by Lisa Ladew
If Jerry were to be completely honest with himself, this wasn’t the first time he’d struggled with thoughts like these. When his mom didn’t come home from work that one night, so many years ago, the first thing he had done was call the restaurant that she’d waitressed at. She’d been due home at midnight, and Jerry and his dad had fallen asleep. When he woke up in the middle of the night and she still wasn’t there he made the call. When the hostess had found out what he was calling about, her voice took on a guarded quality right away. Jerry was only 16, but even he could recognize it. She knew something. Something that Jerry wasn’t going to like. But all she’d said was “your mom left when her shift ended.”
Jerry hadn’t known what to do. Should he call the police? When Jerry asked if he should call the police Darren Mansko had simply shrugged his shoulders.
Jerry did call. The young, male cop who showed up looked and sounded bored, as if he’d taken hundreds of calls just like this before and they all turned out to be nothing. Jerry had felt increasingly nervous with each question the officer asked. But he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the cop addressed each question to his dad, then seemed irritated when Jerry answered it. (Luckily his dad had given an approving nod every time Jerry had spoken.) Or maybe he’d already started to have an idea what his mom might have done.
The cop showed back up at 6:30 and told them there was an APB out for Cassie Mansko, but they shouldn’t expect too much from it, because she was most likely either holed up in a motel or taken off with her boyfriend. Jerry’s nervousness exploded into a dozen different emotions at the word boyfriend. Surprise. Anger. Disbelief. Fear. Anxiety. Sadness. He watched his father carefully, but saw nothing in his face but a quiet resignation.
Jerry listened to the cop talk and realized two things. One, the cop had already decided that his mother had just taken off, and two, there would be no more investigation. No follow up. This case was closed in this young, bored officer’s mind.
As the days became long and dismal and Jerry’s mother didn’t return, didn’t write, didn’t call, and her car didn’t turn up, Jerry tried to accept that his mom had abandoned him and his dad. But sometimes, especially at night when he lay in his bed, after helping his father into his own bed like he were a small child, he wondered: What if his mom hadn’t simply taken off? What if something had happened to her? Thoughts tried to swirl around in his head and suffocate him with their weight. Thoughts like didn’t she love me? Even if she stopped loving daddy, did she stop loving me too? He thought she had loved him still. But that, to him, meant that something happened to her. Because moms who love their kids don’t just take off. But if something happened to her, and he and his dad and the stupid cops didn’t even look for her, then they were the ones abandoning her.
Late at night, in the stillest, quietest hour, he would tell himself he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and accept that his mother, his sweet mother who had kissed him before bed every night, read him countless bedtime stories, soothed him to sleep when he was sick, listened to him talk endlessly about fishing, laughed at even his silliest jokes, had never taken a sick day, had never yelled at him in a fit of anger, and whose cool head could talk anyone out of an argument or a fight, had taken off forever without even saying goodbye. In those dark, mute hours, he could hear the words kidnapped, raped, calling for help, very clearly in his 16 year old brain.
But in the daytime, when the habit of taking care of his dad took over, he would think What could I even do? The words he heard in the daylight as he helped his father to the bathroom and cajoled him into eating his dinner were took off, abandoned, doesn’t love me. And the other thoughts would turn off, darken, gray out for now. And after a week, a month, a year, his acceptance that maybe she had taken off grew. He stopped sweating and thrashing in his sleep. He took care of his dad. And he waited. But not for her to come back. There came a point where he told himself he didn’t care if she ever came back, he wouldn’t take her back anyway. What he waited for was for life to begin again.
And life had begun again. When they had moved in with his Aunt Betty, he was home schooled for a bit, then took his GED test, and then went to paramedic school at 19. He discovered he was suddenly attractive to women, and thus started the endless parade of beautiful women through his life. He’d lost his virginity to a cute nursing student during the hospital phase of paramedic school and never looked back. He loved women, loved talking to them, hanging out with them, being their friends, and most of all, being their lover. Even his “serious” relationships weren’t really serious though. When he was with one woman seriously, he would be monogamous, but he wouldn’t discuss moving in or getting married. His girlfriends never got angry at him though. He was too warm, too loving, too attentive. Eventually, they just moved on.
And if the words kidnapped, against her will, taken, still swirled in his brain at night when his defenses were low, what of it? Everyone had some sort of injury because of childhood trauma, right?
But even with 18 years of experience ignoring these same words, these darkest of thoughts, Jerry couldn’t even begin to turn them off this time. This time, the words tugged at his brain, his very consciousness, like a fishhook. As he pulled up to the Eller’s Mansion he had to sit in his car for a few moments to try to calm himself. His palms gripped the steering wheel way too tightly. His breath came in quick gasps. His heart beat a rapid, galloping metronome up high in his throat.
Stop, he told himself. Calm down, or you’ll never even make it through the day. You will do everything possible to find Sara. You aren’t going to ignore this. You aren’t going to let the police department ignore this. This is going to turn out OK. It has to.
He didn’t know how much of this had to do with Sara, and how much of this had to do with his mom, but did it really matter? If he could redeem his childhood self with these acts - great, but the important thing was that he was acting in the here and now, and doing everything he could for Sara.
He closed his eyes, relaxed his hands, and leaned his head back against the headrest. After a few minutes of deep breaths he felt better. More under control. Now let’s go find her.
A hard look at the outside of the large building told him there weren’t any security cameras up here, and a discussion with the administrative secretary told him the same thing. He’d gotten the woman to talk to him with the truthful story of what had happened, but a trip to Staples for a fake press ID needed to be on his list today. He asked her to call him with any news of anything unusual and left.
As he drove away he peered at the rambling plantation-style houses lining the quiet street. Wrought-iron fences lined yards, and dark-green ivy climbed everything. Jerry had always loved houses like these. They looked timeless, like they could stand for a thousand years and never crumble. He wondered if it were worth talking to anyone in these houses to see if they heard or saw anything that night. He filed it away, thinking he would come back if his search turned up nothing else.
He drove to Sara’s apartment parking lot, looking for cameras in the eaves and corners of the building before he even stopped his car. He didn’t see any cameras, but as he pulled into a parking stall he saw something that caused a bolt of adrenaline to shoot into his veins. Detective Gagne’s black Suburban. Eyes wide, he scanned the grounds hoping Gagne wouldn’t come strolling across the lawn and lock eyes with him. He didn’t think Gagne would like to know that Jerry was doing a little investigating of his own.
Jerry reversed quickly out of the parking stall. His neck skin prickled and the feeling made him want to turn around. He resisted the urge and prayed it was just paranoia, not someone (Gagne) watching him. He’d have to come back to the apartments later. Maybe he should rent a car so he didn’t have to drive his own.
As he drove, he mentally went over the list Craig had left him. He decided to stop at Staples and print up a few things that would help him. While he was waiting he could start calling taxi companies to see if any had picked up
a fare at the Eller’s Mansion on Sunday night.
Hang in there Sara, he thought. I’ll find you. I promise. His mind filled with selective images of her. A smile, a laugh, the way she scrunched up her face when she was concentrating. The corners of his mouth curled up in a gentle smile, and the car seemed to drive itself.
He didn’t notice when a dark vehicle pulled onto the road going the same way he was, 5 cars behind him. He was, after all, a firefighter/paramedic, not a cop or a spy. It never crossed his mind to think he should be watching for someone investigating him while he was investigating Sara’s disappearance.
***
Jerry sat at a table outside the small coffee shop, eating a quick, late lunch and admiring his new press badge. He’d even been able to pick up a foldout wallet to put it in, making it look very official. He wondered if it would work how Craig said it would. He’d see. He had already called 7 local taxi companies, but none of them cared about any ‘credentials’ so far. He had his story all ready though, just in case. He was a research grunt for the channel 7 news and they were investigating a series of assaults on women that happened late at night. There’d been such an assault two nights ago and the police were completely stumped. The reporter he was working for hoped to break the case wide open before any more women were hurt. The victim had been last seen getting into a cab in the area of Eller’s Hill Sunday night, almost at midnight. She was in the hospital unconscious and couldn’t tell them anything. Did your cab company pick anyone up on Eller’s Hill on Sunday night? So far, all the answers had been no.
He checked his list and began to dial another cab company. Busy signal. He moved on to the next. He had 12 more and that would be all of them, even the unlikely companies on the other side of town. After he called all of them his plan was to go to call the car rental companies. Then he would head back to the Mariana Day apartments and hope Detective Gagne was gone. Even if there weren’t security cameras, he would love to talk to some of the people in the apartments on the first floor. Maybe some of them had heard or seen something.
Idly, he wondered about the guy with the black and white flag tattoo on his forearm. He should call Craig or Hawk and ask them if you could run an identifier like that through a law enforcement program and come up with people who match the description. He wrote it down on his list of things to do.
A hard knife of anxiety twisted in his guts. It didn’t seem like enough. He should be up, moving, doing something. Not just sitting here thinking. He didn’t generally think of himself as someone who looked for fights, but his hands itched to close on someone’s throat. If he actually found himself face to face with someone who had taken or hurt Sara, he thought he’d probably be looking at another arrest. If it comes to that, it comes to that. Some things are worth being arrested for, he thought. He bent over his work again determined to find something that would get him up and moving.
Chapter 11
Sara drove into an open-air, free-to-park lot and cruised around till she found another Toyota Camry. Using her phone, she gained back door access into the police department’s registered owner program and determined the license plates on the Camry were clean. No wants or warrants on the owner or the car.
She parked as close to it as possible and got out, looking around for people or security cameras. Seeing no one and staying out of the sight line of one camera she spotted on a bookstore on the corner, she took the plates off the Camry, and replaced them with plates she had lifted from a car in the parking garage of the hotel next to hers. She then put the license plates on her car, and put her license plates under the back seat of her car. She would switch them back later.
Sara was dressed in dark jeans, jungle boots, and a black t-shirt, with her hair pulled back. She was well-armed, but no one who looked at her would know it until she stuck her gun in their face or one of her knives in their ear. She wore a pair of flesh-colored, second-skin gloves to conceal her fingerprints, but not tip people off that she was wearing gloves. She checked her clock. 3:30 a.m. Perfect. She hopped in her car and left the parking lot, watching the full moon rise over the city. An image of Jerry’s hopeful, handsome face rose in her mind. She pushed it away. He was dead to her now. That life was dead to her now. She had to move on.
She drove to Manny’s neighborhood and cruised past his house. It looked dark and quiet. She parked a half a block down from the house and took out the most useful gadget she owned. Her particular one was a prototype and didn’t have a name, but she liked to think of it as Cell Hell. It was only a little bigger than a cell phone itself. She punched in the number Jessica had given her for Manny’s cell phone and took over control of it. All incoming and outgoing calls to Manny’s phone would now travel through her gadget, plus she could track his phone with GPS, and use the phone as a bug. She opened the line and didn’t hear anything. Maybe a soft snoring. That was good.
She dug in her bag for her drug tin and took out a packet carefully labeled Scopolamine. She took out one of her silk scarves and tied it over her mouth and nose, then opened all the windows in the car. It paid to be very careful with this drug. It was one of the more dangerous ones she worked with.
She set about her work carefully, methodically, and was just about to step out of her car when her Cell Hell began to ring. She froze, the drug and a scarf held in front of her.
“Lo?”
“Manny, I need a score.” A male voice. Dark and gravelly. Sara put her hands in her lap and waited
“Who this?”
“Hector.”
“Hector, who do you want?” Manny asked. His voice sounded more awake now.
“What’s the youngest girl you got?”
“16 year old man, you know that.”
“Yeah but you said you could get someone younger.” Hector’s voice took on a whining note. Sara grimaced.
“I can, but I ain’t got her yet. Next week for sure. She 11.” Sara pressed her lips in a line and tried to hold herself together.
Hector paused. After a moment he said, “Send over the 16 year old then.”
“Aw shit man, I forgot. She out. You can take Cindy. Cindy is 17.”
“Cindy, huh?” Now Hector sounded petulant, mistrusting.
“Yeah Cindy, she good. Cindy ripe and sweet.”
“I ain’t ordering a fucking melon, man.” Hector laughed at his wittiness.
“You at your place?” Manny asked.
“Yeah.”
“Cindy’ll be there in 20 minutes. 2 c-notes for one hour.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hector sounded eager now.
The phone clicked off and Sara stared at the drugs in her lap. This could mess up her plan.
She listened to Manny and heard him moving around. A female cry of protest shot out of the speakers.
“Get up bitch, you got a job.”
Sara heard a muffled response and then a slapping sound.
“You heard me, move it. You gotta pay for this bed. Get yo’self pretty. And be quick.”
10 minutes later, Manny and a young woman came out the front door and got into Manny’s little sports car that sat in the driveway. Sara slid down in her seat, not needing to see where they went. She could find Manny anywhere he went with her Cell Hell. She turned down her speakers, not wanting to listen to any conversation. Sara closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could take him as he came home. It would be easy. But she wouldn’t. She would stick with the plan. The plan was a good one, and it kept her risk to a minimum, as long as he came back home before dark.
20 minutes later Manny pulled back in to the driveway, then entered his house. 15 minutes after that she heard snoring, louder this time.
She got out of her car and walked to his driveway like she belonged there. Light was not seeping into the sky yet, but she knew it would start within the next 20 minutes. She needed to be quick. She held her breath and opened the tin in which she had mixed Vaseline and scopolamine together. She coated the handle of Manny’s door with the mixture, and coated the handle
of his passenger side door too.
On her way back to her car, she took off her gloves and dumped them into a plastic bag, being careful not to touch the mixture.
Now to wait. She laid back in her seat and pretended to doze.
***
At 9:30 the little house started to come alive. Women talked and laughed softly and she heard water running and dishes clinking. A few women left, one on foot and 2 together in a car that was parked behind Sara’s on the street.
At 11:00 a car dropped off a woman. And at 11:30, Manny started to stir. Sara heard sounds of fabric rubbing together and more water running, then a toilet flush and footsteps. The front door opened, and Manny stepped out. Sara watched him through her rear-view.
He opened his car door, then frowned at the mess on his hands. He tried to wipe it off with his other hand. Perfect. He glared at his hands, then inspected his door handle. He smelled his hands and looked up the street and down the street. Finally, he wiped his hands on the grass and got in his car and drove away. She followed.
Before they even left the neighborhood he pulled over and put his head in his hands. She could see him through the windshield of the car ahead of her. She pulled past him and waited at the stop sign to see what he would do. He shook his head as if to clear it, and drove on.
Sara picked up her throwaway cell phone and dialed Manny’s number.
“Lo?!” Irritated.
“Manny, this is Bethany. Meet me at the Pink Palace Coffee Shop on Maryland Drive. Turn right at the next street, go one mile straight and turn right on Maryland. I’ve got your money.”
Sara clicked off and held her breath. Would he do what she said? Scopolamine was a crazy drug, making people highly suggestible, but the dosage was tricky. Too low of a dose and it just cleared up your congestion. Too high of a dose and it killed you. The perfect dose ensured that not only would your subject do everything you told them to do, it also would make it impossible for them to remember who you were or what had happened. It short circuited the brain in a way that made it impossible for the person to form memories. It was almost a perfect spy drug.