Deadly Recall

by T. R. Ragan

  For the next six hours, they worked quietly. A few hours in, Zee had moved to the couch. Olivia had only stopped on two occasions to take Higgins outside.

  At eight o’clock Jessie told them it was time to call it quits. Olivia had school in the morning, and Zee had a thirty-minute ride home. The good news was they had worked their way through nearly one-third of the complaints. The bad news was that between all of them they had over three hundred names that would need to be looked at once they were finished going through the list.

  The next morning, Jessie rubbed her temple as she pondered her workload. Although the DHI case was a current threat, the police and the feds were working hard to find the killer. Not only had Jessie agreed to help Owen Shepard, she also had an obligation to Ashley Bale to continue working on the abduction of Dakota. She would spend the mornings interviewing people who had worked at the hospital at the time Dakota was born. And at night, she and the girls could continue to work through DHI’s list of complaints.

  Jessie looked through her file on the abduction case. There were three women she’d wanted to talk to: Rose Helg, Kendra Sue, and Nick’s cousin Wendy Battstel. According to her notes, Wendy had never married. DMV records showed her living in Colfax off Highway 80. She was a Realtor and worked from home. It took Jessie a minute to find a website with her picture. She had curly red hair, green eyes, and a friendly smile. Jessie grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Across the street she noticed a man sitting in his car. The engine was running. When he saw her looking his way, he sped off before she could get a good look at him. Strange.

  An hour later, she turned onto Grass Valley Street in Colfax, a city that covered 1.4 square miles of land and sat at the crossroads of Interstate 80 and State Route 174. Wendy’s house was a log cabin surrounded by pine trees. As she passed by, looking for a place to park, she saw the garage door open. In her rearview mirror, she watched an old Ford truck pull out and drive away.

  Jessie made a quick U-turn and caught up to the truck. Although she couldn’t see who was driving, she decided to follow the vehicle. Colfax was a small town. If it was Wendy, Jessie hoped she wasn’t going too far.

  Moments later the truck pulled into the Village Market. Jessie found a parking spot and watched the door open and the driver jump to the ground. It was definitely Wendy Battstel. The curly red hair was hard to miss.

  Instead of making her way into the market, Wendy walked around to the back seat and opened the door. The last thing Jessie expected to see was a little girl, about three years old, climb out of the car. Hand in hand, Wendy and the child disappeared inside the market. Jessie thought about following them inside, but she decided to wait and follow them home instead.

  Fifteen minutes passed before they exited the store with a paper bag filled to the brim with groceries. Wendy opened the back door, and the little girl climbed inside.

  Jessie was about to start her engine when she saw a bright-colored rubber ball roll out of the car and into the parking lot. The little girl jumped out and set off after the toy just as a car parked across from Wendy began to back out. Jessie’s heart skipped a beat when she saw that the driver wasn’t looking.

  Jessie jumped out of the car and yelled, “Stop!” as she raced toward the little girl, waving her arms above her head. The driver’s windows were closed, and he was oblivious. She knew she had to do something. Still shouting, Jessie scooped the girl into her arms at the same moment the driver slammed on his brakes. The tires squealed in protest, and the little girl began to cry.

  The driver got out of his car, apologizing and explaining that he hadn’t seen her. Wendy was frantic by the time she realized her daughter had run off. She ran toward them. The little girl reached out pudgy arms for her mother.

  “What happened?” Wendy asked as she took her daughter and held her tight.

  The driver got into his car, and Jessie ushered Wendy back to hers so the man could safely back out.

  “I had just pulled in,” Jessie told her, “when I saw your little girl chasing after a ball that had rolled across the parking lot.”

  Wendy’s face paled. “Thank you. I don’t know how I failed to see her leave the truck.” She raked a hand through tangled hair, then glanced at her watch. “Shit. I’m late for an appointment.”

  “I’m just glad everyone’s okay.” Jessie gestured across the parking lot. “I see her toy. Let me grab it for you.” By the time she returned to the car, the little girl was strapped in her seat. Jessie handed the woman the ball. “Here you go.”

  “For Thithy,” her daughter said, reaching for it.

  “Thanks again,” Wendy said as Jessie headed back to her car.

  Once Jessie settled in behind the wheel, she inhaled and took a moment to calm down. Seeing that car so close to hitting the little girl had been horrifying. Wendy was obviously busy. Jessie decided she’d have to come back in a few days and try again.

  Back on the highway, Jessie called Zee.

  “Jessie Cole Investigations,” Zee said. “How can I help you?”

  Jessie smiled at Zee’s greeting. “Are you in the car?”

  “Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

  “I need information on two women. Since you mentioned having access to new and improved databases, I figured—”

  “Give me the names and tell me what you need?” Zee said, cutting her off midsentence.

  Jessie spelled out both names. “I need to know if Kendra Sue Foster ever married, gave birth, or adopted a child of her own. Same goes for Wendy Battstel.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s all for now. Call me if—”

  The call was disconnected.

  As Jessie drove along, she saw a blue Honda in the rearview mirror. It looked like the same car she’d seen outside her office earlier that morning. A minute later, the Honda exited the highway. Her shoulders relaxed.

  It wasn’t until she was nearing her exit forty minutes later that she spotted the Honda a few cars back. “Not cool,” she said aloud. Instead of getting off the highway, she stayed at a steady sixty-five miles per hour, heading west.

  The Honda continued on her same path.

  Her phone rang. It was Zee. Using voice activation, Jessie picked up the call.

  “Kendra Sue Foster was briefly married at nineteen years of age,” Zee said. “To James Foster. That lasted six months. Although it appears she kept his name on most official documents, she was born Kendra Sue Cunningham, and she—”

  “I’m being followed,” Jessie said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  “Who’s following you?”

  “I don’t know. The windows are tinted, and I haven’t been able to get the number on the plate.”

  “Are you close to home?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m in Sacramento in front of Norton’s house, which isn’t far from your office. If you can come this way, you could pull over. If he passes you by without stopping, I’ll take over from there.”

  Not a bad idea, Jessie thought. “Okay, what’s your exact location?”

  After Zee gave her the address, Jessie plugged the information into her navigator. “Let’s both stay on the phone,” Jessie told her, “so I know what’s going on. Okay?”

  “Ten-four,” Zee said. “Since I have you on the phone, Kendra Sue Cunningham did, in fact, give birth almost two years after Dakota Bale was born. So the reason you couldn’t locate any records was because of the name on the birth certificate.”

  “Impressive,” Jessie said.

  “Yeah. I’m good at this. I’m not sure how long minimum wage will cut it.”

  “We’ll discuss your pay at another time,” Jessie told her.

  “The other person you asked about, Wendy Battstel, adopted a kid. My guess is that it was one of those illegal transactions.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “E-mails. Lots of back-and-forth correspondence between Wendy and a sleazy lawyer who has since been disbarre
d. She paid the man a hefty sum.”

  “How could you have possibly gotten hold of that kind of information?”

  “The easiest way is phishing, you know, fooling people into giving you account information so that you can log on to their PC. But I didn’t even need to bother with all that. People like Wendy are pretty lackadaisical about passwords. Got it on the third attempt—12Wendy34. You’ve never hacked into someone’s e-mail or bank account?”

  “Please tell me you’ve never done that,” Jessie said.

  “I’ve never done that.”

  Jessie sighed. She couldn’t worry about that now. “We’ll talk later.” She glanced at her rearview mirror as she took the next exit and pulled to a stop at the light. The Honda had fallen back, and for a few seconds she thought he might have continued on the highway. No such luck. There he was. As the Honda drew closer, the light turned green, and she hit the gas.

  “Are you there?” Jessie asked Zee.

  “Yeah. How close are you?”

  “Another minute or two, depending on the lights.”

  As Jessie arrived at her destination, she could see Zee’s car parked at the side of the residential street. “I’m going to go to the next block and then pull over.”

  “I got an idea. Maybe I should pull out immediately after you pass and let him hit me.”

  “Absolutely not. Don’t do anything to put yourself in danger. Do you hear me, Zee?”

  Silence.

  “Zee?”

  “Okay. Okay. I’m not a child. Oh, there you go. Hey there!”

  Jessie did not glance Zee’s way as she passed by. In fact, she questioned her decision to get Zee involved in the first place. “Do not pull out immediately,” she warned Zee.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  Jessie rolled down her window, pulled to the side of the road, and readied her pepper spray. If he pulled over, too, she would get out of the car and attempt to talk to the driver to see what was going on. But the Honda sped up and passed her right by. Zee passed by a few seconds later.

  “I didn’t get a look at him,” Jessie said. “Follow him, but don’t get too close.”

  No response.

  “Zee, are you there?”

  She looked at the dashboard and saw that Zee had disconnected the call. Damn. She decided to sit there for a moment and see if the Honda came back around. Five minutes went by before she called Zee again. No answer.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Emily Shepard opened her eyes. She was on her side, lying on cement flooring. Her head throbbed, and drool slid down the side of her mouth. Groggy, she pushed herself from the ground until she was sitting up.

  Her stomach roiled. She was going to be sick. Looking around, she crawled to the Porta Potty, opened the lid, and barfed until she was dry heaving. Every part of her shook as she pulled away from the toilet, then scooted backward until she was leaning against the wall. She pushed loose strands of hair out of her face as she looked around. Where was she?

  The last thing she remembered was being late for class and rushing from her apartment. Across the street, she’d spotted a gray-haired man, maybe early sixties, with crutches, struggling to lift a package. It was obvious he was having trouble, and so she’d offered to help. He’d graciously accepted.

  He’d made a big deal about whatever was inside the box being fragile. When she’d leaned into the trunk, trying to be as careful, she’d taken a blow to the back of her head and blacked out.

  She reached a hand to the spot where she’d been hit and grimaced. There was a knot the size of a small peach. It was tender to the touch. Looking around, she saw two windows, one to the left and one to the right. From her worm’s-eye view, there was nothing but gray cement walls beyond.

  From the looks of it, a room had been built inside a bigger room, possibly a warehouse. The space she inhabited was about the size of the apartment room she shared with a roommate. There was a built-in bench and a cooler to her right. On the other side was the portable toilet. As her brain assessed the situation, panic set in, clogging her throat and making it difficult to breathe. That man had planned the whole thing. He knew someone would try to help him out. It was obvious he’d gone to a lot of trouble preparing the room. He meant to keep her here for a while. How long? A few days? Weeks? Maybe even months?

  Oh, God, no.

  Pushing herself from the floor, she held still until she was steady on her feet. She walked slowly to one of the windows and peered out. There was a futon and a table. Her backpack sat on the floor nearby. Inside her backpack was her phone and pepper spray. She needed to get her things.

  The window was a large pane of glass. It didn’t open. She went to the door situated between the two windows. There was no handle. She launched her body into the door, putting her weight into it, but it didn’t budge. Above her head, she saw nothing but rafters at least twenty feet overhead.

  She moved along the walls, pushing all the while, looking for a way out. When she found none, she’d had enough. “Let me out of here!”

  Back at the window, she pounded her fists on the glass, hoping it would break. She screamed, long and loud. “Where are you? What’s going on? Why am I here?”

  There could be a front lobby. If she screamed loud enough, somebody would hear her. By the time she gave up, her throat burned. She went to the cooler and tossed open the lid. Inside, she found Gatorade and yogurt. She kicked the cooler, then turned it upside down, emptying the contents onto the floor. Lifting the cooler, she used it to try to break the glass.

  It was no use. Another idea struck her. She grabbed the cooler, placed it on top of the built-in bench, then climbed up on the cooler and reached above her head. She would need to jump at least three feet to reach the top of the enclosure. She bent her knees, readying herself. The cooler creaked beneath her weight.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” came a voice.

  She got off the cooler and peered through the glass. It was the same man who had pretended to be injured. He was walking fine. “What happened to your crutches?”

  “I think you know the answer to that. The crutches were an act to get you here.”

  “If you come near me, I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

  He nodded.

  “I will,” she said. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  His silence made her angry. “Who are you? Just another old pervert acting out his kidnapping fantasies? Is that it? Your wife won’t fuck you any longer, so you had to find someone young enough to be your daughter?”

  She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she grabbed one of the yogurts from the floor, peeled off the foil top, and used her fingers to smear it all over the glass in order to obscure his view. She didn’t want to look at him. Neither did she want him to be able to watch her every move. Thick globs of yogurt slid slowly down the glass before dripping onto the floor.

  “I wouldn’t waste that if I were you,” he said. “You’re going to get hungry, and I won’t be doing any more shopping for a while.”

  She opened another one and did the same thing until she could see only a hazy figure through the glass. “I want out! I’ll starve myself. I’m not going to sit in here and let some creepy fuck watch me with his beady little eyes.”

  “I didn’t bring you here for the reasons you’re thinking. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”

  “I want to talk now!”

  “If you want to clean the windows, there are paper towels under the bench.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Through the other window she saw him take a seat on the futon and begin to read a pamphlet.

  She opened a Gatorade, sat on the bench, and drank the entire bottle in a few long gulps. Her stomach growled. Her boyfriend was fond of telling her she was way too trusting. She’d always thought he was too cautious, too untrusting. It pissed her off that she’d proven him right.

  Under the bench, just as he’d said, were paper towels. Angry for getting herself into this pr
edicament, she wondered how she was going to escape.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the creep standing right up close to the clean window, staring in at her, no doubt. With a quick glance his way she realized he was setting up some equipment. As anger turned to fear, she kept her gaze on the floor. She didn’t want him to know she was scared. “Why am I here?” she asked without turning his way.

  “Because of the president and CEO of Direct Health Inc.”

  She whipped around. “My father?”

  He worked while he talked. “Yes. Owen Shepard is the reason I brought you here. He’s also the reason my daughter is dead.”

  “My dad is a dick, but he’s not a killer.”

  In an instant, his face reddened and the veins in his neck bulged, making him look like a crazed maniac. He jabbed a finger at her, hitting the glass. “Owen Shepard isn’t just a killer. He’s a mass murderer. Refusing to cover medication because it’s experimental is a death sentence for many.”

  He was furious. Every word came out sharp and accusing.

  “Had the roles been reversed, and he was forced to watch you die, would he have made those rules? I don’t think so,” he said, returning to the task at hand.

  “My dad isn’t the only one who makes those kinds of decisions at DHI.”

  “Maybe not.” This time when he put down his tools, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, its edges old and tattered. He unfolded the paper and flattened it against the glass so she could read it. “Your father might not be the only killer at DHI, but he’s the one who signed this letter, letting me know DHI would no longer be covering the cost of my daughter’s medication.”

  She read the letter to the end and then came back to his name and address, where he’d used a black marker to cover any identifying information. When he saw what she was doing, he pulled the letter away from the window.

  Emily and her father rarely saw eye to eye, she thought, but he was no monster. “What happened to your daughter?” she asked.

  The fight seemed to leave his body as he folded the letter and slid it back into his pocket. He then walked back to the futon and took a seat. With shaky hands, he rubbed his face as if to wash away the stress. When he looked back at her, even six feet away, she took note of his bloodshot eyes. The man was exhausted.