Sleep Tight

by Anne Frasier

  It was Anthony. "A teenage girl's been kidnapped south of here," he said. "At a place called Canary Falls. A little town off Highway 52, between Minneapolis and Rochester."

  Mary scooted higher in the bed. "I know where it is." She was wide awake now.

  "I'm heading south on 35 West and can be at your place in ten minutes."

  "I'll be waiting outside." She disconnected and jumped from bed. She brushed her hair and teeth, splashed watef on her face, and then quickly slipped into a pair of jeans, a black shirt, her gun, and her trench coat. When she was ready, she gently woke Blythe to tell her she was leaving.

  "Take an umbrella," her mother mumbled. "It's supposed to rain."

  Downstairs Mary collected her laptop, notebook, and camera, grabbing an umbrella from the antique stand as she stepped out the door. Outside, birds were already up,1 singing like crazy. In the east the sky was beginning to lighten.

  Anthony wasn't there, so she pulled out her phone and punched the single speed-dial number she'd recently entered for Gillian.

  "Just getting ready to call you," Gillian said when Mary told her about the kidnapping. "My associate and I are already on our way."

  Mary was impressed to find her sister sounding so professional and on top of things. "See you there." She disconnected and was slipping the phone into her pocket as Anthony pulled to the curb.

  "You're going to have to give me directions," he said as she slammed the door and they sped away.

  "Take 494 east. Crosstown will be a snarl right now."

  "I picked up a coffee for you." He motioned to an unopened insulated cup resting in the drink holder.

  "You're a lifesaver." She pulled back the plastic tab, and the smell of coffee filled the small compartment. Anthony knew her addictions.

  As they drove, the sky darkened. The rain began with a few warning drops that quickly turned into a deluge that swamped the highway. The windshield wipers beat madly, but couldn't keep up with the downpour.

  Anthony slowed the car to forty and turned the defroster on high, trying to fight the condensation building on the glass. "There won't be any evidence left by the time this stops," he said, tension and frustration in his voice.

  "They would have sent for a crime-scene team from the Twin Cities," Mary said. "I doubt they'll get there much ahead of us."

  Thirty miles north of Rochester, they turned west. By the time they reached Canary Falls, the rain had stopped and the sun was out.

  The town was split by a small river. Main Street was three blocks long and contained what looked to be the only stoplight. Along the edges of town were run-down fairgrounds, abandoned grain elevators, and the requisite forlorn Dairy Queen amidst a stand of weeds. The population was one thousand, and for those one thousand people there were several churches and even more bars. A farming community, it was the kind of place kids spent their childhoods dreaming of leaving.

  "Seems to have drawn a crowd and then some," Anthony commented as he pulled up in front of a two-story, navy-blue-trimmed house. They had to park several blocks away from the area of concentrated activity and walk past clusters of loitering people. Upon reaching the crime scene, they flashed their IDs and ducked under the yellow tape.

  "The missing person is a seventeen-year-old girl named Charlotte Henning," the officer in charge said, handing both of them a flyer with photo and description. She had a sweet face, Mary noted. Like the other girls, she was blond.

  "National Guard is combing the area by foot, and they've got two helicopters in the air," the man continued. He had a Minnesota accent stronger than Wake-field's. "We'd hoped that the lab technicians would be able to lift some impressions, but it started rainin' before they could get here." He shook his head. "Tire tracks are soup now."

  "Any other clues?" Mary asked.

  "Charlotte closed up Gibby's-the pizza shop where she worked. We found a pizza that she must have dropped on the ground next to where her car would have been parked. He must have attacked her, driven her here in her car, then switched vehicles."

  Mary nodded. It made sense.

  "Do ya think this is connected to the kidnappings and murders in Minneapolis?" the officer asked.

  "Until we have all the facts, there's no reason to even speculate," Anthony told him in the curt way he sometimes had when dealing with people he didn't know. He could certainly come across as a stereotypical FBI asshole, Mary thought.

  "No," the officer said, all but squirming, "I guess not."

  "We'd like to talk to the parents and anybody who was in the pizza shop last night," Mary said more kindly.

  "Interviews are bein' conducted at the grade school." He pointed. "Go two blocks thatta way; then make a left."

  "Thanks." Mary gave him a smile, trying to make up for Anthony's brusqueness. Apparently Anthony hadn't heard of "Minnesota nice."

  The officer smiled back. "You betcha."

  Before heading to the school, Mary wanted to check out the kidnapped victim's car. It was a small, green, rusty model she couldn't identify. Something cheap, something a high school student might drive if her parents weren't as affluent as April Ellison's.

  Technicians in yellow ponchos were doing a ground sweep. She spotted a light-haired woman in BCA raingear: Gillian. With her was a young man of about twenty, jet-black hair plastered to his head. Introductions were made. The young man turned out to be a BCA intern named Ben.

  Ben was thin and pretty, with remnants of eyeliner around his eyes. His fingernails were purple. He also seemed to be enjoying himself more than the situation warranted. Was he an ambulance chaser? Or one of Gillian's projects?

  "Have they found anything of significance?" Mary asked.

  Gillian shook her head. "The rain's completely compromised the scene."

  Mary pulled out her camera and began taking pictures, just enough so she would have a record of the layout. Anthony wandered off to talk to one of the technicians.

  "They've sealed the vehicle," Gillian reported as Mary tucked her camera away. "As soon as they're done combing the ground, they're bringing in a tow truck to take the car to the lab in St. Paul."

  It was starting to rain again. Gillian and Ben pulled up their hoods, and Mary popped open her mother's umbrella. Yellow ducks. Not standard-issue FBI.

  Gillian laughed. "I know where that came from."

  Mary allowed herself a reluctant smile as Anthony appeared beside her, giving the umbrella an odd glance. "We may have a witness," he said. "A girl who was at the pizza shop last night. She's waiting at the grade school."

  The umbrella was large enough for two. Mary held it high, offering cover to Anthony. They walked side by side toward the grade school under a canopy of yellow ducks while Gillian and Ben strolled behind them.

  "How's your shoulder?"

  Anthony's gaze was on her, and she knew better than to lie. "It still hurts off and on, but nothing like two days ago." A moment passed until she saw that he believed her.

  He smiled. "Good."

  Inside the grade school, Mary closed the umbrella and shook out the excess water. The four of them were led to a classroom where a young girl was waiting. Her name was Susan. She was thin with dark, straight hair and shabby clothes. She seemed to be enjoying the attention and related her story with relish.

  "I go there all the time. It's kind of a hangout, you know. There's no other place for kids except for the DQ, and all the old people go there, you know. At Gibby's, you usually see the same kids, so I noticed when this guy came in and ordered a pizza." Susan gave Ben a shy glance, and Mary couldn't tell if the girl was afraid of him or attracted to him. Sometimes the two went together.

  "Can you describe him?" Mary and Gillian each had pen and tablet in hand.

  "He was kinda tall. Maybe six foot. About normal size, I'd say."

  "How old?"

  She thought a moment. "Maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven. But I'm not real good at ages."

  "Was he white? Black?"

  "White. Well, maybe a litt
le something else too, you know. I'm not sure. Something about his eyes made me think that."

  "Hair color?"

  "Brown."

  "Length?"

  "Short."

  "How short?"

  "I don't know. Just not long."

  "Anything unusual about his features?" Anthony asked.

  "Only his eyes, but I already told you about that."

  The girl shook her head. "What I don't get is why would a guy that cute have to kidnap somebody."

  Anthony's eyebrows lifted. "People don't always do things that make sense."

  "A sketch artist will be getting in touch with you," Gillian put in when they were done. "Hopefully today." She shot Mary a look that let her know she resented being cut out of the questioning. Mary merely shrugged. Too many interviewers could get confusing.

  In the hallway, they searched for someone who could direct them to the room where the parents of the missing girl were waiting.

  All schools had the same smell of floor wax and paper, books and sweaty bodies. And smells had a way of triggering dormant memories in a way nothing else could. Mary found her thoughts tumbling backward…

  Was it deja vu, she wondered, if the scene that was being played out and the scene you seemed to recall weren't exactly the same?

  Suddenly she was standing in the high school she and Gillian had attended-Lynwood High. Rather than Anthony next to her, it was Gavin. Gavin, who was about six feet tall, with brown hair and eyes that had a compelling tilt to them.

  Fiona was laughing up at him, and he was laughing back. She handed him something. When Mary looked down, she saw a folded piece of paper in Gavin's hand. On the paper was his name written in bold black letters.

  She felt dizzy and confused. Sweat rushed from every pore. She became aware of a feeling of suffocation that reminded her of when she was shot. There had been the white-hot pain of the bullet ripping through her flesh, followed by a rush of perspiration.

  The ground had shifted. The next thing she knew, Anthony was bending over her, fear and anguish in his face.

  Voices cut through the haze. Her mind sorted them out, pulling her back to the present, to Canary Falls High School, her sister, and Anthony.

  "Are you okay?"

  The voice was Gillian's, but when everything came back into focus, it was Anthony she saw regarding her with concern. She was standing frozen in the center of the hallway. But at least she was standing. In her mind's eye, she could still see the note. The handwriting on it had seemed familiar, yet she couldn't place it…

  "Mary?" Anthony asked.

  She pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Oh, wow," she said breathlessly, attempting a light laugh. "I just had the strongest sense of deja vu I've ever had."

  "For a minute," Gillian said with a worried frown, "you looked like you'd stepped into another world."

  "Did it have to do with the case?" Ben suddenly seemed to find her extremely interesting.

  "You mean, like something psychic?" Mary asked suspiciously.

  "Well… yeah." He shrugged.

  "Why would you think that?"

  "I've heard things. About some of the cases you've been on."

  So… He was one of Gillian's projects. That knowledge added a sharper edge to her next words. "Are you trying to discredit my skills as a profiler?"

  "Come on, Mary." Anthony was still watching her. "You're overreacting." His eyes seemed to be saying, He's just a kid.

  "No." Ben held up both hands, palms out, and took a step back. "No way. I'm just really interested in psychic stuff, that's all. I know a guy who has a roommate that can bend spoons-"

  "Whatever you've heard, I'm not psychic. What I do has nothing to do with anything psychic. Psychology, yes. But my little trip to another planet probably had more to do with an empty stomach than any kind of ESP." Gillian laughed, sounding relieved now that Mary appeared to be back to normal. "You've insulted her, Ben," she said lightly. "Mary doesn't believe in that kind of thing."

  "Sorry, man. I didn't mean anything by it. I just think psychic stuff is cool, that's all."

  "I'm starved." Gillian gave Ben's arm a friendly, reassuring squeeze and a smile that verged on being conspiratorial. Don't let my crazy sister get to you, it seemed to say. "Why don't we see if there's any place in this town to grab some food?"

  "Not until we interview the parents," Mary said.

  Ben shrugged off his backpack and unzipped the front pocket. "My blood sugar gets weird sometimes, so I always carry a couple of these." He held a wrapped rectangle out to Mary, his arm straight. "It's a granola bar. I make them myself. Go ahead." He shook it at her. "Take it. It'll help until we get a chance to eat."

  A peace offering.

  It seemed they were all holding their breath, waiting to see how Mary would react. She smiled tightly. "Thanks." She unwrapped it and took a bite, hoping it didn't contain pot, quickly discovering that it was full of healthy things like raisins and nuts and sunflower seeds. It was delicious, and she told him so.

  Ben beamed, happy to be of assistance.

  The bar reminded her of some of Blythe's healthy concoctions. "I can see that you're going to have to meet our mother," Mary said.

  The parents had been put upstairs in a small office. In an attempt to make the interview as easy as possible on the distraught couple, it was decided that Mary and Gillian would speak to them while the men waited outside.

  Mary stopped her sister near the door. "It will be less confusing if only one of us does the questioning," she whispered. She waited for Gillian's response, hoping she wouldn't have to pull rank.

  At first Gillian seemed prepared to argue-a conditioned reaction. Mary watched as her sister's irritation gave way to understanding and finally relief. Wisdom and experience were on Mary's side.

  "Good idea," Gillian said.

  The mother, dressed in a red sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, was hysterical; the father, a burly man in a heavy plaid shirt, was emotionless and brittle with shock. Two others-a man and woman-hovered nearby. They all looked as if they were farmers-hardworking and earnest.

  Mary began with the standard questions: Did their daughter know anyone she may have left with? Had she been acting differently lately? Hanging around with new acquaintances? Did she know anyone who may have talked her into leaving with him or her? Know anyone who may have taken her against her will? Had she mentioned meeting anyone new, anyone strange? What was her schedule?. What was she wearing?

  During questioning, the parents' minds would wander, and their attention would have to be gently coaxed back. Several times the mother broke down, and the husband held her in his arms.

  Then came their questions, the ones Mary always dreaded.

  "You'll find her, won't you?"

  "She'll be okay, won't she?"

  This was always the worst part, talking to the parents. Worse than watching the autopsy of a child. Worse than staring into the cold eyes of a mass murderer.

  "There's no connection between her kidnapping and the deaths of those other girls, is there? Please tell us there isn't."

  Mary glanced at Gillian. Her sister's eyes were glassy with tears; she didn't look in any shape to answer. "We don't know," Mary said.

  "You must have some idea. Are you hiding something? Not telling us something?"

  "We aren't hiding anything. As soon as we have any information, you'll be the first to know."

  The man pressed his lips together and nodded. "My daughter's a good girl, a strong girl. She grew up on a farm and knows how to take care of herself. She'll be okay. I know she'll be okay."

  Both parents looked from Mary to Gillian, desperately begging for reassurance that couldn't be given.

  Chapter 10

  After spending all day and into the evening investigating the Canary Falls kidnapping, Gillian returned to her apartment in Dinkytown, but she couldn't sleep. As she lay in bed, the events of the day kept replaying in her mind, especially the interview with the missing gi
rl's parents. How did Mary do it? she wondered. Deal directly with the victim's families like that? Did she have trouble sleeping? Was she awake right now?

  Gillian's reflections were disturbed by the sound of someone knocking on her door. She pressed the button on her digital alarm clock, and the numbers glowed green: 12:25 a.m.

  The knocking continued.

  A soft, rhythmic sound.

  Wearing a gray BCA T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, she went downstairs and peeked through the living room blinds to see Gavin Hitchcock's car parked next to the curb in front of the duplex.

  The knocking continued. The sound was so repetitive and monotonous that it could have been a loop. The style of delivery had Gavin Hitchcock's signature all over it. It was just like him to focus his entire concentration on one thing while blocking out everything else.

  She turned the dead bolt and opened the door so the chain caught.

  Gavin was a shadowy form standing on her porch.

  "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

  "Let me in." He sounded desperate. "I have to talk to you."

  "It's late."

  "Please. Let me in."

  She'd always had a soft spot for Gavin, mainly because she knew how tough his life had been and what a struggle it continued to be.

  "What's wrong?" she asked over the security chain. Most people were afraid of him, but she wasn't.

  "I-I've been having… bad dreams."

  The words came reluctantly, like the confession of a frightened child who knew he wasn't supposed to wake his parents.

  Her resolve weakened. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened the door. Gavin burst in.

  "Don't turn on the light!" he said as she reached for the wall switch.

  Instead, she crossed the room and opened the window blinds. "How's that?" Light from the street pooled inside.

  He pulled a book of matches from the deep pocket of his army jacket and lit the candles on the coffee table, then tossed the matchbook down and collapsed into the sofa.

  "I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.

  Gillian had grown up knowing who Gavin Hitchcock was. Everybody knew who he was. Every school had a Gavin Hitchcock. He was the kid nobody wanted to sit near. The kid who always had a runny nose. Every time there was a lice outbreak, all eyes turned to Gavin. Gillian had felt sorry for him from a distance, and secretly she'd thought he was kind of cute, that he would actually be good-looking if somebody took the time to clean him up. They didn't have any classes together-he'd been lumped in with the slow students at the beginning of his educational journey. Gavin would have remained someone she passed in the hallway, someone she saw on the playground, if she hadn't come to his rescue one day when they were both in junior high.