“I guess.” I couldn’t tear my eyes off that woman – her stern, unyielding face, her iron grip on Kayla. Two dead daughters. One psychopathic son.
“What I don’t get,” Tommy was saying, “is why that Cat person would care about this.”
I shook the photo. “Because Gretchen is obviously a terrible, abusive mother.”
“Yeah, but there are plenty of terrible, abusive mothers who adopt children. What’s so special about this particular one?”
The stern face. The iron grip. I could almost feel the coldness emanating from this woman.
Two dead daughters. One psychopathic son.
The innocent depend on you.
Two dangers for one new little girl. How long will it take for that girl to be gone?
Two dead daughters.
I glanced up at Tommy. “We so gotta go there.”
Tommy looked back at me, a slow grin unfolding. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 32
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Tommy said.
The little white two-story house with black trim sat nestled between neatly tended bushes and thick manicured grass.
“Yeah,” I said. “Way too cute.”
The house had “American Dream” stamped all over it. A house like that could never have sheltered David, the mad stalker. Could never have nurtured him, watched him grow up, kept him safe and sound. Not possible.
“Well, maybe his parents moved here later,” Tommy said. “You know, after they sold the Addams Family house.”
“Let’s hope.” We got out of the car and headed toward the driveway.
“What if she’s not home?” Tommy asked, as we hiked up the driveway. Perfectly rounded evergreen bushes lined each side.
I shrugged. “What else? We wait.”
“Cool, stake out.”
“I’ll even spring for the doughnuts.” We reached an immaculately swept porch, complete with a white wooden porch swing that creaked in the wind.
I rang the doorbell. The swing continued to creak, the sound eerie in this clean, sterile porch. It made me think of a coffin opening – one that had been buried for a long, long time.
The door swung open, revealing Gretchen Terry.
At first I could only stare. She looked exactly like the photo, except instead of a black coat she wore a blue housedress covered with tiny white flowers and a white apron.
She adjusted her black-framed glasses. “May I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Terry?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together. “What do you want?”
Now that she was actually in front of me, I realized I had no idea what to say. I had been so caught up in the whole house-finding ordeal, I had forgotten about making an after-I-found-her plan. She continued to stare, her eyes cold and calculating. Just like David’s, although the color was wrong – brown instead of turquoise.
She stepped back. “Well?”
I was going to lose her if I didn’t think of something. “I’m from the state department,” I found myself saying. “I’m here about your adoption application.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What about it?”
“I need to check on a few things. Could we come in?”
She took another step back. “I’ve already had my application approved. What do you need?”
“Just a few answers, that’s all.”
Her eyes grew colder still. “Aren’t you a little young to be working at the state department?”
I smiled. “Oh, I get that all the time.”
Her lips were a red slash across her face. Like a knife cut. “What did you say your names were?”
I glanced at Tommy. “Mary Smith and Tommy Johnston.”
She started to close the door. “Stay right here while I go call the state department.”
Ack! Definitely not the right response. Without thinking, I stepped forward and shoved my foot against the door, just stopping it. “Actually, Mrs. Terry, I’m not from the state department.”
Her cold eyes glowered at me. “Then who are you and how do you know about the adoption?”
“My name is Kit Caldwell and I’m actually here about your son, David. He’s been stalking me … ”
Her face froze. Her eyes turned round with horror. With a strangled cry, she slammed the door shut, banging my foot and barely missing my head.
Hopping backward, I shook my stinging foot. “Mrs. Terry,” I called. “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want to talk.”
Locks clicked, bolts rattled. “Go away,” a muffled voice said. “Get off my property before I call the police.”
I looked at Tommy. He shrugged.
“All right, Mrs. Terry,” I called back. “Sorry to bother you. We’re leaving now.”
“That went well,” Tommy said as we stepped off the porch.
I glanced over my shoulder, trying to see if a curtain twitched. I knew she was watching. “Hey, at least she didn’t threaten us with a shotgun.” The porch swing creaked again. Rotting coffins. Buried secrets.
“So, now what, Holmes?” We reached the car, me continually stealing glimpses at the house as we walked. I still felt those cold eyes boring into me.
Opening the door, I pondered our options. It certainly seemed like we had hit a dead end. Yet, those two dead children kept haunting me.
“The library, Watson,” I said at last. “Using their computers to search through the back issues of the newspaper is probably the fastest.”
Tommy slid the key into the ignition. “You got it.”
***
Another task that wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
Even narrowing the search down to five years ago still meant examining three hundred and sixty-five potential newspapers. After a half-dozen fruitless searches, Tommy had the bright idea of looking only at obituaries. It still took forever.
“I think I found it,” Tommy said.
I had taken a break to down more pills. My head was killing me, my fever was up and I had started coughing again. Death had to be preferable to this.
“Where?” I craned my neck to peer over Tommy’s shoulder.
He pointed. Bethany Terry, age sixteen, died April twenty-four in a single-car crash.
April twenty-four. Something about that date sent chills down my spine. April twenty-four.
“Can you find the article about the death?” I asked, as Tommy pressed the button to print the obituary.
“Nothing wrong with trying.” He started tapping the keys.
I sat back and rubbed my face. April twenty-four. I would have been sixteen as well.
Then I remembered: the sharp scent of chlorine. The feather-light touch on my cheek. Come to say good-bye.
“Here it is,” Tommy said, pointing at the screen. “Look, there’s even a picture of Bethany.”
I leaned over to look, but I already knew what I would see. The headline blared “Teen Killed in Car Crash, Alcohol Suspected.” Underneath a photo of a pretty, blonde teenager smiled at us.
It was Cat. No question about it.
Chapter 33
“They must’ve kidnapped Cat. That’s all there is to it,” I said.
We had moved to a more secluded area of the library – a corner near a window. The gray day was melting into night. We sat facing each other in two brownish orange chairs, a small square table between us.
Tommy tapped the newspaper article lying on the worn table. “But this girl’s dead. She can’t be the one you’ve been seeing around campus or who’s been sending you emails and photos.”
I propped my elbows on my knees and rested my head in my hands. “But it looks just like her.”
“You haven’t seen Cat since you were seven. How do you know what she’d look like at sixteen? Or at twenty-one for that matter?”
“She’s my sister. Besides, she looks just like the girl I saw at the Halloween party and at the Union.”
Tommy slid back in his chair, his legs sprawled in front of him. “And we’re right back where we started. She can’t be the girl you’ve seen these past few weeks because she’s dead.”
I rubbed my forehead. “It’s got to be Cat. The Terrys must have kidnapped her.” Shocked, I jerked my head up, understanding turning my blood to burning ice. “Oh, my God, Tommy. The Terrys kidnapped Cat. It rhymes with fairies. See, I was right all along. She was kidnapped by the fairies!”
Tommy took a deep breath. “Kit, be real for one second. How would you know she had been kidnapped by the Terrys? Don’t you think if anyone knew who’d kidnapped her, they would’ve gotten her back?”
“But, Tommy, if they kidnapped Cat, it would all make sense. Why Cat wants me to stop this adoption, because she knows firsthand what crappy parents the Terrys are. And why she warned me away from David.”
“So, you’re telling me her ghost has been haunting you?” Tommy stared at the ceiling. “A ghost with an email address and the ability to take recent photos? Not to mention this girl looks like she’s our age, not sixteen. I know there’s an X-Files out there about ghosts aging, but still.”
The smell of chlorine. The touch of a feather on my cheek. Now I knew. She really had come to say good-bye.
Cat’s ghost had already visited me once. Why did it seem so strange she would return a second time? Her ghost wandering around made as much sense as anything else did. Maybe more.
On the other hand, as much as I hated to admit it, Tommy did have a point. How could a ghost send me emails and photos? And she did look older than the picture in the newspaper.
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” I argued.
“But you said Elena found no police file. If Cat was kidnapped, where’s the file?”
“Maybe she wasn’t kidnapped in Milwaukee. Maybe it was here. We should talk to the police here.”
“It also doesn’t explain why Mrs. Terry threw a fit when she heard your name or why David fixated on you.”
“Au contraire, Watson, it points to their guilt. Cat would’ve been old enough to tell them her real name. She may have even talked about me.”
Tommy leaned over to fiddle with the articles. “I still think you’re reaching.”
“And I still think we should go to the cops and see if they have a file on her.”
Tommy held his hands up. “Fine. We’ll go.” He started to stand up.
“What’s with the attitude? Do you have a better idea?”
He shoved the articles at me. “Did you even read this story or are you so convinced you’re right you don’t want to look at anything else?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He stood, backed away. “Maybe it means now that you’re on this kidnapping kick, you’re not willing to consider any other angles.”
“That’s not true. I just think it makes the most sense.”
He pointed at the table. “Just read the article. Need a bathroom break, back in a minute.” He strode off.
Glaring at his retreating back, I snatched the article off the table. How dare he accuse me of being close-minded. Covering the photo with my hand so it wouldn’t distract me, I started reading the text.
Teen Killed in Car Crash, Alcohol Suspected
A local teenager was found dead in a single car crash early Sunday morning.
Bethany Terry, 16, was driving down a deserted section of Bolt Road when she apparently lost control of her car and hit a tree, killing her instantly.
Highway patrol officers Dick Macy and Christine Yorlet discovered her body at 4:12 a.m. Sunday morning.
“She had been dead for several hours by the time we got there,” said Yorlet. “It’s such a shame.”
The cause of the accident is unknown, although alcohol was found in her system.
In her junior year, Terry had been an honor student and yearbook editor.
“She was always such a good girl,” said Gretchen Terry, her mother. “I’ve never had an ounce of trouble from her before. I don’t know how this could have happened.”
Police have a launched a full-scale investigation.
“It’s a bit peculiar,” said Detective William Reynolds, the investigator assigned to the case. “There’s nothing on or around that road. Why she would be driving down it at that time of night doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
If anyone has any information about this crime, please call the Minneapolis Police Department at 555-3487.
“It IS a bit peculiar, wouldn’t you say?” Tommy leaned over the chair, having returned while I had been reading. “And especially after meeting the poor, grieving mother, I’d say it was more than a bit peculiar.”
I chewed on my lip. “But this doesn’t change the fact the woman could still have kidnapped Cat.”
Tommy looked pained. “Back with the kidnapping. Kit, I’m not going to pretend I know who you’ve been seeing around campus, but don’t you get it? The Terrys may have murdered Bethany. At the very least, don’t you want to know what happened to her?”
Two dead daughters. One psychopathic son.
One murdered daughter. One psychopathic son.
The fairies are evil. Pure evil.
Yes, I certainly did want to know what happened to Cat. Every last detail.
I stood up. “Well, then let’s go and see if Detective Reynolds will talk to us. And, while we’re at it, we can check out kidnapping cases for Cat.”
***
By the time we reached the station, it was past seven o’clock and very dark.
“Probably should’ve called,” Tommy said glumly, as he pushed open the station doors. “Probably done with his shift and gone home.”
As it turned out, Detective Reynolds’s shift had ended a few hours ago. However, he had stayed late to cover for a fellow detective whose wife was in the hospital. Better yet, he was more than happy to talk to us about the case.
“The Terry case. Yes, I remember it.” He gestured for us to take a seat, his every movement slow and deliberate. His desk was an explosion of papers, files and a monthly calendar desk blotter covered with scribbled notes and coffee stains. Framed photos of smiling children stood in a corner, next to a coffee cup with the words “World’s Best Grandpa” on it. With his smooth, dark complexion and thick, black hair, he didn’t look old enough to be a grandpa. “Sad. Very sad. What’s your interest in it?”
I eyed Tommy. “Her brother,” I said, nearly choking on the word, “is stalking me.” Tommy had made me promise not to bring up the kidnapping until after we had discussed the accident.
His eyebrows went up. “David?”
My mouth dropped. “You still remember his name?”
“There are some cases that never leave you. This was one of them.”
“Why?” I asked, rubbing my chest and trying not to cough. I had doped myself up again, but the drugs hadn’t kicked in yet.
He half-smiled. “Many reasons.” His speech was as slow and deliberate as his movements had been. “The main one being how this case stunk to high heaven and we were never able to prove anything.”
I leaned closer. “What stunk?”
“Everything. Bethany had been at a party until a little before 11 p.m. By all accounts she left that party in a good mood. Yet, we found her five hours later in the middle of an unfinished subdivision. The car was checked out, no mechanical problems that we could find. Her blood alcohol was very low, like she had consumed one, maybe two drinks at the most. So, what made her crash? Better yet, why was she on that road in the first place?”
He adjusted himself in his chair, sitting back, stretching his legs out. “Then there were her injuries. They weren’t consistent with the cra
sh.”
“Consistent?” Tommy asked.
Detective Reynolds folded his hands across his stomach. “Her injuries weren’t consistent with the damage to the car.”
I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, my God.”
Detective Reynolds reached over to pick up his coffee cup. He half-waved it at us. “Kind of nasty this time of day, but I’d be happy to get you some.”
I wanted answers, not coffee, and especially not bad coffee. I shook my head politely. He nodded, drank slowly, then put the cup down.
“But what really did it was the family,” he continued. ”There was something hinky about them from the beginning. First, the mother. In here every other day with some new theory. First, it was that we made a mistake, her daughter would never have been drinking. Then it was Bethany’s friends – her friends were a bad influence. Then it was some stranger who had abducted her and caused her to lose control of the vehicle.”
He straightened his desk blotter, leaned back again. “Not that that’s so unusual, grieving mothers with theories. But there was something odd about her. She was so frantic about it, nearly in a frenzy. And when we tried to question her or the other family members, she went ballistic, said she’d sue everyone for false accusations.” He pressed his fingers together, hands forming a triangle over his stomach. “At the time none of them were suspects. We were simply asking routine questions.”
“The father wasn’t much help, deferring to his wife on every issue and question. Then there was David.”
Detective Reynolds rotated his mug, took another swallow of coffee. “Shifty. Very shifty. Never a straight answer – hell, never a straight look even. I’d bet my pension he’s up to his eyeballs in it.”
Sounds like David. Even listening to this account secondhand sent eerie shivers through me. “So what happened? Why wasn’t he arrested?”
He shrugged. “No proof. Just suspicions.”
I gestured with my hands. “But, but you had proof. The injuries.”
He shook his head. “They weren’t conclusive, just suspicious. No, there was nothing. We couldn’t charge the Terrys with anything. And it rankles me to this day.”
The Stolen Twin Page 29