Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  Cat put the plastic evidence bag on Davies’s now spotless desk. He picked it up, his eyes narrowing on the small electronic device. ‘He was tracking her.’

  ‘CSU says the tracker was put there after the fire. There’s evidence of soot underneath.’

  Davies’s face darkened. ‘He was trying to flush her out of her apartment.’

  ‘And when she wasn’t there, he tagged her car, tracked it, and not realizing she’d sold it, cut a few hoses. But the new owner and her son died instead and two kids are left without a mother. He’s not going to stop, sir. Faith’s in danger, wherever she is. And so is anyone around her.’

  ‘So you were right. Her stalking reports were true. All thirty of them,’ he said angrily. ‘Why was she ignored?’

  ‘That may be why her stepmother was so chilly. I think Charlie stirred the pot. I talked to a few of the officers who took the stalking reports and they said Charlie told them she was a head case. Not to waste resources on her. Her work with the offenders made it an easy sell.’

  Davies closed his eyes. ‘And now we have three dead and a missing victim because the boys in blue stuck together.’

  ‘And her parents aren’t talking to us for the same reason. If they don’t know where she is . . . She’s been missing for a few days now, sir.’

  He opened his eyes, his gaze grim. ‘Call her stepmother and explain how things really are. If she still won’t tell you where Faith is, then put both of her parents in protective custody until she talks. But find Faith Frye.’

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 7.45 P.M.

  Deacon took the porch steps cautiously. They were solid enough, the porch itself wide and gracious. Using a crowbar, Adam pried the door open.

  ‘High or low?’ he asked.

  ‘High,’ Deacon said, and Adam dropped into a crouch. Deacon opened the door and they crept in, scanning the room. ‘Holy hell,’ he whispered.

  It had once been grand, with high ceilings and a curving staircase. Now the wallpaper was peeling and all the furniture was covered with sheets. The room looked old and sad and lonely.

  Deacon took a pair of shoe covers from his pocket and slipped them on. Behind him, he heard Adam doing the same. They went from room to room, finding nothing and no one. No disturbed dust. No sign that anyone had been here in a very long time.

  Until they reached the kitchen. The appliances and the table and chairs were vintage seventies and, like everything else, appeared undisturbed. But the grime on the floor had been wiped away – in a path that started at the steel door that opened to the side yard and ended at an older interior door that appeared to be made of solid wood with an old-fashioned keyhole.

  Deacon tugged on the doorknob, surprised when it gave way easily. Not even a creak; the hinges were well oiled. ‘The basement,’ he mouthed soundlessly, looking down a flight of stairs that disappeared into darkness. Or not, he amended when he saw the pulse of red light that repeated every few seconds. They’d triggered some kind of silent alarm.

  He started down, the beam of his light revealing red handprints on the walls. And the steps. The handprints were fresh and the same size as the prints he’d seen on the wrecked power company truck.

  Arianna had been here. Had clung to the wall for support as she climbed these stairs. They crept downward, stopping at the bottom to get their bearings. They were standing in a long, narrow hallway that ran the breadth of the house. There was a door at one end and doors on both sides. The smell of lemon floor cleaner hung heavy in the air. Someone had tidied up.

  Deacon pointed to Adam, sending him to the left. He himself went to the right and opened the first door, flinching when the smell of pure bleach hit him like a brick. His Maglite illuminated cabinet doors that hung open, their shelves bare. In the middle of the room stood a steel table with channels around the periphery for catching blood. It was the same kind of table they used in the morgue. Ropes hung from all four corners.

  Arianna had been tortured here. He was sure of it.

  Where was Corinne? He shined his light into the corners, but saw no one.

  The next room was a kitchenette, with a small refrigerator, an oven and a microwave. A drop-leaf table big enough for only two was pushed against the wall. It appeared to be antique, likely taken from upstairs. He checked cabinets, inside the oven. Nothing. Bracing himself, he opened the freezer, afraid of what he’d find.

  He blinked, surprised. Frozen pizzas were stacked neatly in three columns, each box precisely even with the others. The refrigerator held a two-liter bottle of diet cola, a few bottles of water and some packets of ketchup. In the trash can he found a smashed Styrofoam carry-out container. He lifted it gingerly and sniffed. Fresh garbage. Perhaps a day old, maybe two.

  He backed out of the kitchen, met Adam in the narrow hall.

  ‘Anyone?’ Deacon whispered.

  Adam shook his head. ‘No one. Alive or dead.’

  ‘I found the torture room, but it’s been emptied out and sprayed down with bleach. The kitchen has a freezer stocked with pizzas.’

  ‘I found an office, also emptied. And a cell.’

  Deacon followed him into another small room with a single cot. A few inches above the cot, a chain was bolted into the wall. At the end of the chain were shackles. They’d been unlocked.

  Adam pointed his light at two strands of hair caught in the cot’s metal frame. Blonde. Like Corinne Longstreet. She’d been here and they’d missed her.

  Deacon went back into the hall, where a shadow flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision. A dark blanket hung from the ceiling. Once again he braced himself for what he’d find. He pulled the blanket aside. Once again he blinked.

  It was a tunnel dug into the earthen wall. Deacon took a cautious step forward, checking to make sure the earthen ceiling would hold, then glanced over his shoulder. Adam was right behind him.

  They had to crouch because the tunnel was only about five foot eight high and got shorter until they came to a small cave, barely five by eight and perhaps five feet high.

  He swept his light across the cave, revealing a blanket that lay neatly on the floor, a pillow at one end. Another blanket was folded at the other end. And in the middle was a box.

  ‘Somebody lived here,’ he whispered.

  ‘Go check it out,’ Adam whispered back. ‘I’ll go back to the hall and stand watch. I don’t want to be cornered in here if he’s waiting for us.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Crouching as far down as he could go, Deacon swept the bottom hem of his coat up under his arm and duck-walked across the dirt floor until he could see into the box.

  It held a sad array of items: a hairbrush that was missing a third of its bristles; a very faded pair of jeans with multiple patches, and two T-shirts, also neatly folded; a metal cup and plate; a worn toothbrush; and a round plastic disk the size of a pie-pan with a domed lid. The tag in the T-shirt said that it was a woman’s size small.

  He touched the domed lid of the disk, flinching when the inside of the box was suddenly filled with dim illumination. A night light. Whoever had bunked down in this cave had at least had a little light. He turned it off and backed out under the blanket, gradually straightening until he’d returned to where Adam waited none too patiently.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘Whoever lived there wore a woman’s size small,’ Deacon said. ‘The box was nearly empty, but it looked like someone was packing. Let’s let CSU do their thing down here. I want to know exactly what Faith knows about her house.’

  Eastern Kentucky, Monday 3 November, 7.45 P.M.

  Corinne woke with a gasp, her body aching, her head pounding. Yet numb. Fuzzy. Again.

  He’d drugged her. Again. She remembered now. He’d done it himself this time, not sending the young girl in to do his dirty work. He’d been in a hurry, so frantic that she’d hoped they were about to be found.

  It was still dark. Still blindfolded. Her hands were bound, this time behind her back. She gave a tentative tug, st
ifling a cry when her wrists burned like fire. He’d tied her with rope so tightly that she’d never get free.

  No. You will not panic. She drew a deep breath through her nose, trying to calm her racing heart. Oh no. Oh God.

  The odor was all too familiar. Blood. Sweat. Death. Ari. The memory of her friend’s screams echoed in her head. Oh God, please don’t let it be Arianna.

  The floor bumped up and she gritted her teeth for the inevitable landing. She was in a vehicle. A moving vehicle. Not a truck. Probably a van. She was being taken away.

  She bit her tongue to keep from whimpering. Someone was driving the vehicle. If whoever that was thought she was still out cold, her chances were better. Better than what?

  Better than dead, she told herself sternly and made herself remember the voice of her boot camp instructor. Pull yourself together, soldier. Figure this out. She could do this. She had to.

  First thing – she needed to see. The blindfold was . . . She lengthened her jaw, feeling the skin around her eyes go taut. Duct tape. Just wonderful.

  She needed something rigid to scrape against the edge of the tape. She turned her head, smooth cold metal against her cheek. That wouldn’t help at all.

  She rolled her head the other way, hit something hard. It moved a fraction of an inch. Rocked actually, pressing back on her face even as she placed the sensation, the odor.

  A boot. And from the weight, a large one. A man’s boot. Was he a prisoner too? Was he even alive? What if it’s his blood I smell? Bile burned her throat. What if he’s dead?

  Worse, what if he was a guard and conscious? He’ll know I’m awake. And if I’m still blindfolded and bound when this van stops, I’ll be at the driver’s mercy.

  She had to take the risk. ‘Hello?’ she whispered. Nada. Nothing. Drugged or dead.

  She bit back a curse. Stay calm. Figure this out. She brushed her cheek across the boot and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a lace-up boot. There’d be ridges around the laces.

  She prayed they’d be rigid and sharp enough to give her a hard edge. Using her body to rock her head, she scraped the tape across the boot. It might work. It had to.

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 8.30 P.M.

  Without her cell phone, Faith had no idea how long Novak and Kimble had been inside the house. But it seemed like too long for them to have found nothing.

  That the obnoxious Detective Kimble hadn’t been able to make her key fit gave her comfort. At least she wasn’t crazy. Somehow the events of the evening before seemed wavy in her mind. Like when she woke from a dream and wasn’t sure if she was still in the dream or in real life.

  She’d walked around the house. Had seen no one. Had heard no one. Except . . . Oh no.

  She closed her eyes, suddenly ill again. She’d heard a scream. She’d told herself it was a dog howling. Or all in her mind. But it had been real.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. It had been Arianna Escobar, crying out for help. Screaming in pain. Faith remembered every one of the girl’s wounds clearly. She’d been tortured.

  And I walked away.

  She pressed down her horror. Novak needs to know. She started to get out of the SUV, then remembered his ‘not a request’. He seemed to be her ally at the moment. She didn’t want to piss him off too. She kept the door open, but remained in her seat.

  A few minutes later, the front door of the house opened and Novak and Kimble headed straight for her. Faith’s heart sank when she looked at their faces. Grim. Angry. Frustrated. She got out of the SUV, biting back a wince when her feet protested.

  ‘Did you find her?’ she asked before they could say anything. ‘The other girl?’

  ‘No,’ Novak said. But he’d found something else. She could see it in his face. ‘We need to ask you some more questions about this house.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but first I need to tell you something. When I was here yesterday, I heard something. I think it was a scream.’

  Novak frowned. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘I didn’t think of it until you were in the house and I’d started to calm down. And because, at the time, I’d convinced myself I hadn’t really heard it.’

  Kimble stepped closer, hemming her in. ‘What did you hear, exactly?’

  She leaned back, putting space between them. ‘I’m not sure. It was getting dark and it was just a soft sound. I told myself it was a dog or maybe a coyote howling. Or that I had simply imagined it.’ She searched the men’s faces. ‘But I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘No,’ Novak said quietly. ‘I don’t think you did.’

  She slumped into the SUV’s seat. ‘Arianna was in there. I walked away. I left her there.’

  Novak’s grim expression softened a fraction. ‘Did you know she was in there, Faith?’

  ‘No! I would have called the police, just like I did when I found her on the road.’

  ‘Then you couldn’t have helped her. But you can help her now by showing me where you were when you heard it.’

  ‘Of course.’ She accepted the hand he offered to help her to her feet, wincing when her soles prickled like pins and needles. ‘What did you find in the house?’

  ‘We’ll get to that,’ he said. ‘Adam, did Tanaka’s tech find any shoes in the Jeep?’

  Kimble glanced at Faith’s feet, confused. ‘I don’t think so. What happened to her shoes?’

  ‘She lost them climbing the embankment to get to the girl.’

  Kimble’s eyes shot up to hers, now narrowed. ‘You climbed that hill in your bare feet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘My sneakers were in a gym bag.’

  Kimble nodded thoughtfully. ‘That they found. Wait a minute.’ He opened the trunk of his sedan and rummaged around. When he returned, he was holding her sneakers.

  Novak dropped into a crouch, sweeping his coat out of the way with a flourish that seemed more of a reflex, then stunned Faith by lifting her foot and slipping on the shoe.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she protested.

  Novak didn’t respond. He tied the laces and did the same with the other foot with a gentleness that surprised her. ‘Can you walk on your own?’

  She wanted to say no, wanted to lean on him. But his compassion might be part of his good-cop persona, and that she wanted no part of. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then take us through what happened yesterday, from the moment you arrived.’

  She started to walk. ‘I parked where your SUV is now, got out of my car, went to the front door. My key didn’t work. I almost left then, but I needed to see the cemetery.’

  ‘Why?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Because I’d promised my father I’d send him a photo.’

  ‘Of a cemetery?’ Kimble asked, incredulous.

  ‘My mother is buried here. My father used to come on the day of her death every few years, but he had a stroke a year ago and can’t travel anymore.’

  ‘When did your mother die?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Twenty-three years ago,’ she said, managing to sound neutral. She hoped.

  ‘Oh.’ Novak packed a lot of understanding into the single syllable. ‘So you were here the day she died, you attended her burial, then you never came back? Not until yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’ They reached the cemetery fence. ‘I tried to get in yesterday,’ she said, ‘but the gate was padlocked and I didn’t have a key. My grandmother’s attorney didn’t have it either. The local historical society cares for the area around the cemetery. They probably locked it.’

  ‘Okay, so where were you when you heard the scream?’ Novak asked.

  She led them to where she’d been standing. ‘Right here. That’s my mother’s grave.’

  Novak shined his flashlight on Margaret’s headstone, then flicked the beam over the others, stopping at the stone identical to her mother’s. ‘Barbara Agnes Corcoran O’Bannion. You took your grandmother’s maiden name?’

  ‘My maiden name would make me too easy to find. Not that it mat
ters now.’

  Novak moved his light to the other side of the headstone and made a surprised noise. ‘Your grandfather died only two days before your mother.’

  ‘We’d come up for his funeral, me and Dad and my mother. Dad and I went home alone.’

  ‘What happened?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Car accident,’ she said tersely.

  ‘You didn’t live here?’ Kimble asked.

  ‘No. We lived in Savannah. After my grandfather died, nobody lived here. Gran moved to the city because she didn’t walk well and couldn’t live out here in the country by herself.’

  ‘What time did you hear the scream?’ Novak asked.

  ‘About five thirty. The sun was starting to go down.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’ Kimble asked.

  ‘Maybe twenty minutes earlier. I sat outside for a while, trying to make myself go in.’

  Novak glanced at her curiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . I don’t have the best memories of this house.’

  ‘And yet you came here when you needed to disappear,’ he noted.

  She felt like he’d figured something out that she’d wanted to keep secret. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay,’ Novak said. ‘When did you leave Miami?’

  ‘Saturday, a little after noon. I stopped for the night in Atlanta, then came straight here.’

  ‘Did anyone know you were coming?’

  ‘Only my father and stepmother knew I was coming here. I suppose anyone who saw me packing up the Jeep knew I was going somewhere, but I didn’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘Not even your grandmother’s attorney?’

  ‘He didn’t know I was in town until I called him today to ask for the key. Why?’

  Kimble jumped in. ‘We’ll get to that. What did you do after you heard the scream?’

  ‘I texted a picture of my mother’s headstone to my dad because he’d asked me to. Then I left, went to Wal-Mart, checked in to my hotel, unloaded my Jeep, and went to bed.’

  ‘And today?’ Novak asked.

  ‘I went to work downtown. At Huntington Bank.’