Snuff

by Simonson, Melissa

  “You’re an odd woman.”

  “Must be where you get it.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I have the best son in the world. I brag about you all the time at bingo.”

  “You don’t play bingo.”

  She waved one delicate hand, sunlight streaming through the windows shattering off of her platinum bracelets. “Book club meetings, then. Are you seeing anyone?”

  “I see a lot of people.”

  “You know what I mean.” She stood to refill his cup, tucking a lock of chocolate hair behind her ear. “I just think it would be nice for you to have something to go home to besides a cactus.”

  “If I get a cat, will you be happy?”

  She smacked the back of his head. “You’re so stubborn. I don’t know how you came by that. You can be perfectly pleasant when you put your mind to it. What happened to my sweet little boy?”

  Molly had had her hands full when John was a boy. When he wasn’t tearing around their little house wreaking havoc, he was puzzling her and his schoolteachers with his incurable boredom and inattention. Eventually it was recommended she take her son to a doctor, who in turn referred her to a psychologist, who studied John and the answers he gave to her endless questions before concluding he had a characteristic that both baffled and intrigued the mental health field. There wasn’t a whole lot of information on low latent inhibition, but she could prescribe amphetamines to lessen the symptoms.

  Molly hadn’t felt right about medicating her son with such potent narcotics, figuring he’d learn to get used to LLI, and if not, he could decide when he was able if he wanted the meds, which he hadn’t.

  She never brought it up in conversation, nor did John, but he knew she could feel it, simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. He knew she could see it when she watched his eyes dart all over the place, storing and cataloging every scrap of information, filing it away to ponder at a later time.

  John knocked back the dregs of his black tea and stood to rinse the cup in the sink. “I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss my flight.”

  “I thought you weren’t due back until Monday. How can you focus on work when you’re jetlagged?”

  He bent to kiss her cheek and slung his jacket over his shoulder. “It’s only a two hour flight to DC. I’ll call you later.”

  FIVE

  A doctor shines a flashbulb in my eyes. I wish it were the penlight from Men in Black so I’d forget everything.

  Lisette doesn’t say anything as he works, checking my pulse, my blood pressure, my glands. The bump on my head is a Minor Injury. I am Perfectly Healthy.

  It doesn’t stop his flunkies from strapping me down. They belt my wrists to the bedrails. I let them do it without complaint. Why bother? They haven’t listened to me yet.

  When they finally leave, she turns her eyes on me. They’re blonde, the same color as her hair. It makes her look like a tigress.

  “Can I see Abby?”

  Her jaw clenches, tension running from chin to ear. “It’s not a good idea, Brooke. You don’t want to remember her that way.”

  The only memories I have of Abby are awful. I still want to see her. I never had a chance to say goodbye, thank you, or What Were You Thinking, Abby? You didn’t owe me anything.

  Our heads snap to the door when a rap sounds behind it. Lisette’s up in a second, muttering four-letter words, and yanks it open with surprising strength considering her slender shoulders and skinny limbs.

  She blocks the visitor from my view, but I hear him murmur. “They need to speak with her.”

  “They need to go piss up a stick. It’s not happening.”

  “You need to work on your professionalism, Sergeant.”

  “You need to work on your fucking receding hairline. Nobody’s coming within five feet as long as I’m in charge.”

  He grunts. “This case won’t be ours much longer. Remember that.”

  She slams the door and stomps back to the chair. I’m about to ask who wants to talk to me, until I decide I don’t want to know. Not knowing is easier. So is removing yourself from most emotions, the way I’ve been since I was fifteen—feeling nothing is preferable. “Why are they restraining me?”

  She looks like she’s deciding whether she should lie. “The other girls killed themselves. It’s just a precaution.”

  SIX

  Stacy’s seizure-inducing hot pink nails were the first things John saw of her as she swung into his office without so much as a knock. She never announced herself, preferring to breeze in and out whenever she wanted with nothing more than a shouted greeting.

  “Nice to see you back.” She flounced into one of the chairs across from John’s desk, the skirt of her baby pink dress swishing when she crossed her legs. “Hate to say it, but I missed you, your majesty.”

  John locked his fingers together behind his neck. “I’d think it would have been a nice break for you. A whole week with nobody calling you at all hours.”

  She jiggled both legs, the wedges of her strappy gold sandals clacking against her heel. “The other agents bore me. White collar cases give me migraines. How boring is that stuff? Gawd.”

  Stacy’s voice didn’t match the rest of her. If anything she looked like a politician’s daughter, favoring perfectly coordinated cardigans, mother of pearl necklaces, and tailored slacks. When she opened her mouth, she sounded like a gum-snapping teenager. It took John a lot of time to get used to her, but now that he had, he hated working with other analysts.

  She twirled a lock of shiny platinum hair around her left ring finger, the two-carat engagement diamond in its cushion-cut setting reflecting over John’s office walls. “Remind me to give you your mail. It’s all been forwarded to my desk. Has Bob come to bother you yet?”

  “I got in a few minutes ago. If I’d known Bob was planning on bothering me I might have taken another day off.”

  “For real. I don’t blame you, man.” Stacy tore through the files on her lap and selected the thickest of the bunch. “But you might have a new case. I think it’s what’s got him all pissy. LAPD found another girl.”

  John twirled a pen through his long fingers. “I saw something about it on the news.”

  “We got the notification at seven a.m., three a.m. their time, right after they found her. LAPD hasn’t made much progress. Can’t blame them, they’ve got nothing to go on but dead girls and burner cells. Chief Foster’s asked for help, and Bob wants to send you out there. Did I mention he hasn’t stopped bitching about the bank robberies you passed on?”

  “He holds grudges.”

  “He’s been storming around asking where the hell you are since seven. Then he asked me to make him coffee. Are you freakin’ kidding me? I’m not a copy-room flunky. This outfit maxed out my credit cards.”

  “You’re just my flunky.” He held out his empty mug which was decaled with a Bureau stamp. “I could use some coffee.”

  Stacy made a face as she shuffled her manila files and tucked them under her arm. “Watch it, bro. After I spike your coffee with antifreeze, I’d be in the pen. They’d make you work with Alana. She’s missed you. Been moping since your vacation. I’m surprised she hasn’t written Mrs. Alana Maxwell in little hearts all over her Post-it pads.” She blew him a kiss as she sashayed out the door, Marilyn Monroe curls bouncing on the shoulders of her ivory cashmere cardigan. He watched her go and grimaced into the empty coffee mug.

  Eventually his caffeine tank was in desperate need of a refill, so he headed for the break room, where a frightening sight awaited him. The Deputy Director and Alana stood inside, stirring mugs. He didn’t know which was worse and didn’t stop to think it over, turning on his heel to make a quick exit.

  He’d gotten two steps away when he heard his name. It sounded like an expletive.

  “Where’ve you been, Maxwell?”

  John turned around, mentally wiping guilt from his face. “I got in thirty minutes ago. What can I do for you?”

  “You can ge
t your ass on a plane to Los Angeles. Didn’t you get my emails or voicemails?”

  John only checked his Bureau email when Stacy sent messages while he was out on assignment. He didn’t have an excuse for ignoring Bob’s calls. “I’m sorry, I didn’t. This is about the double abductions?”

  “Well it’s not about my acid reflux, now is it?” Bob threw the jug of creamer on the tiled countertop. “All the information’s been emailed. Chief of LAPD’s officially asked for help.”

  “This may be too much for me to handle alone. Will anyone else be joining me?”

  Bob took a slurp of coffee. The foam left a white mustache over his real one. “Half of them are tied up with the bank robbers you said you were too good to deal with, and the rest are in sensitivity training till three. We’ll send help later if you need it. LAPD’s expecting you.”

  Technically, John hadn’t said he was too good to deal with bank robberies. It was more like those cases made him numb with boredom. He didn’t pause to correct the Deputy Director, and turned on his heel for the exit.

  SEVEN

  That the other girls killed themselves doesn’t surprise me. I might consider it too if I didn’t have some very complicated reasons to live.

  I promised Abby I would.

  “Your hair wasn’t always brown, was it?”

  I shake my head.

  “In your driver’s license it was strawberry blonde. So he dyed it.”

  “I didn’t know he dyed it till he turned the lights on. It was always dark.”

  She nods over her clasped hands. “I’m going to level with you. I won’t be in charge much longer. The FBI’s going to take over, and I don’t know how they’ll handle this. I’ll hold them off as long as I can but in order to do that we need to make headway.” She gestures between us.

  I haven’t the foggiest idea what making headway means in this context.

  “What I mean is, I don’t want these Fucking Bunch of Imbeciles bombarding you with questions, Brooke. They’re not going to wear kid gloves, and you’re very important. The only one who can help.”

  I’ve never been important. I’m not sure I want to start now.

  “We’re going to do a cognitive interview. Like the questions from when we first met. Do you think you’re up for it?”

  I glance at my immobile wrists. I don’t appear to have much choice.

  “Close your eyes.” She waits to make sure I do. “I know this is hard, but we need to go back to that point. The first thing you remember, onward. I’ve got to know everything—it’s the only way I can catch this frankenfucker. So he blitzed you in the parking lot?”

  I nod, newly-brunette hair tumbling over one shoulder of my hospital gown.

  “Form a mental picture of what you saw when you came to.”

  That’ll be difficult, I tell her. When I woke, I couldn’t even tell I had. Everything was just as black as the inside of my eyelids. “He blindfolded me. I couldn’t take it off until I was in the room. Even then I didn’t see anything.”

  Not until it was time for Abby to die.

  “So it’s black. If you couldn’t see anything, it means the rest of your senses were heightened. Does he say anything when you wake up?”

  “Not much in the beginning. He talks through a speaker. I think from the ceiling.”

  “I need you to tell me about when you first met Abby.”

  Her name inspires clashing emotions. I’m so angry with her, but I can’t be. She was my only way through it. I’m so mad she’s not with me, strapped to the bed next to mine, but I’m here sucking in all this sterilized air because of her.

  Abby deserves more than silence or suicide.

  ***

  I grope the walls for balance as the door slams. Faint noises upstairs are sealed out. My clumsy fingers tear the blindfold off.

  “Hello?”

  I blink a million times. It doesn’t help me see any better. “What’s going on?”

  She sniffles. It’s magnified, bouncing off the walls. Such a feeble, defeated sound. A universe of grief lives within it. It inspires sympathy, which is new. I’ve never felt sorry for anybody except myself. “What’s your name?”

  I tell her, stuttering over the R.

  “Brooke.” She says it carefully, like it’s a foreign word she wants to pronounce properly. “Brooke, I’m Abby.”

  I follow her voice. A dent in the floor makes me stumble. When I crash to the ground, a clammy palm finds my shoulder. Her fingers feel like shale. So brittle, like they’ll crumble to pieces at any second.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod. Then I remember she can’t see me. “What is this?”

  “I’m not sure, Brooke.” Somehow I think she keeps repeating my name so she can make sure I’m not a mirage, that I won’t disappear as soon as she gets used to having me around. “He says a decision needs to be made. Which one of us gets to live.”

  It takes me awhile to find words. “Who’s going to decide? Us? Nobody’s here.” Suddenly I’m angry. Nobody’s made me do anything since I was eighteen. And over my dead body will it start up again today.

  Then I wonder how foretelling that thought might be.

  “I don’t know.” It must be her head thudding against the wall. “I haven’t been here long, but he hasn’t given me anything. Not even water. Maybe that’s how he’ll do it. We’re going to get desperate eventually.”

  She already sounds desperate.

  Static coughs above our heads. It’s instinct; I search for the source. Abby’s hand twists over mine. I don’t know how she finds it through the enveloping blackness, but I’m glad she does.

  “And then there were two.”

  Abby chokes back another sniffle. Her fingers lace through mine. They fit like they’re designed as pairs, and the stone in her wedding band pricks my knuckle.

  “I think you both know why you’re here.”

  I don’t know why. All I did was get off the dinner shift at Norm’s. I got fifty bucks in tips, and I had a nightmarish talk with Jack waiting for me when I made it home. I’d told God—if there was one—I’d do anything to avoid it.

  God has a sick sense of humor.

  “To our newest addition, I’m sure Abigail’s explained everything. We have three weeks to reach a decision.”

  EIGHT

  LAPD chief Eric Foster rose as John entered his office. “Thank you for coming so quickly. We’re in over our heads with this shit.”

  They shook briefly and John sat in the chair across from the desk. “They’ve all killed themselves before speaking much?”

  Foster nodded as he slid a file across his desk. “Brooke Dutton’s in the hospital. They’ve restrained her so she can’t attempt, but Sergeant Jennings says she’s shown no suicidal tendencies. She’s asking for one of the dead girls.”

  John flipped through photos of seven dead girls. “Where did you find her? I wasn’t given much information. I came back from vacation and was put on a plane almost immediately.”

  “Dropped off on the side of the road. Abigail Black’s body was beside her. He gave her a cell phone. Burner pre-paid, like the others.”

  “Three days after the survivors kill themselves, two more are abducted?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s the manner of death for the girls who didn’t make it?”

  “Varied. One strangled, one shot, one smothered, one bludgeoned.”

  He snapped the folder shut. “How did the survivors commit suicide?”

  “Two hung themselves, one slashed her wrists. They didn’t talk much. Doctors said they were traumatized. Lisette says Brooke seems lucid. She hasn’t left her since we found her, and she won’t be happy if she’s shut out.”

  “If she has rapport with Brooke, I won’t remove her. All sets of were dumped in different locations?”

  “Yes. Dump sites haven’t helped us narrow down a comfort zone. Lisette’s been saying she thinks it’s to throw off the investigation. We’ll never know where to find
the next batch. She’s got some pretty crazy theories, actually. I’m sure you’ll find them in her notes.”

  Foster stood, and John followed suit.

  “I need to start with the dead girl’s husband and Brooke’s boyfriend, then the coroner, and I’ll have to see Brooke eventually.”

  NINE

  Someone comes to take my blood. I feel robbed when she slides the needle into a blue vein on the inside of my elbow. All I have is my worthless life, and it’s being siphoned into a syringe.

  Efficient fingers cover the dot of blood with a cotton ball and tape it into place. The woman bustles out the door.

  Lisette looks at me as it slams. “So he didn’t say anything else at the time?”

  I shake my head.

  She rubs her forehead with a fingertip. “What happens next?”

  ***

  Abby’s hand twitches. We don’t say anything for a few seconds after the man’s stopped speaking.

  “Oh, God,” she breathes. “What are we going to do? He’ll kill us both if we do nothing.”

  I don’t know what to say or what to think. I’ve been dropped into a Saw movie and have no idea why. I’m an actress, which means I wait tables. I haven’t pissed anyone off lately.

  “Brooke?” Her voice is stringy, climbing octaves. “What should we do?”

  I clear my throat. “We should wait it out as long as we can. If we don’t give him what he wants he’ll have to come in here to kill us, right? We can try to fight and get the hell out.”

  “Clever schemes won’t save you, girls.”

  He must have mikes inside. Speakers, whatever. Everything we say, he’ll hear.

  Reality crashes around me. We’re fucked.

  TEN

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” John told Jerry Black, though he knew it wouldn’t help matters. “I’ll find the person responsible.”