by CJ Lyons
"Threw them out? Ashley would never do that. Did you take them from her, was that your way of punishing her for coming to me when she ran away? You bitch, you had no right!"
"Hold on, hold on." Lucy stepped between the two, restraining her impulse to bash their heads together and send them both into time-out. "Ashley ran away? When?"
"Last month. We had a fight and I woke the next morning and she was missing."
"She wasn't missing, she came to my place," Gerald interjected. "And she left you a note, don't over-dramatize."
"Dramatize? My daughter is missing, gone lord only knows where, she could be dead, and you accuse me of—"
"Calm down, everyone. No one's found a note this time, right? No messages?" Both parents shook their heads. "Okay. Walk me through what's missing."
Lucy opened the closet door. It was like falling into a fashion model's travel trunk. Lining the shelf stood boxes upon boxes of designer shoes and purses, each labeled with color and style. The hangers were brimming over with colorful gowns, lovingly protected in clear plastic garment bags with attached photos of Melissa strutting her stuff on the runway. On the back of the door hung a silk cloth with small pockets sewn into it, each bulging with a different piece of jewelry.
"Those aren't Ashley's," Melissa said. "I ran out of room in my closet and since Ashley refused to hang up her clothes anyway, I started using hers."
Lucy blinked. Fourteen-year-old girl, already angsting over her looks, being forced to live with fashion Barbie-mom's runway successes. Sounded like cruel and unusual punishment.
Then she looked again. Several of the outfits were out of place, not in the bags labeled with their photos. "Did Ashley ever wear these?"
"She could maybe put them on, but they wouldn't fit her properly. Not with her figure." The mother made it sound as if Ashley were a candidate for stomach stapling.
"How about the shoes?" A thin layer of dust covered the shoe boxes. But several of the jewelry pockets were empty.
"Never. I'm a six, Ashley wears an eight already."
Lucy pushed hard against the closet door to latch it shut, taking the opportunity to master her annoyance before turning around to face the parents once more. "Where are Ashley's clothes?"
"All summer she's insisted on wearing the same clothes over and over. Black jeans two sizes too large, a baggy black sweat shirt and a tanktop under it. And those ugly clunky shoes you bought her."
"Dansko, they're called Dansko," Gerald put in.
"Whatever. She did her own laundry, so I told her as long as her clothes were clean I didn't care what she wore. You have to pick your battles, right?"
"Those are gone? Didn't she have anything else?" Lucy began to open the dresser drawers. Except for the ones on top which were filled with underwear and socks—mixed together and not folded, she was relieved to see, so Ashley wasn't a space-mutant-neat-freak after all—the rest were empty.
"She took some things over to Goodwill a few weeks ago. Said they didn't fit her anymore." Melissa peered into the empty drawers, a wrinkle daring to dig itself into her botoxed forehead. "Surely she didn't give them all away..."
"Oh my God—you have no idea what was going on with your own daughter's life!" Gerald thundered.
"Shut up! It's not like you had a clue either."
Lucy stepped between the two parents. "What was the fight about? The one that made her run away."
"She wanted an advance on her allowance—five hundred dollars. I told her no, but that I'd happily give her the money if she told me what it was for. She wouldn't. We exchanged words and the next morning she was gone."
"Is that what she told you?" Lucy asked Gerald.
"She wouldn't tell me what the fight was about. I fed her breakfast, took her shopping but she wasn't interested in anything except those ugly damned shoes. Then I drove her home to her mother's."
Why did Lucy have the sudden feeling that Ashley was the most mature member of the Yeager family? "Did she seem depressed, moody lately?"
"No," said Gerald.
"Yes." Melissa blanched. "Giving away her clothes, do you think she could be thinking of killing herself? No, never, she wouldn't do that to me." She sank onto the bed and began massaging her temples as if she had a headache.
"We don't have enough information to decide anything yet, Mrs. Yeager. Has Ashley's weight changed? Any new friends? Arguments or falling out with old friends?"
Both parents looked blank.
"Can you give us a list of any of her friends? In particular any close friends or boyfriends."
"I have her class list from school. She was very popular. But we didn't allow boyfriends."
Lucy didn't comment on the mom's use of the past tense. "I know these questions might be hard, but they're important. Is she taking any prescription medication? Are her periods regular? Any signs of drinking or drug use?"
Gerald looked away, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep into his pockets, marring the perfect lines of his trousers. Melissa stared at the floor, entranced by the beige rug, shaking her head again, her ponytail whacking the bare skin of her neck like a scourge.
"No, no drugs or medicines. But it's been awhile since she had her period—girls her age are always irregular, though. That doesn't mean anything." She looked up. No one would meet her gaze except Lucy. "Does it?"
"You self-centered bitch!" Gerald's attack was sudden, cutting through the silence in the room. "Why do you think she wore baggy clothing all summer? Why do you think she wanted money? You turned our little girl into a whore just like her mother and now she's run off to get an abortion!"
"How dare you call me a whore! You were the one who couldn't keep his dick in his pants." Melissa launched to her feet, hands held high, claws aimed at his face.
Walden, bless his heart, sidled to one side, effortlessly catching her around the waist and pivoting her back down onto the bed where she landed in a flutter of floral chintz.
The Pittsburgh guy, Burroughs, came into the room at a run, then stopped when he saw things were under control.
"Agent Walden, why don't you take Mrs. Yeager back downstairs and document her statement. Mr. Yeager, if you wouldn't mind finishing yours with Detective Burroughs?" Lucy made little soothing sounds, guiding the parents out. "We really appreciate your help. Remember, nothing is too insignificant, so take your time."
She shut the door behind them, savoring the quiet. Christ, the room even smelled sterile. But somewhere in this empty space existed the ghost of a teenaged girl. A girl who was either taken or ran….and if she ran, did she run alone? Or did she have help?
The itchy-crawly feeling tingling beneath her skin told Lucy that whatever happened, Ashley hadn't been alone. But she had no proof. Yet.
"All right Miz Ashley, come out, come out wherever you are."
Chapter 7
Saturday, 11:28 am
Ashley woke for the second time. The first time she'd been bouncing along in the dark, like on some kind of weird roller coaster ride. She'd convinced herself it was only a dream. A bad dream, but just a dream.
Wrong, dummy. It was a nightmare. Her worst nightmare come true.
Her tongue stuck to the back of her teeth, her lips were cracked, her head throbbed, pins and needles raced up and down her arms and legs, she was ready to hurl at any moment, and she had to pee. Her eyes were wide-open, but she saw nothing but impenetrable black.
Had he blinded her? She blinked hard. Still nothing. Then she realized there were no noises. God, what had he done to her?
She tried to scream but all that emerged was a tiny squeak. But she heard it, she could hear it. That small triumph gave her the energy to take a deep breath, try to clear her fuzzy brain. She choked on the rank smell—good God, what was that?
Whatever the cause of the sickly sweet odor, it was too much for her stomach to handle. She rolled over, onto all fours, retching. Nothing came except the sour taste of acid and a mouthful of saliva. That didn't stop her guts from trying th
eir best to kick their way from the inside out.
Finally the cramps and nausea passed. She rested her head on the cool floor. It was smooth. Cement? No, not cold enough. Her fingers traced over it, felt embossing. Small squares or diamonds. Linoleum.
Thinking seemed to help the buzzing in her brain, so she cautiously crawled forward, hands sweeping out before her, exploring her new universe. Trying hard not to panic.
How had she gotten here? Bobby—she had gone to meet Bobby. Oh God, had something happened to him?
"Bobby?" Her voice was a hoarse croak. She swallowed and tried again. "Bobby? Anyone, is there anyone there?"
Now she was screaming which only made her head pound more and burned her throat. She had the feeling she'd tried screaming the first time she woke, her throat felt shredded.
She flailed forward only to be yanked hard by one ankle. Flopping over, she stretched, patting her clothing, reassured that other than her jacket missing and her pockets emptied, nothing seemed disturbed. Wait, that was weird—her shoes were gone as well. Above her sock on her left ankle was a thick wire cable, the kind used when you tied a dog to a stake.
She wanted to scream again but instead forced herself to examine the wire. It was cinched tight around her leg, not even a fingertip could fit below it. A metal clasp held it in place, fastened by a small padlock. Reversing her orientation, she followed the cable back to its origin. A round pole, smooth, metal, rose up from the floor.
Hauling herself up the length of the pole, she stood. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit her. She grabbed onto the pole, liking its cold against her forehead and cheek. It helped to ease the headache.
Her clothing was soaked in sweat but her teeth were chattering. Like she had a fever or something. Once the vertigo passed, she stood on tiptoe, tried to follow the pole up. And hit nothing. She tried to follow the wire, but couldn't walk. The darkness was so complete and disorienting that without the pole to hang on to, she fell. She couldn't even see her hand when she waved it in front of her face.
Blind, she was blind—no, no, it was just dark. A basement—but basements had windows, basements had sounds: water pipes and furnaces and outside noises. All right, not a basement. A soundproofed room with no windows. Like a vault.
She shuddered, hugging her pole. Or like a coffin.
What if there was no air either? Maybe she was using up all her oxygen, wasting it by screaming and crawling around when she should be saving it?
Who cared? A distant voice echoed through her brain. If she was dead, she was dead. But since it hadn't happened yet, no sense giving up. What if Bobby was lying just beyond her, what if she was his only hope?
Emboldened by the thought, she dropped back to her hands and knees and followed the wire out to its end, measuring the dimensions of her prison. It stretched eight feet in all directions, the pole at the center.
Maybe she was trapped in a storage unit? Or she could be underground in an old mine shaft or abandoned swimming pool that had been built over or a secret government lab like in that horror film...Quashing the leading edge of her hysteria, she continued forward. No signs of Bobby or any other living person. Her hand brushed something plastic. A bucket of water that she almost up-dumped. No cup or ladle. She dunked her face into it, slurping the lukewarm, stale water as fast as she could. She couldn't remember ever being this thirsty.
Next to the bucket she found a bedside commode, like the ones at the nursing home where she'd gone to sing Christmas carols last year. Better than wetting her pants. With her bladder empty and her thirst slacked, she returned to sit with her back against her pole, the new center of her universe, knees drawn up to her chest, arms hugging herself.
She'd almost gotten used to the stench—as long as she remembered to breathe through her mouth. But now that she had time to think, she remembered where she'd recognized the odor from.
It smelled like road kill.
Burroughs led Gerald Yeager downstairs and outside to the patio. Figured it was best to get the mister as far away from his blushing ex-bride as possible. He gave Yeager the seat in the shade, all the better to watch his eyes without the sunlight making the man squint.
Not that he was a suspect in his daughter's disappearance. No, of course not. This was just a polite exchange of information. Two guys shooting the breeze. While one of their daughters could be a rotting corpse putrefying in a shallow grave.
God, he hoped not. Last DB he'd caught was past ripe and well into the creepy crawly stage, maggots squirming all over.
He wasn't in the mood to be looking at no dead kid's body today. In fact, he was seriously regretting switching weekends with Jimmy Dolan, but Dolan had a family reunion and Burroughs' kids, well, right now he wasn't exactly in the running for father of the year.
He'd barely seen the boys all summer, had claimed overwork, falling into a pattern of letting his ex keep them even on his weekends. He loved his boys, he really, really did—he just didn't have what it took to be a full-time father. Or, according to his ex, a full-time husband.
Thing of it was, Kim was right. On both counts.
What the hell was wrong with him? Same question he'd been asking the better part of two years. He just never seemed to find the energy to answer it.
When he'd seen Ashley Yeager's room it looked perfectly normal to Burroughs. The barren walls, beige decor, mass produced furniture and linens could have been his own apartment.
Maybe that's why he'd stuck around. He felt a kinship with the Yeager girl. Like she was sleepwalking through days and nights filled with apathy, just like Burroughs. Until finally she just couldn't take it anymore.
Pretty sad. The person he'd felt most connected with in ages was a girl most likely dead.
"You need a drink or anything?" he asked Yeager after giving the man a few minutes to stew. "Glass of water or something?"
"No." Yeager's gaze kept darting back to the house like he expected someone to interrupt them.
Who? Burroughs wondered. Ashley? That would mean he was innocent. Or maybe the guy was guilty and simply couldn't look him square in the eye.
"I'm just gonna take notes so I don't forget anything, okay?" Burroughs pulled his digital recorder from his pocket and clicked it on. Yeager didn't even seem to notice. "So tell me about this photographer, Tardiff."
Yeager bristled, his body practically vibrating out of the chaise lounge even though his face showed little expression. But little was more than Burroughs had seen from the man so far today. And what little seeped through the chink in Yeager's mask was enough to tell him Yeager hated Tardiff. A lot.
Good. A little bit of hate was good for baring the soul.
"He's tried to wreck my marriage before," Yeager said, his lip twisted in a sneer. "Wanted to destroy my family, take it away from me."
It? Didn't he mean them? Burroughs merely nodded sympathetically. Yeager kept talking.
"He's a big deal fashion photographer, wanted to become known as an artist. Melissa was trying to make a comeback after having Ashley, so they started working together. Only he also wanted more artistic," Yeager slashed finger-quotes through the air with the last word, "intimate photos. Not just of her but of Ashley as well. Melissa never asked me, never said nothing. Not until I saw them. Displayed in New York galleries, made a splash. He slept with Melissa, too."
The last was an afterthought. Yeager wasn't upset by the sex, but rather the fact that he'd lost control of what was his. Family as possession.
Burroughs scratched a few notes, nothing to imply the father was a suspect—no need to give the defense any fuel—but just to show he was actively listening to Yeager's rant.
But the other man said nothing more. Just sat there, rigid, his back not touching the seat cushions.
"Did you call child services? Launch an investigation?"
Yeager looked offended. "Of course not. I wasn't about to have strangers invade my privacy. Bad enough those photos were out there, being bought and sold. Melissa made no secret t
hat they were of her—they re-launched her career. For a few years at least."
"Did you confront Tardiff? Ask him if anything more than taking photos happened?"
"What good would that do? The damage was done."
Burroughs scratched his cheek with his pen, then closed his notebook. It was clear Yeager had nothing concrete, only a long-held grudge that was more about his pride and less about any possible abuse of his daughter.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Yeager." He left the father hiding in the shade while he went to see what Guardino was up to. She was infinitely more interesting than the cold-blooded father.
He found her still in the girl's bedroom. She was sitting on the floor Indian-style, a collection of items spread out around her on the beige carpet. An archeologist trying to reconstruct a vanished tribe from discarded artifacts.
"Anything good?" Burroughs asked from the doorway.
She beckoned for him to join her. He crouched down beside her, poking at her cache with his ball point pen. She'd found several pieces of good quality costume jewelry that corresponded to the missing items from the closet. A very expensive digital SLR camera. A few artists' pens.
And one item that changed everything.
"This kid is different from any teenaged girl I've ever worked with." Guardino played a drum tattoo with two marking pens, the small sounds drowned out by the room's emptiness.
"Isn't that the whole point of being a teenaged girl—standing out from the crowd, being an individual?" he asked, checking the camera for a memory card and finding it missing.
"Not this girl. Instead, it's like she's trying to erase herself."
Burroughs turned over the item that had most caught his eye. A metal letter opener with an intricate gold and silver-etched handle. "Where'd you find this?"
"Taped to the back of the commode. In its own little cardboard sheath. I'd bet money she stole it from mom."