CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
He heard a woman scream.
The sound seemed to come from inside a house he’d never laid eyes on. Yet he knew the house was there, not too far away. He’d heard the screen door slam on occasion—and, rarely, the muffled sound of a TV or radio. Once, he was pretty sure he’d heard The Sally Justice Show. He knew he’d been taken to some remote location away from the city. The entire time he’d been here, he hadn’t heard any people or traffic noise—just the crunch of gravel under tires as one car came and went. At night, there were sounds of woodland creatures.
“Shut up, dummy!” a man barked.
There was a clatter, like something had been knocked over.
“You want another?” he yelled.
The guy’s voice was pretty clear. Obviously, the windows were open in his place.
Frustrated, Russ anxiously paced around the cramped bedroom of an old RV. The son of a bitch in the house was beating up a woman. And Russ couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He had no idea what time it was—just that night had fallen. The window above the queen-size bed was boarded up on the outside, and during the day, Russ could see a horizontal sliver of light between the wooden slats. If he knelt at the head of the bed and pressed his chin against the window, he could see some bushes nearby—and nothing else.
He’d been locked inside the bedroom for at least nine days now. That was how many times he’d watched it get dark out. Russ had the scruffy start to a beard, which he’d seen only when he caught his reflection in the glass of the boarded-up window. Connected to the bedroom was a bathroom. It looked like there had once been a mirror over the small sink, but someone had torn it out.
At least there was water and electricity. The water never got hot and tasted like bad well water, but it was drinkable. He could even shower in the tiny stall—as long as his body could stand the cold water. He’d washed out his clothes in the shower, too. His abductor had left him with a change of clothes: a Seattle Mariners T-shirt with the souvenir shop price tag still on it and a pair of sweatpants. Russ had also been furnished with a towel, a washcloth, toilet paper, a toothbrush, a tube of Crest, and a bar of Irish Spring. The fresh soap smell was the only break he got from the stale, stagnant air in the room.
The air-conditioning went on only a few times during the day. The sweltering room cooled down a bit at night. There were sheets, a blanket, and one pillow on the queen bed—which took up about 80 percent of the room. Russ made the bed every morning—in an effort to keep up a routine and make the dumpy room habitable. Every stick of furniture had been removed; all that was left was the dirty blue wall-to-wall shag carpet and the built-in pressed-wood dresser. There were brackets on the wall for a TV set, which had been removed.
He’d been supplied with a deck of cards and about a dozen paperbacks. Russ figured the books couldn’t have been selected with him in mind, since two were by Danielle Steel and one was a young adult novel.
His meals came to him through a slot near the bottom of the door, always 7-Eleven checkout-counter snacks or the kind of crap that came from vending machines: beef jerky; cheese and crackers packets; Rice Krispies Treats, small bags of Cheetos, Chips Ahoy! cookies, and potato chips; and warm sodas and bottled waters. One morning, he’d actually gotten an apple, packaged powdered mini-doughnuts, and a cold little container of orange juice. It had felt like Christmas.
There was just enough room on one side of the bed for him to run in place and do sit-ups, push-ups, and squats. It kept him from going crazy.
Russ had already checked every inch of the room for a way out. Three shiny new locks had been fitted into the bedroom door. The food slot had a cover that latched on the other side. There was also a reverse peephole in the door, so the guy who had abducted him could check up on him from time to time. The window was safety glass, and the escape hatch in the ceiling had a thick padlock on the latch.
Russ was certain whoever was holding him here must be responsible for Courtney’s disappearance. She’d obviously lost a lot of blood during the attack. Was it possible she could still be alive?
Was Courtney the woman he’d heard screaming a few moments ago? He knew her voice—and it had sort of sounded like her.
Or had it been Anna?
Ducking into the tiny bathroom, he stood under the small vent in the wall to listen for a minute. It was the best spot to hear sounds from outside. He couldn’t hear anything—except an owl in the woods.
Anna had been on his mind constantly. His abductor must have been thinking of Anna, too—at least for a while.
Russ had seen the guy only briefly. He was tall and blond—with a dark handlebar mustache that looked fake.
Russ had been at the police station nine days ago to identify the contents of Courtney’s suitcase. Then later, from his room in the Silver Cloud Inn, he’d phoned Anna, and they’d talked about hiring a good criminal attorney for her. He’d just hung up when someone knocked at the door. Russ had looked through the peephole. Its double layer of glass slightly distorted the view, but he could see a mustached man holding up a badge in a leather ID holder. “Dr. Knoll, it’s Detective Avery,” he’d called out. “I just have a couple of questions.”
In the previous few days, Russ had had several cops come knocking on his door—first at home and then at the hotel. They’d all flashed badges at him. How was he to know that this one was a fake?
Once the man stepped inside, Russ noticed he was carrying a small duffel bag—and wearing surgical gloves. Before Russ could even say anything, the man set the bag on the bed and took a gun out of it. He pointed the semiautomatic at Russ. “Do what I say and quickly, or I’ll shoot you in the head.”
Russ backed up and bumped into the writing desk. “Wait—”
“There’s a sweater in this bag, Dr. Knoll. Put it on. Now, quickly.”
Russ nervously obeyed him. The sweater was a dark blue zip-up cardigan with a hood.
“I want you to throw some of your things into the bag, personal stuff, things you really need.”
“What is this—”
“Just fucking do it!” the man growled. “No questions.”
Russ followed all his instructions, which included leaving the room with the guy and sticking close to him as they walked to the lobby together. The man calling himself Avery made it clear that if Russ didn’t cooperate, he’d shoot him and anyone else who got in his way. They waited a couple of minutes—until a group came out of the hotel’s restaurant-bar area. As the group left the lobby, Russ merged in with them—with Avery close beside him. Once outside, Avery had him continue down the sidewalk and around the corner to where a black Jetta was parked.
Russ remembered Anna telling him on Saturday that a black Jetta had followed her down the road by Pete’s Supermarket.
The car’s headlights blinked as the man unlocked it with his key fob. “Okay, now, take off the sweater and hand it to me. And don’t fucking try anything.”
Russ pulled off the sweater and gave it to him.
“Okay. Get in the backseat. Quickly.”
Russ did what he was told.
“Now, bend forward and look at your feet. C’mon, quickly, now.”
Once again, Russ was obedient. He remembered thinking that quickly seemed to be the guy’s favorite word.
That was the last thought he had before he’d felt the sickening blow to the back of his head.
Russ woke up in the galley kitchen of this old RV. All of the windows were painted over. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d been knocked unconscious. It could have been hours or even a day. The back of his head was sore. Russ figured the guy must have hit him with the butt of his gun. He felt a lump and a cut back there, but the blood had dried. His arm was sore as well. He had bruises and three ugly puncture wounds—his abductor must have injected him with a sedative and had a hard time finding a vein.
He was still so groggy that he struggled to sit up in the galley booth where he’d been
lying. It reminded him of the booth in Anna’s kitchen—only this one was tacky and cheap. A pen and several sheets of paper were on the stained plastic laminate table in front of him.
Avery—or whatever his name was—wore a ski mask and stood near the mini-fridge, just far enough away so that Russ couldn’t lunge at him and overpower him. Russ couldn’t have budged anyway. Besides, the guy still had the gun, and it was pointed at him. In his other hand, he held a piece of paper. “I want you to write something for me,” he said, behind the ski mask.
In his dazed state, Russ realized he might make it out of this alive. Otherwise, why would the guy wear a ski mask? If Avery intended to kill him, there would be no need for the disguise or the mask.
“I know your handwriting, Dr. Knoll, and I want this to be in your handwriting. So keep that in mind as you jot this down. Are you ready? Pick up the fucking pen.”
Russ grabbed the pen and leaned over the table to write.
The man dictated: “I’ve come to an impasse. Right now this seems like the only way out. I apologize to Anna Malone, who never hurt anyone and never deserved the heartache I’ve brought upon her. To Anna, and all the other people who believed in me, I apologize for letting you down.”
The guy made him write it several times. He kept saying, “That’s too sloppy, do it again” or “I know your handwriting. It’s got to match.”
Russ kept at it, copying down the text from each previous attempt. When he had the opportunity, he looked around the galley for the duffel bag he’d packed.
“Okay, this will do,” Avery finally said, glancing at the umpteenth draft.
“Where’s my stuff?” Russ asked numbly. “What happened to that bag I packed?”
The man let out a little laugh. “You won’t be seeing that again.” He nodded toward the RV’s bedroom. “Everything you’ll need is in there. And you’ve earned a little rest. There’s a nice bed all made up for you. C’mon.”
Russ remembered staggering into the bedroom and collapsing on the bed.
The door shut behind him and the three locks clicked, one after another. That was the last time he’d seen the man who had called himself Detective Avery.
But now, he could hear him—and it was unmistakably him. “C’mon, get up, quickly, quickly,” he yelled. “Don’t waste my time. And don’t pretend you can’t understand me, dummy. I know you can read lips.”
Russ listened to the screen door squeak open and then slam shut. He heard a woman sobbing. He thought it must be Courtney. Who else could it be?
His hands clenched into fists, he moved into the back of the bedroom. It was all he could do to keep from banging on the walls in protest at the abuse. As much as he’d despised Courtney at times, she was still his wife, and he couldn’t stand knowing this son of a bitch was hurting her.
He thought they might have been on their way to the car. But then he heard a key in the door to the RV, and it creaked open. Russ crept over to the bedroom door and listened.
“C’mon, keep moving, stupid,” the man said. “The doctor will take care of those bruises. Shit, I’m wasting my breath. You don’t even know I’m talking. You’ve got your back to me.”
He must have given her a shove, because she let out a startled cry—and from her footsteps, it sounded like she’d stumbled.
“Hey, Doc!” the guy called. He seemed to be on the other side of the door. “You’ve got company! You two are going to have a great time together. You know how to talk dummy talk, don’t you? Now, do me a favor. See that little bell on the wall—near the window, on the wall by the bed?”
Standing by the door, poised to attack, Russ glanced over his shoulder at the little bell on a bracket attached to the wall. He’d been wondering what it was for. Like the locks in the door, the food slot, and the padlock on the ceiling escape hatch, it looked like something that had been installed especially for his incarceration here.
“Answer me, Doc! I can see you right by the door. I know you’re listening! Or do you want me to slap this deaf bitch again?”
“All right, I’m looking at the bell,” Russ replied irately. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go over there and ring it.”
Russ reluctantly backed away from the door. As he got closer to the bell on the wall, he realized its purpose. It was extra insurance for the guy in case he had to stop looking through the peephole for a second. If Russ was on the other side of the room ringing the bell, he couldn’t very well rush his abductor in the doorway. The small bell had a short piece of rope attached to it. Russ pulled at the rope, and the bell sounded.
It had dawned on him before, and this just confirmed it: no one else was nearby to hear the bell. And no one could have heard Russ’s screams for help, either.
He stood there, ringing the bell and listening past the din as the three locks clicked. Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open. Russ caught only a glimpse of the guy—in his ski mask again—as he shoved the young woman into the room.
With a shriek, she fell onto the bed.
Russ stopped ringing the bell. He could see the girl wasn’t Courtney.
The bedroom door slammed shut, and the three locks clicked, one after another.
Hurrying to the young woman on the bed, Russ gently took her by the shoulders and turned her over. Her face was bruised and tearstained. She had a black eye, and her lower lip had a fresh cut on one side. She looked slightly familiar, but Russ wasn’t sure where he’d seen her before.
He looked over at the door. “Hey, are you still out there?” he called. “Hey.”
“What?”
“Just hold on a second!”
Hovering over the young woman, he quickly checked for any broken bones or sprains.
She started to recoil from him.
“I’m a doctor,” he whispered—and signed. From what he’d overheard the man saying, obviously the woman was deaf. She wore a short-sleeve beige pullover and olive slacks. Russ noticed a bruise on one of her arms. All of her other injuries seemed to be to her face.
“I’m going to need some ice!” he called. “Also, we could use some antiseptic, cotton balls, and aspirin or ibuprofen.”
“Fuck you,” the creep grumbled. “I’m not your scrub nurse. You’ve got cold water and a washcloth. You figure something out.”
Russ heard him stomp toward the front of the RV. Then the door closed. After a few moments, he heard the screen door to the nearby house open and slam shut.
Russ turned to the young woman again.
Sitting up, she gazed at him in horror. She shook her head over and over.
“I’m a doctor,” he said, signing again. “Are you okay? Do you feel dizzy or nauseated?”
“You’re Courtney Knoll’s husband,” she said—and signed. Her hands were shaking. Her slightly impaired speech was characteristic of some people born completely deaf. “You’re Dr. Knoll. You’re supposed to be dead.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, signing. “I’m sorry. Who are you? You—you look familiar.”
“I’ve met you and your wife a couple of times at parties,” she replied, a bit calmer now. Her breathing seemed to slow down. “My name is Taylor Hofstad. I’m Sally Justice’s daughter.”
Russ shrank back a bit. As of nine days ago, Sally had been trying to crucify both Anna and him.
“I’m not my mother,” Taylor assured him in her halting speech. “I think what she’s been doing to you and Anna Malone is awful. I’ve been trying to help Anna. We’ve become friends.”
Russ was confused, but he still nodded. “Okay, just a second,” he said and signed. “Let me get something for your face.”
He couldn’t sit there and keep talking to Taylor with her face all battered. He hurried into the bathroom, rinsed the washcloth under the cold water, and squeezed it out. Now he remembered meeting Taylor at a charity function months ago. Courtney had mentioned at the time that Sally Justice’s daughter might be a good connection to have—publicity-wise. Typical Court
ney. But nothing ever came of it as far as he knew.
Returning to the bedroom, he sat down beside her and gently pressed the cold washcloth to the cut on her lower lip. It didn’t look too serious. “So—I’m supposed to be dead?” he asked. He set the washcloth down for a second so he could sign for her.
“It’s okay,” Taylor said. “I can read lips.” She stopped signing, took the washcloth from him, and dabbed her mouth. “Someone driving your car was seen on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge before dawn on Thursday. He stopped in the middle of the bridge, got out of the car, and jumped. Some anonymous woman called it in to 911.” Taylor moved the cold washcloth to the corner of her eye. “My mother kept saying it all seemed pretty suspicious. But now, I think even she believes you’re dead.”
Russ realized that was what the cryptic note in his handwriting was all about. It was a suicide note, and in it, he’d exonerated Anna.
“What’s happening with Anna?” he asked anxiously.
Taylor hesitated. She eyed him nervously and shrugged.
“What’s going on? You said you were her friend.”
“I am.” She put down the washcloth. Then once again, she signed as she spoke. “I set her up with a hypnotist to help her remember what happened the night Courtney went missing. They recorded the sessions. The man—the one who abducted me—he knew about it. He knew I had the recording. I was saving it for Anna. I wanted to protect her. But he broke into my apartment and grabbed me. He was after the recording, he said so. He’s got it now.”
“Protect Anna from what?” Russ asked, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“There are things on that recording no one should hear.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Taylor frowned at him. “All this time, you haven’t asked about your wife.”
Russ realized she was right, and he felt horrible.
“They found Courtney’s body on Wednesday, half-buried in some woods near Lake Bosworth.” She spelled out Bosworth.
The Night She Disappeared Page 32