by CJ Lyons
"Like a kid with ADHD," Nick suggested.
"Or an adult. I don't think it's her," she said flatly.
"Okay." His neutral tone. The therapist's tone. Which meant he disagreed with her.
"I'm going with my gut here."
Silence. "You usually do. You gonna make it home for dinner?"
"No." Even if she could take the time, she wouldn't—working a case this messy, she felt like she was contaminated. It made her queasy to think of bringing it home with her. "Megan doing okay?"
"No more fever—just moping about maybe missing soccer on Monday."
"Give her a kiss and hug for me." Megan still let her father touch her, even if she rebuked Lucy's shows of affection. She hesitated. Best to face the music. "My meet tomorrow with the Canadians got moved to the morning. I won't make it to Mass with you guys."
The fact that he didn't even bother to sigh was a bad sign. As if he knew all along she wouldn't be there with her family. "I'll tell her."
Guilt stabbed through her. Not only at missing time with her family but at making Nick play the bearer of bad news. Again. She stroked the phone, wishing it was his face—or Megan's. What else could she do? "Love ya."
She hung up and returned outside where Burroughs, Dunmar, and several other law enforcement officers were overseeing the ME's removal of the container. From a distance, of course.
"This is your victim." She handed Noreen's photo to Dunmar and told him about the missing car. "She worked here and went missing between 2 and 3 pm yesterday."
Dunmar arched an eyebrow at her as if she were a particularly bright pupil who had surprised him. "That so? Damn shame there's no security cameras or any other way we could track the vehicle from here. But I'll get my boys and the Staties working on any traffic cams, see if we can get a bearing on which way it went."
It was a long shot, but worth a try. She looked out past the Tastee Treet at the traffic zooming by, bumper to bumper on Route 22. A very long shot.
"I think we should try to cover any possible dumping grounds within a five to ten minute radius. He wouldn't have wanted to leave his vehicle here for long while he dumped Noreen's."
Burroughs cleared his throat at that. "He? Who's to say Ashley didn't kill that girl and steal her vehicle?"
"We need to cover every angle," Lucy argued. "If Ashley was taken from here, then it's a whole new ballgame. We should see if we can find anyone who was here yesterday, maybe saw Ashley or anyone else."
"If there was anyone else."
Lucy hated to admit it, but she was starting to wonder herself. This whole case was screwier than the snake handlers she'd dealt with this morning—and she'd thought they rang the bell on the whacky-meter.
She looked back at the forlorn Tastee Treet. Ashley, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Ashley couldn't tell if she'd been there for hours or days. The complete absence of light and outside sound made her too anxious to venture away from her pole. She clung to her pole, at the bottom of a dark pit, close to the molten lava that formed the earth's core—hot and dark and empty, like the sixth level of Hell in Shadow World. That'd been the hardest level to beat. It was where she'd lost Draco. Her friend, her ally, her love.
Just like she'd lost Bobby. Or had Bobby lost her? Was he dead already or sitting in his own Hell worried about her?
At first she called for help. Until her voice died. Then she tried to think of ways to escape—hard to consider when engulfed in all-consuming blackness.
Eventually, she found herself treating her leash as a crutch, like a rope a blind woman would use, keeping her from falling—or worse.
She gave up on walking. Even after drinking, she was too dizzy when she stood. Better to keep her body pressed against the solid ground—anchored, secure. One hand wrapped around her pole for security.
When she grew thirsty again, she tried to ignore it. But the heat sucked the moisture from her. The more she ignored her thirst, the way her tongue felt swollen, her teeth aching from being so dry, the worse it got. The thought of venturing back out into the darkness made her stomach rise up in rebellion, she would have puked if she had any spit to swallow.
She needed water. Or she would die.
Reluctantly, she let loose of her pole and crawled in the direction where the bucket and commode sat on her left.
It was gone.
Panicked, she flailed out, laying flat on her belly, kicking and moving her arms as if swimming over the vinyl floor, inching along, guided by her tether. Her thirst escalated with her terror. Without water, she would die.
She found herself gulping, swallowing air, her tongue so parched it filled her mouth like a dead dish rag. As dead as she'd be if she didn't find the water. Dead, bloated, rotting, stinking, dead. Dead. Dead.
Terror blinded her more than the lack of light. She tried to scream, to wail, to cry for help, but couldn't force any sound other than a weak whelp. Her entire body rattled with pain and fear.
Had someone moved the water? Taken it away? Was someone there with her, watching her? Invisible, silent?
After what felt like hours of searching, thrashing, crawling, her body pressed against the floor the only thing telling her which direction was up, she surrendered.
Sprawled on the floor like a drunk in the gutter, her fingers and toes and face numb, heartbeat thundering in her head, eyes blinking, unseeing but still able to squeeze out a few tears.
"Move, dammit, move." The sound of her voice was better than the sound of her frantic sobbing.
She lay frozen except for her chest heaving, breathing so hard and fast, she was dizzy as if falling and there was no bottom. Nothing except another level of Hell, she thought with an absurd giggle.
This wasn't Shadow World. This was no game. "I can't. I can't do this. I'm going to die."
She knew she should be thinking of all the good times, of her parents, of her friends...but her mind was a total blank. What good times? She had a faint memory of a little girl being pushed on a swing, but it didn't feel like it had happened to her, it felt like something she'd seen once in a movie. Or a Hallmark commercial.
And her parents? They probably hadn't noticed she was gone. Maybe they were even happy, relived they wouldn't have to bother with her anymore. Friends? There was only Bobby...
That thought brought fresh tears. What if the man had caught Bobby, killed Bobby—because of her?
He didn't deserve that, he'd only been trying to help her. God, if he was dead, it was all her fault...and the worst thing was, she'd never even had the chance to finally meet him in person, to tell him how she felt about him.
The pattern from the linoleum imprinted itself on her face as she lay there, weeping tears so thick with salt they scratched her eyes and refused to fall.
She wasn't stupid, she knew what the man was going to do to her, she'd heard the stories, seen the movies. Raped and tortured and beaten and killed. That's how they all ended.
There were never any happy endings. Never.
Ashley squeezed her eyes so tight it made her head hurt. No, she wasn't going to think about that. She was going to get control and get the hell out of here.
Focus. She started with simple things: breathing. Slow, deep, steady.
She sat there for several minutes, concentrating on her breathing, her mind still reeling from her panic attack. No more. She was in control. Just like Vixen, her character in Shadow World.
That thought brought a laugh. Shadow World, a land of darkness where characters fought overwhelming odds to survive. She'd won, beaten everyone—well, not her, but her character, Vixen had.
Vixen was at home in darkness. Darkness was her friend. Too bad Vixen wasn't here instead of Ashley.
Her heart still fluttered with fear, but the pounding in her head vanished. Soon she could feel her hands and feet again. Good. Now keep moving, find the water. You need the water to survive. This time it wasn't her voice, but Vixen's giving her direction. Giving her strength.
/> She started crawling once more, slower, her hands searching the floor before her. The darkness was so complete that it felt as if her hands weren't part of her. Disconnected. How well she knew that feeling, it had gotten her through a lot of hard times.
Harder times yet to come, the voice behind her eyes whispered. She froze. Lay there on the dirty floor, sweltering in the stench of death, divided between the here and the gone. It would be so very easy to let go. Go away. Maybe forever this time?
No. Not until she found the water. She wasn't going to give the bastard the satisfaction of surrendering so quickly. She had to stay alive. She would—
Her hand flailed out, searching for the bucket. Hit it too hard, too fast, sent it rolling over onto its side.
Warm water spread out along the floor, her palms slip-sliding through it as she yanked the bucket, tilted it upright. Had she saved enough?
She lowered her hand into the depths of the five-gallon bucket. Found a scant inch remaining at the bottom.
Splashed the water as if that could magically multiply it. Brought her hand, dripping, out of the bucket, and squeezed the water and sweat into her mouth. Her shirt was soaking wet, clammy with the heat, stinking of sweat and fear. She took it off, desperately wrung it out over the bucket.
Lowered her hand again, measured the water with her finger. Just shy of her first knuckle.
Shit. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. The air was too heavy to breath; she was going to drown in it even as she died from dehydration. Heat stroke. It drove people crazy, she'd seen a video in health class on it.
Things had just gotten a hell of a lot worse.
She rolled over on her back. The view was the same as when she was on her belly, unremitting blackness swallowing her whole. Lay her head back, kept her eyes open—looking for what, she didn't know.
Bottom line, she was going to die. Not even Vixen could save her this time.
Chapter 13
Saturday, 5:22 pm
When they arrived back at the Yeager house, Lucy wasn't surprised to see that Walden had anticipated her needs. She and Burroughs found him sitting at the dining room table, an art deco glass and chrome monstrosity that could seat twelve, leafing through the family photo albums.
"Got anything?" she asked, taking the chair beside him and reaching for a stack of prints.
She flipped through them: all of Melissa in her modeling days, gaunt and hungry looking, her body almost as flat as a boy's. These weren't professional shots, they were candid pictures, presumably taken by Gerald.
"Plenty more like that," Walden said, indicating the numerous shots of Melissa. "Not so many of the kid."
"Not too surprised," Burroughs said. "Turns out dad's into boys these days."
Walden raised an eyebrow.
"Legal boys," Lucy clarified. "Barely. Where's the mom?"
"Convinced her to take a shower, change clothes. She's been real quiet since you left. The Sheriff sent two deputies to camp out for the duration. They're handling all communications through their command center. And we've got mom's sister from Philly coming to stay with her—she wasn't real happy about that, though."
"The body in Murrysville wasn't hers," Burroughs told Walden. "But Ashley's wallet was found nearby. And someone definitely didn't want this body to be identified quickly."
"Think they were trying to pull a switch? Make us think Ashley was dead?"
Lucy looked up at that. "Not unless they think we're blind. The girls were the same general build and coloring but what kind of idiot wouldn't notice the piercings?"
"An adolescent idiot," Burroughs said, apparently channeling Nick. "Someone nervous, exhilarated with getting away with murder, not thinking clearly."
"You think the kid is working with the Unsub?" Walden asked. His face was its usual impassive blank slate, but his eyes had narrowed ever so slightly. "Or she is the Unsub?"
"I'm just saying, don't assume anything," Burroughs replied.
They all nodded to that. It was Cop 101. Trust no one, assume nothing.
Still, it wasn't a leap in logic Lucy was ready to make. She glanced through the windows to where the butt-ugly command center still sat. "Any problems?"
"Nope. They're doing a pretty good job of coordinating everything. As long as Dunmar has the press's ear, he's happy."
"Fine with me. Did you eat?"
He seemed surprised by the question. "Yeah, had some pizza."
"Good." She shivered in the cold house and didn't think it was from the air-conditioning. "Gather up this stuff and write out a receipt. I'll go tell mom we're leaving." She turned to Burroughs. "You want to tag along? We can always use an extra pair of eyes."
"You're gonna let little old me in that big, fancy federal building of yours?" He said with wide-eyed innocence, batting his lashes. "I thought you feds never asked for help from us local yokels."
Lucy smiled at his use of the term. "This one does. But only if you don't have anything better to do."
"Got some dirty socks that need washing, guess they can wait."
Walden left, hauling the photo albums with him. Burroughs stood by as Lucy searched for her car. She clicked the remote but no chirp answered her. The cul-de-sac was empty of cop cars except for Burroughs' Impala, the dreaded Mobile Command Center, Dunmar's Expedition, and a Plum Borough squad. The other official vehicles had been replaced by news vans, cameramen at the ready.
"Where did you leave it?" he asked, barely hiding his amusement.
"I left it with a local yok—an officer from Plum Borough PD," she told him. Shadows were lengthening, transforming the tall, boxy houses into grim gothic strongholds.
She jogged down to the end of the street where the initial police barricade had been. The Subaru sat a block away, parked at the curb in front of a fire hydrant.
Burroughs laughed. "Two to one he left you a ticket."
She ignored him, still uncertain of what to make of the detective's constant hovering. He'd been helpful, but also attentive above and beyond inter-agency cooperation. Lucy's cell phone rang. "Guardino here."
"LT, I got something from the IM messages," Taylor's voice loud, buzzed with excitement. "Dozens of messages from some guy, screen name of Draco. They end about a month ago, but I traced the guy and he's in Pittsburgh. Real name is Fegley, Robert Fegley."
"Give me the address." She repeated it to Burroughs who scribbled it in his notebook. He grabbed his cell phone as she spoke with Taylor. "Background?"
"Nada. Clean slate. Kid's only seventeen, though. There could be something in a sealed juvie record."
She glanced at Burroughs who was working his own phone. "Nothing from us. Guys at Zone Five don't show any history with the address either."
"What about her computer?" she asked Taylor.
"Still working on it. Oh yeah, that ICE guy Fletcher's pissed he has to work tomorrow. Even tried to con me into going instead, said he'd come in and work Ashley's computer for us."
Just what she needed, cybernerds in a turf war. "You saying you need help?"
"Nah, I'm good. Collared some of the High Tech taskforce guys to help with the minor stuff. We've got pizza coming—"
"This isn't a party, Taylor." The High Tech Computer Crimes Taskforce was where Taylor had worked before he left to attend Quantico and become a full agent. "Do you need Fletcher or not? I can get ICE to sign off if you think he'd be helpful."
"The guy isn't even an agent or a computer forensic specialist, he's just a glorified desk jockey—"
Taylor still suffered from FNG Syndrome. On top of an already overly healthy ego. "So were you until this year," she reminded him. "If you need him, call him. Either way, he still has to work the UC op tomorrow."
"No, seriously boss, I'm in the zone here. I can handle it, honest."
"A girl's life may depend on it," she reminded him as she reached the Subaru. She was relieved when he took a minute to digest that before replying.
"I'll think about it. Don't worry, we'll bring
her home, LT."
She opened her car door and suppressed an oath. Nowicki had left her car unlocked. Taylor's voice still prattled in her ear, something about sectors and frags. Lucy reached below the driver's seat, checked her back up Glock 27 that was hidden there. Magazine was intact, one round still chambered.
The seat was moved back, probably to accommodate the six-something uniformed officer when he parked the car. She re-adjusted it to fit her five-five frame but then paused. Sonofabitch.
She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Taylor went silent. "What's wrong, LT?"
"Hang on a sec, Taylor." The passenger seat was moved back as well. Just far enough for someone to get comfortable while they rifled through her glove box. Lucy didn't keep anything personal in there—kept her registration and insurance papers with her driver's license in her wallet.
An image of Megan sitting in that seat this morning, a slip of paper in her fingers....Shit. She reached over to the compartment on the passenger door. Found the doctor's bill from this morning. With Megan's name, their address and phone number printed oh-so-neatly on it.
Folded into it was a business card. Belonging to Cindy Ames. On the back was drawn a smiley face with hearts for eyes.
Lucy scrunched the card into a wad of sharp edges, squeezing it into her fist.
Burroughs had pulled his car up beside hers, waiting. He rolled down his window. "What's up?"
"That reporter, Ames. You said she put your family on the news? She'd really sink that far, endanger a couple of kids that way?"
A vertical crease formed between his eyebrows as he frowned. "Yeah, she really would."
"I'm going to have to play hardball with her. My car's been searched by her."
"You can't know that."
"She left her calling card." She tossed the balled up business card through the window at him and raised her phone once more. "Taylor, I need you to track down the station manager for—" She looked to Burroughs.