you if this wasn't important. I need to ask you some questions about your daughter. The questions may sound odd, so please try and bear with me.'

  'Ask anything you want.'

  'Was Rachel ever in an abusive relationship?'

  'No.'

  'Would she have told you if she was?'

  'My daughter and I were very close. I knew all about Chad's background, but he never hit her – he never even raised his voice. Rachel wouldn't have put up with any of that. She had nothing but positive things to say about Chad. I think his ex-wife was a bit of a nut.'

  'Was Rachel ever assaulted by anyone?'

  'No.'

  'Did she ever tell you about being stalked? Was someone following her?'

  'No. If something like that ever happened, she would have told me. Rachel and Chad had a great relationship. They were going to get married. Rachel was… She was so smart, so hardworking. She paid her own way through college. She was taking out loans to go to law school. She never asked for anything, never got into any trouble. She was just a solid, well-grounded person.'

  Wendy Swanson broke down. She spoke through her tears. 'The police told me that when someone goes missing, if they're not found in the first forty-eight hours that usually means they're dead. After the first year, I started to accept the fact that Rachel wasn't coming home, and that I may never find out what had happened to her. And then early this morning I get a phone call from a friend who works at the state lab and she says that Rachel was found in Massachusetts – was found alive. Alive. After five years. I got down on my knees and thanked God. And then I call to find out what hospital Rachel is in only to be told she's dead. Rachel was alive all this time and I find out and now she's dead and I didn't… I didn't get to talk to her. I didn't even get a chance to hold my baby's hand and tell much I love her and how sorry I am for giving up on her. I didn't even get to say good-bye.'

  'Mrs Swanson, I'm -'

  'I can't talk now, I have to go.'

  'I'm very sorry for your loss.'

  Wendy Swanson hung up. Darby squeezed the phone and, without realizing it, looked up at her mother's bedroom window.

  Chapter 48

  Darby stared out at puddles in what used to be her mother's garden, where Sheila spent her time before she got sick. As she smoked, she thought about Traveler's victims. Evan Manning said Traveler had selected them at random. If that was true, then it would be difficult to catch him. It was going to be difficult to catch him anyway, Traveler having thought through all the options, going to great lengths so he wouldn't be found. Maybe he had already killed Carol and the others. Maybe he was driving away right now. No, don't think about that.

  A copy of every work email was automatically forwarded to her Hotmail account so she could access information from the road. Darby put out her cigarette and went inside, heading upstairs to check her computer. There was a message from Mary Beth regarding the crime scene photographs.

  Mary Beth always took two sets of photographs – one using film, the other digital. Digital pictures were not admissible as evidence because they could be doctored. Mary Beth always took them so investigators had copies for their files.

  Darby was in the process of reviewing them when she heard coughing. She poked her head out into the hallway and saw the thin crack of light at the bottom of her mother's bedroom door. Sheila was awake, watching TV.

  When Darby eased open her mother's door, she could see pictures of the blast site reflected in her glasses.

  'What happened to your face?'

  'I slipped and fell. It looks worse than it is,' Darby said. 'How are you feeling?'

  'Better, now that you're here.' Sheila turned down the volume on the TV. 'Thank you for leaving the note.'

  Darby sat down on the bed. 'I tried calling, but the phone lines were down. I'm so sorry you had to go through that.'

  Sheila waved it off, but Darby could see where the worry still ate at her. Even in the soft light, her face looked haggar
d, leached of color. Any day now.

  Darby laid down next to her mother and hugged her.

  'You know what I kept thinking about today? The time you got caught in an undertow and almost drowned. You were eight.'

  Darby remembered the feeling of tumbling across the ocean floor, the water getting colder. When she finally resurfaced, she coughed up water for the next hour.

  But it was the chill she felt while trapped underneath the water that refused to leave, even while she sat in the sun. The chill was still with her later when she was tucked in her bed underneath layers ofwarm blankets. The chill was a reminder that there were things in this world she couldn't always see, waiting to strike out when you least expected it.

  'You didn't cry – your father was more shook up about it than you were,' Sheila said. 'He took you to get an ice cream, and you said – I'll never forget this – you said to him, "Dad, you don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself"'

  Darby closed her eyes and saw the three of them packed in the car, on their way home, the car smelling of the ocean and Coppertone. The three of them together. Healthy and safe. A good memory there. She had lots of them.

  'Coop stopped by,' Sheila said. 'He wanted me to know you were okay.'

  'That was nice of him.'

  'He's very nice – and funny.'

  'That's what he keeps trying to tell me.'

  'He looks like that basketball player, what's his name, Brady.'

  'Tom Brady. He plays football. He's a quarterback for the Patriots.'

  'Is he single?'

  'He is.'

  'I think you two should go on a date. You're well suited for each other.'

  I've tried, but sadly, Tom Brady won't return my phone calls.'

  'I was referring to Coop. He reminds me of your father, has that same quiet, confident way about him. Is he dating anyone?'

  'Coop isn't the dating type.'

  'He said he's looking to settle down.'

  'Probably with one of his underwear models,' Darby said.

  'He thinks very highly of you. Told me how smart you are, how hardworking and dedicated you are to your job. He said you're the most trustworthy person he has ever met -'

  Darby was asleep.

  Chapter 49

  Carol had spent the first few minutes after the door shut covering her ears to block out the god-awful screaming – and not just from one woman. Several women were somewhere outside her door and they were screaming.

  What scared Carol even more were the banging sounds. Bang, scream, bang-bang-bang- scream, BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG, the frightening sounds growing louder and closer.

  Carol had frantically searched her room again, trying to find something to use as a weapon, something she might have missed. Everything was bolted down, even the toilet seat. There wasn't anything she could use. The only thing in here was the blanket and pillow.

  Hours had passed since that moment. Her door never opened, but that didn't mean the man with the mask wasn't coming back for her.

  Standing alone in the dark room, Carol hadn't wasted her time feeding her fear. She had used that time to think of a plan.

  Men, she knew, were vulnerable in one key area – their balls. One time Mario Densen put his meaty hand on her ass and gave it a tight squeeze. Mario was twice her height and almost triple her weight; but, wouldn't you know, the fat jerk crumbled like a deck of cards when her shin connected squarely with his crotch.

  Carol had removed her sweats and, using the pillow, formed a ball underneath the blanket. This was her plan:

  When the door opened, the man with the mask would think she was curled up underneath the blanket; she would be pressed up against the wall next to the door. After he stepped inside her room, she'd get behind him and kick him squarely in the crotch. Get in one good kick, and after he fell to the floor – they always did – she'd kick him in the face and in the head.

  Carol, dressed in her underwear and bra, shivered inside the cool room. To stay awake and keep warm, she paced the small area near the door, knowing she had only six steps before she hit the wall. When she felt tired, when the fear started to trickle in, she pounded her hands against the wall to keep the anger close to her skin.

  She thought about the tray of food and wondered if it was still in the hallway. The thought of food made her stomach rumble. She didn't need the food, she reminded herself. She could survive on water, and there was plenty of it from the sink. She had some water earlier, wanting to stay hydrated and to flush the drugs from her system -

  Wait. The tray. The food was on a plastic tray. If she broke the tray, she could use the sharp pieces to defend herself. She could use it on his face. She could use it on his eyes.

  Her door started to open, clank-clank-clank.

  Carol pressed her back against the wall, tensing, eyes tuned to the square of dull light parting the darkness along the floor. Get ready, she had to think about getting ready, she only had one shot and she couldn't waste it.

  The man with the mask didn't come into her room – he wasn't even standing outside her room. His shadow wasn't on the floor.

  Music started playing – old-fashioned jazz stuff that reminded Carol of a time when men wore things like fedoras and went to places like speakeasies. No banging and no screaming.

  Her door was still open. The last time, the door shut after a couple of minutes.

  Was he waiting for her to come out there?

  To get the tray, she'd have to risk turning the corner. She'd have to risk having him see her. If he saw her, then her plan of using the clothes and pillow underneath the blanket would be worthless.

  She couldn't defend herself with her hands. The man with the mask was too strong. And he had a knife. She needed the tray. Carol edged closer to the opened door, listening for sounds, watching for movement, a shadow.

  Now Carol stood at the corner. Carefully, she turned the corner and looked.

  The plastic tray had been kicked down to the far end of the long hallway. Beneath the tray and looking black in the dim light was a pool of blood. It was coming from the woman lying facedown on the floor.

  Don't scream, don't you dare scream or he'll hear you.

  Carol bit her bottom lip and tried hard to clamp down on the scalding fear.

  Get the tray.

  Carol didn't move. She was thinking about the dead woman lying in all that blood. She wasn't moving.

  You need to get the tray. If he comes back here with the knife -

  Carol ran.

  Her door started to clank shut.

  Carol kept running. She focused on the tray, the prize. Keep running.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the end of the corridor. She scooped up the tray, the blood warm and sticky underneath her feet. Carol turned around, about to run back to her room, when she felt the woman's hand clamp around her ankle.

  Carol screamed.

  'Help me,' the woman said in a sleepy voice. 'Please.'

  BANG, a door slammed shut.

  Get back to the room.

  I can't leave her -

  She's dead, Carol, get back to the room now.

  Carol ran back with the tray. She ran as fast as she could, legs pumping, dear God please help me, please let me make the door.

  The door to her room was shut.

  There was no handle. Carol clawed at the door, her bloody fingers sliding across the cold steel, trying to find a way to pry it open. There was no way to open it. The door was shut and she was locked out, trapped out here with the dead woman -

  BANG, another door slammed shut, BANG-BANG-BANG, the man with the mask was coming for her.

  Chapter 50

  Darby woke to the still darkness of her mother's bedroom, her legs tangled around a blanket. Her mother must have put the blanket on. Darby had no memory of doing it.

  Sheila's breath caught. Darby stood up, leaned in close to her mother and heard Sheila's soft, ragged breathing. Darby checked her mother's pulse. It was still strong.


  But not for long. Soon, very soon, Sheila would be buried next to Big Red and then Darby would be alone – alone in this house with its lifetime of collected knickknacks and pictures, the dime-store jewelry her mother bargained down at flea markets and discount stores, all of it proudly stored in one of the few valuable items she owned – a beautiful handmade jewelry box handed down from two generations of McCormick women.

  No more phone calls. No more words of encouragement. No more shared birthdays and holidays and Sunday night dinners in the city. No more conversations. No more new memories.

  And how would she fight to keep the memories she had from fading? Darby thought of her father's goose-down vest, how she had worn it after he died, lost in its warmth and fading whispers of cigar smoke and Canoe aftershave, feeling close to him. What would she wear of her mother's to keep Sheila from fading? What had Helena Cruz held of Melanie's to keep her daughter's memory alive? Was Dianne Cranmore lying awake in this same darkness right now, sitting in her daughter's room leveraged between despair and hope, wondering where Carol was, wondering if she was all right, wondering if she was coming home or wondering if she was gone?

  Darby lay back against her mother's bed, the pillow damp with sweat, and wrapped the blanket around her. For no reason at all she saw Rachel Swanson lying in her hospital bed, terrified. Now she was lying inside a morgue cooler with a Y-shaped incision stitched on her chest, the fear still sealed inside of her.

  What about Carol? Was she awake now, breathing this same darkness?

  Darby didn't know many things about herself, but she knew this much: she could not, would not, stop searching for Carol. Dead or alive, she would be found.

  Darby went down the hallway to the spare bedroom. She clicked on the small desk lamp, turned on the computer and reviewed the photographs.

  Here was Rachel Swanson with her strong, plain face and good hair.

  Here was Terry Mastrangelo, average looking, black hair. Rachel's was brown.