She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  The news snippet in question was a tabloid piece from several months ago. Obviously, this man had no idea what fake news consisted of. Not many choices were available. I could easily overtake him, but wasn’t sure of what would be waiting upstairs. How many people, and what their mental capacities were like remained unknown. There was always the option to see who else resided here, then figure out how to make an escape. Lastly, waiting it out for Jillian to find me, also another tangible solution. But, perhaps, the most logical course of action was a combination of all three extremes. The best way to tackle the here and now was to remain composed, assess the magnitude of all factors, and play along with Warren. In a few days I’d be out of here.

  “I see. How do we go about doing that?” I inquired.

  “Living here, and not attempting to leave is the first step. Precautions are in place to prevent this from happening. It’s strongly advised residents do not exit the property, or else they’ll deal with the ramifications, which I assure, are not fun. For now, go get cleaned up, dressed, and come upstairs–the door will be unlocked. It’s about lunchtime. You’ve got to be famished. Breaking bread is an excellent way to become acquainted with your new brothers and sisters. There’s a selection of clothing in all sizes in the closet. Finding something to wear shouldn’t be an issue.” Warren stood.

  “Great. Thanks,” I replied, still sitting. Emotions are tricky little sneaks. You can smile to mask sadness, but appearances seep through expressions, and body language sells you out every single time.

  “You’ll learn to be happy in your new home, but only when you shed those awful people, those malefactors from your soul,” Warren assured, before exiting.

  In all my life I’d never felt as defeated as I did in that moment. No plan. No means to an end. Nothing. This psychopath intended on keeping me here forever. Who knew what ‘precautions’ he had in play to prevent anyone from leaving? Invisible electric fence? Armed whacko guards? Poison?

  A deep exhale later, I knew the only way to get out of this alive, untouched, would be to endure each moment–watching, waiting, biding time until the right moment to attack presented. View the problem in its entirety, and devise a scheme from there. Everything happens for a reason. Everything. I was a firm believer in that spiritual sentiment. This time, the experience, no different. Riding the wave, weathering the rough surf, seeing where it took you–the only viable setup, for now. Hopefully this rough surf wasn’t in horrible stormy seas.

  Chapter Six

  Jillian

  I must’ve dozed off because I woke with a jolt to the blaring sound of my cell phone ringing. The device vibrated in my hand, screaming to be answered. Positioning myself upright, I pressed the talk button. Lose strands of hair were carelessly tucked behind ears.

  “Nick?” I said.

  “It’s Liam. Everything okay over there?” Liam’s deep voice inquired.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “Hold on a second. I just woke up, and have to check on something.”

  Placing the phone on the cocktail table, I stood.

  “Nick?” I called, walking through the kitchen, circling back to the informal living room though his office, poking my head into the mudroom, and opening bathroom doors. “Nick? Are you home?”

  Thinking perhaps he might be upstairs; I scaled the steps two by two. Sprinting down the hallways, he wasn’t there. Running back down to the main floor, I peeked outside through the window beside the front door. His car, still gone. The master bedroom and guest room beds were made. Nick hadn’t returned. Pressing the discarded cell phone back to my ear, I panicked.

  “You still there, Liam?”

  “Yeah. What’s going on, Jill?” I could hear the concern in his tone.

  “Nick never came home last night. He was here when I left for the station, and told me he’d be here when I got off work. Said he was planning something for us. I assumed it was dinner, or a romantic gesture of sorts, not him disappearing,” I explained, quickly, trying to replay the highlights from our last conversation. Never once did Nick suggest, nor allude to a vanishing act.

  “Have you called him?”

  “Of course. Called, texted, emailed. I’ve done everything short of send smoke signals. Nick’s cell has to be off because calls go straight to voicemail. Texts and emails, no answer. I tracked his phone last night. The last place it pinged was at St. Luke’s. I drove there, and his Lexus was in the lot, but he wasn’t around. The church was closed. Not a soul or car around except for his SUV. I parked and waited until a cop harassed me, giving me a field sobriety test, then telling me I couldn’t stay there because it’s trespassing. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Nick. Said that Nick was an adult who wasn’t sick or crazy, and people go missing all the time. If he’s not back in forty-eight hours, I can go to my local precinct and file a missing person’s report. This is going to sound nuts, but Liam, something’s wrong. I just know it. It’s a gut feeling. This isn’t Nick, especially now with him trying to make our marriage work. For shit sake, we were in bed together all-day yesterday knocking boots. Why would he up and leave?”

  “You don’t have to wait forty-eight hours to file a report with the police, Jill. We can go down to the station today and get the ball rolling.”

  “That’s not what the cop said.”

  “He lied. It’s a bullshit line they use in situations like this to get people to leave them alone. Trust me on this. If you don’t believe me, call my brother. Randy will tell you the truth. He should know it after being on the job for almost forty years. Nick and you are celebrities, and the first forty-eight hours are the most crucial. Someone will listen, and take a report. They might not be thrilled over having to work, but they’ll do it.”

  “Do you think something happened to him? Be honest with me.”

  With a heavy sigh, he spoke. “I don’t know, Jill. It’s not Nick’s personality to disappear. Plus, wasn’t he the one who wanted to put the divorce on hold? Usually when a couple is attempting to fix a broken marriage, they don’t walk away without telling the other. Is it odd he vanished? Yeah, especially after the tabloid story, but I’m sure there’s an explanation. Let’s not panic. I’ll come pick you up, and we can go together. Give me twenty minutes. Okay?”

  “I’ll see you in a bit. Thanks, Liam.”

  “Of course. What are producer fathers for?”

  * * * *

  Thirty minutes later I found myself sitting on a beat up old wooden bench sandwiched between Liam and a sweaty, strung out junkie who was handcuffed to the armrest. I’d been in police stations before for work related interviews, but never as someone who actually required help. Liam spoke to the desk sergeant, who uncaringly told us to take a seat and wait, mumbling someone would be with us shortly. Evidently, shortly to the police meant two hours, because that’s how long I remained in Hell’s Threshold.

  “Winters?” A young, bald, somewhat fit, cop asked, holding a piece of paper.

  “That’s us,” Liam replied, taking my arm. “Come on, Jill. Look alive.”

  “Follow me,” the cop ordered.

  He led us down a narrow hallway, to a flight of metal stairs. Once in the basement, the hum of cheap florescent lights filled the dingy space. Scuffed puke green linoleum floors did little to enhance the pealing blue and orange painted walls. A heavy stench of marijuana hung in the air. My nose crinkled at the stink.

  “Sorry about that. We just busted a dealer. Confiscated almost a hundred pounds of pot,” the cop explained, opening a door which led to a beige room. A faux dark wood table with several nasty, old, brown torn up vinyl chairs around it was the only thing inside the enclosure. Once he closed the door, he spoke again. “Take a seat.”

  Plopping into one, he examined the paper in hand. “Okay, so your husband is missing,” he said, looking up.

  I couldn’t sit, so I paced–something I’d been doing a lot of. “Yes. Since yesterday night.”

  Liam held up his right hand in a
‘hold your horses’ fashion. “I’m Liam Stevens. This is Jillian Winters. She anchors a nationally syndicated nightly news show which I produce. Her husband, Doctor Nicholas Winters, is an international bestselling, self-help author, who also hosts the number one talk Podcast in the country. Mrs. Winters was told early this morning by another officer to wait a full forty-eight hours before reporting him missing. We both know that’s not a law or rule. Anyone can file a missing person’s report in less time than that. With their celebrity status, we are not asking for special treatment, but what we are requesting is you get the ball rolling here. He’s more at risk than most, mainly because due to the nature of his work, he’s surrounded by fans who potentially suffer from mental illness. Nick is a psychotherapist, whom I’m sure has treated many emotionally unstable individuals.” Liam sat back in one of the rickety chairs, crossing his arms.

  “First things first, I’m Officer Wilson. Second, I’ll gladly take a report, and alert all personnel your husband is missing. They’ll be on the lookout, and will call it in if they locate him. Walk me through the events that led up to his disappearance.”

  “We spent the day together, at our house. Before I left for work, he said he was planning something special for when I returned. I went to the studio. When I got home, he wasn’t there. Pots were on the stove, pantry items were on the counter, the dining room table set. I tried calling, but calls went straight to voicemail. Texts and emails, unanswered. I tracked his last location from the GPS on his cell. It showed he was in the parking lot of St. Luke’s Church. I went there. It was late. I found his Lexus–it looked fine, visually. He wasn’t around, so I waited. Then, a cop came, and made me take a field sobriety test even after I explained the situation, and hadn’t had a drink, or taken any mind-altering drugs. He told me to wait the mandatory forty-eight hours before filing a missing person report, suggesting sometimes people just leave, and to vacate the premise because I was trespassing. Now, I’m here.” I said in one long breath.

  Wilson feverishly took careful notes. A sure sign he was the new guy on the block. Most officers weren’t as diligent.

  “Did you and Mr. Winters have an argument prior? Have you received any suspicious calls, texts, or emails before or after he disappeared? Any ransom requests? Signs of a struggle inside the house? Anything you can think of, even if you deem it insignificant, that comes across as odd in the days leading up to today?”

  I paused, taking a second to glance at Liam. Did I tell him about the divorce? About my and Nick’s dirty little secrets?

  “It’s okay, Jill,” Liam encouraged. After years of working side by side, the man could read my mind–an indescribable comfort.

  “Nick and I were in the process of legally separating. We decided a few days ago to put a pin in that, and try one more time. A member of the paparazzi took a few pictures of us at my lawyer’s office, then sold them to a tabloid. It’s been all over the trash magazines. Since that day, we’ve been fine. Working on fixing our marriage.”

  Wilson looked up thoughtfully. “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts the night Mr. Winters disappeared?”

  “Do you think I did something to him?” I asked, shocked. Body stopped all forward motion, pivoting sharply, staring the dumb shit officer down. How dare he accuse me, of all people?

  “I can vouch for her, as well as the station manager, her personal assistant, various on-air staff, and about three million viewers who watched the live show that night,” Liam spoke.

  “What about after the show ended? You went home?”

  “I have round the clock security guards stationed at the house that told me Nick left the premises shortly after I did. In addition, I have a driver who drove me to and from work. The perimeter of the house is also wired with cameras. You’re more than welcome to view the tapes.”

  “Does Mr. Winters have any enemies?”

  “No,” I snapped. Obviously, this man had no clue who Nick was, or what kind of person either.

  “What Mrs. Winters is trying to say is, Doctor Winters is a beloved community member. If there’s anyone who dislikes him, or is holding a grudge, she’s unaware,” Liam said, head down, jotting something in a notebook, tearing the page out. “This is a short list of people, and their direct numbers at the station, who saw Mrs. Winters the night Doctor Winters went missing. They will all be able to corroborate her story. If more names are required, let me know. I’d be happy to provide them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stevens. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll type this up. Once that’s done, it’ll circulated to not only our station, but to others in and around the state as well. If we hear anything, we’ll let you know,” Wilson said, standing, signaling the meeting was over.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do? My husband is missing. He’s not the type of person to just up and leave on a whim. Something is wrong. He’s in danger, or hurt, or God only knows what. You’re not listening. You’re not understanding the severity of this situation,” I demanded, body moving to block the door so deputy dumbass couldn’t leave until he saw things my way.

  “Ma’am, if you’d like I can contact local hospitals and other precincts to see if he’s there, but there’s not much more we can do at this point. People, even ones we believe wouldn’t, sometimes leave. Maybe he decided he wanted to take the pin out of the separation, and this is how he’s doing it. We’ll do what we can, but that’s about all we can do. Sit tight. I’ll make a few calls,” Wilson answered, exiting the room.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Liam!” I seethed.

  “Calm down, Jill. This is just the first step.”

  As much as my patience and nerves hated to admit it, he was right. That moment would commence the first of many necessary steps to bring Nick home.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick

  Being the only measurement of time inside the house were clocks, I lost track of days and dates. Any marker of how long they’d held me against my will didn’t exist inside Warren’s prison. In all fairness, Warren never struck or abused any of the abducted individuals–which were all legal aged adults. The youngest appeared to be in her late twenties. The oldest, a man, in his early seventies. He treated them kindly, with a judgement free equality most humans lacked. Everything anyone could ever need had been provided. Three meals a day were prepared by whoever wished to cook. When no one wanted to, Warren would, but that didn’t happen often. The abductees seemed to want to be where they were, happily engaging in daily busywork. About an hour before sunrise, the men would wake to shower and dress. When the men were done, the women began their morning rituals. As a whole, we’d go upstairs for a family style breakfast, attend Warren’s Bible study group, do a few chores–mainly housework, eat lunch, perform outside tasks–gardening, mowing, weeding, cleaned up, eat dinner, then we’d have an hour of free time to socialize with the others. We were allowed to read books Warren selected, could draw or paint, knit, play board games, put together puzzles, and things of the like. Television or watching movies was not an option.

  Often, I’d spend this period watching those around. I’d study their behaviors, watch body language, listen in on their conversations. I was trying to get a sense of how brainwashed they’d become. Sometimes someone would approach and start a conversation, or extend an invitation to partake in an activity, most times I would, but other nights silently observing was my hobby of choice. After that we’d head down to the basement, wash up for bed, pray, then lights out. Every day resembled the day before. The only change was the weather. When it rained, they replaced outside work with an indoor project. Every few days Warren pulled each of us aside for a talk. He’d open what he believed to be rich spiritual dialogues–a poor attempt at therapy to heal his ‘flock’. I’d play along in an effort to figure him out. What I ascertained was these people were suffering from a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome. Though Warren hadn’t beaten or treated them poorly, he had one hell of a psychological hold over every single one of them.
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br />   If pressed, I’d surmise these people were damaged souls due to a multitude of sins from former abusers. Warren ‘saved’ them, brought them to a safe haven, then brainwashed them into his way of thinking. In my humble opinion, aside from Warren, all but one was treatable–Noah Lessor, Warren’s cousin. That young man was off in more ways than countable. Noah rarely spoke, and when he did, it was always in rapid hushed tones, and only to Warren. The man, a hard worker, would simply stare at whoever was nearby. Not what I’d consider a threat–standing at roughly five feet, seven inches, about one hundred and forty pounds, with sandy brown cropped hair, Noah appeared to be in his late thirties, and rather nervous all the time. It was almost as if he knew what was going on here was wrong and lived in a constant state of fear he’d get caught. Additionally, he had some type of medical training because I observed him giving meticulous sutures to a middle-aged abductee after slicing her hand while cutting a bagel.

  Noah also conducted regular blood pressure tests on anyone over fifty-five. The oddest, creepiest part of Noah wasn’t the lack of interaction with others or jittery nature, but rather those soulless eyes. When he’d glare in your direction, it felt as if those two hazel orbs could bore a hole straight through you. He was probably the victim of horrific abuse as a child and adolescent, and Warren’s first capture. In fact, he may have been the reason Warren started trying to rescue those around. Perhaps guilt played a part–maybe he’d watched the ill treatment and did nothing about it, or he, himself, was victimized in the same fashion and didn’t feel powerful enough to have his voice heard. Who knew? Both were onions–many, many layers to peel away before getting to the potent core.