The girl can’t be over fifteen-years old, observes Claire, studying the childish creature who sits across from her at the kitchen table. Why, she doesn’t even have any titties. It doesn’t seem right. Why do they always have to be so young? It just makes it that much more painful. It’s been years since Claire’s been able to give him what he wants—what all men want.
When supper is through, she watches silently, as he takes the girl’s hand and leads her upstairs to do whatever it is that he does to them. Claire can hear him whispering to her as they make their way up the stairs. God only knows what he tells them. They always start off laughing. But, in a little while, the laughter changes to crying. Then, there is usually silence—for a while. Then, the screaming starts, and that’s when Claire has to cover her ears and start singing the hymns. “What a friend we have in Jesus” is the one that comes most easily to her. But, pretty soon, the noise stops, and before long, it gets totally still. And, that’s when she’s most afraid. Because, that’s when he comes back downstairs with that dull look on his face, and he starts drinking. And when he’s drinking, there’s no place that’s safe.
Chapter 52
Peggy, December, the previous year – the morning of day three
Last night had been fun, thinks Peggy. She had felt terrible when Jake finally confessed to how much he hated Dr. Pepper. He really was a nice guy, and not at all pushy. The two had played gin rummy until nearly one, and then watched some stupid cable television movie for another hour, until at last they had both fallen asleep; she on the bed, and he on the recliner nearby. This morning, however, looking out through the window at the snow that has begun falling even harder, Peggy realizes she must say goodbye.
“Jake,” she says, “I really think I ought to call my father and ask him to come pick me up. I told my parents I would be home yesterday, and they’re probably going bonkers worrying about me.”
Jake frowns, puts his hands together in a praying attitude, and drops to his knees. Peggy laughs and rolls her eyes. “Pretty please,” implores Jake. “We can get you home in a day or two. Besides, I really like being with you.”
“And I feel the same way. But it’s not fair to my parents. Don’t your parents worry about you?”
“Nah,” says Jake. “They couldn’t care less. They figure I won’t do anything stupid—and, besides, they always make sure I’ve got plenty of money.”
Something in the tone of Jake’s voice tells Peggy that he’s being less than candid. She picks up the phone handset, and punches the key marked “O.” A sleepy voice answers, saying, “Good morning. May I help you?”
“Yes, please,” says Peggy. “I’d like to make a collect call.”
A few minutes later, after speaking with her father, she hangs up the phone, turns to Jake, and says, “Well, that’s that. Daddy will be here in about an hour-and-a-half.”
“Was he mad?” asks Jake.
“Not really. When I told him about what happened in the bus terminal, I think he was so happy I wasn’t hurt badly that he didn’t really care about anything else.”
Jake smiles. “Can he use an extra son?”
Peggy smiles back. “Never know,” she replies.
The motel manager has agreed to let Peggy and Jake remain in the room until her father can drive down from Cortland to pick her up, unless, of course, someone needs the room, in which case “you can stay in the office,” he assures them. Jake decides that he better keep moving, and declines Peggy’s offer to wait and have her father drive him home, too. The two exchange addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses, promising to stay in touch. Jake gathers up his things, gives Peggy a quick peck on the cheek, and says goodbye. She stands in the doorway of the motel room, and watches him slog through the unplowed snow in the parking lot, and out onto the highway. Soon, he is walking backward, thumb extended, and before long, is out of sight.
Now, waiting alone for her father to arrive, she reflects upon how fortunate she has been. Despite being mugged in the Port Authority Terminal, she has managed to meet a nice boy, whom she’ll probably manage to see again (if she’s lucky), and will probably be home in time for lunch. Add to that the fact that she can look forward to spending the Christmas holidays with her family, and all in all, she is one lucky girl.
Someone else, however, will be less fortunate.
Chapter 53
The girl is screaming. The sound is coming from the next room – or maybe outside – and I can’t move. Duct tape is wrapped tightly around my hands and feet, and across my eyes and mouth. My nose is uncovered, however, and at least I can breathe. Unfortunately, the odor that I smell makes me wish I couldn’t. It has a strong metallic component, one that I’ve smelled before. It’s blood. But, whose blood is it?
The screaming is louder now. The girl is calling my name, “Matt! Matt!” I try to move, but it’s useless. I feel moisture running down my forehead and dripping onto my chest. I imagine it’s blood. I think I know whose blood I smell. It’s mine.
“Help me, Matt!” screams the girl. “He’s going to kill me!”
A light appears, and suddenly I’m in my office, a piece of paper is in my hands. I look down at the piece of paper, and letters start to appear, one at a time, until they form a sentence: “She ain’t the first.”
“What does it mean? What the hell does it mean?”
Nancy Cooper is there and she says, “It’s all about those boots, Matt. And, the Andrews Sisters. Don’t you just love the Andrews Sisters?”
Now, I’m at Cathy’s Creek, wading in the water. The water is red – blood red – and rising quickly. Soon, it’s nearly up to my chin. I try to stand up on my toes, but it’s no use; the water is still rising. Ahead of me, an arm suddenly erupts from the surface of the water. There’s an MIA bracelet clamped around its wrist, but there’s no hand.
“Help me!” It’s the girl’s voice again. “Find him! Find him before he kills again!”
“But, how? I don’t know how!”
“You have to find him,” screams the voice. “Please!”
Now, the voice belongs to Rita Valdez, my ex-partner. She’s calling from the end of a dark corridor. I drop to my knees, and begin crawling toward the sound. The faster I crawl, the further the sound recedes. I fall onto my back. Suddenly a bright light is shining in my eyes…
“Matt? Are you alright? Matt?”
“Turn off the light. I have to find the sound. There’s too much blood…”
“Matt, honey, are you okay?”
“Too much blood,” I say. And then I’m awake.
“God, Matt, you’re soaked.” It’s Val, and she’s leaning over me, blotting my forehead with a washcloth. “You were screaming so loud,” she says. “You scared me.”
The images are fading rapidly. In seconds, they are completely gone. I feel foolish, like a child who’s wet his bed, whose mother is trying to make him feel better. I don’t like feeling this way. “I’m fine, Val. Really I am.”
“Why don’t we have a piece of pie, maybe a cup of herbal tea?” she asks. “Then, you’ll feel better, and we can get back to sleep. It’s only three-thirty. There’s plenty of time.”
I look up at my wife’s beautiful face. This is the face that has always been there for me. The only face I ever need. “I’m sorry, Val,” I say. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I guess I was dreaming about that girl—about that case.”
“I’m sure you were,” says Val, her voice soft and reassuring. “You’ve been trying too hard, honey. Maybe you’ll just have to accept the fact that you’ll never catch him. You’ve said it yourself, that less than twenty percent of all murders are ever solved. Isn’t that right?”
“I know, but―”
“So, maybe this is one of those cases—one of the unsolvable ones. It’s been too long, Matt. It really has.”
The realization that I might never catch this killer is almost too much for me to bear. But, Val is wrong about one thing. We’ve made progress, good progress. After a
ll, it may be over six months since the murder, but we’ve only been on the case for a month or two. Still, I suspect her hunch might be on the money—and it makes me sick.
“Come on,” says Val. “Let’s go have that pie. Who knows, maybe somebody will walk into your office tomorrow and confess—right out of the blue.”
“Yeah. Fat chance.”
“Okay; fair enough,” says Val. “But, it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I can think of something else that would be nicer.”
Later, as I sit in the kitchen, devouring a piece of hot apple pie (with just a small dollop of vanilla ice cream on it), I think of what it must be like for the mother of the deceased girl. Even if we can catch the killer, she’ll never get her daughter back. Never. And that’s something she’ll have to live with for the rest of her life. I imagine what I’d like to do to the son of a bitch who killed a child of mine.
Val looks at me from across the table, her feet touching mine beneath the table. “Penny for your thoughts,” she says.
I take a sip of my Sleepy Time herbal tea and smile. “You don’t want to know,” I reply. Believe me; you don’t want to know.
Chapter 54
Olivia, the previous year – day one, late evening
Warren Joseph has been driving nearly an hour-and-a-half, and the steady breathing of the sleeping girl next to him is starting to make him sleepy. He wonders if he can actually make it into the city without stopping. Just after he exits the Quickway, pays the toll and begins the brief journey along the New York State Thruway south to where he can pick up Route 17 in New Jersey, Warren decides he can’t go another mile. He desperately needs to find a rest area. If memory serves him correctly, there should be one just ahead.
Pulling off onto the shoulder of the road, he reaches across, and gently shakes the sleeping girl. “Hey, kid,” he says. “I don’t think I can make it any further. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I gotta get some shuteye.”
Olivia mumbles something unintelligible, and resumes sleeping. “Suit yourself, kid,” says Warren. “I’m pulling into the rest area up ahead and catching myself some Zs.” The only response from Olivia is the droning of her gentle snoring. Warren puts the truck back into gear, and resumes driving. Five minutes later, he spots the rest stop, and pulls the pickup into the parking area, navigating between eighteen-wheelers and light posts, until he finds a secluded place all the way to the rear. He leaves the motor running, turns the heater to a slightly higher setting, and reclines his seat as far back as it will go. In less than two minutes, he has joined Olivia in dreamland. In reality, the two couldn’t be farther apart.
When morning comes, Warren wakes with a start. For a split second, he is back in the desert. Then, with his heart beating wildly, he looks to his right, sees Olivia’s sleeping form, and remembers – sort of – where he is. Oh Jesus, he thinks, what the hell have I got myself into? He reaches over, and tenderly taps Olivia on the shoulder, trying to wake the girl without startling her. Slowly, she opens her eyes, looking at but not really seeing Warren’s face in front of hers. Then, her eyes open wide, and Olivia sits up with a start. “What the—”
“Relax, kid,” says Warren. “It’s me, Warren. Remember?”
As the fog of sleep begins to dissipate, Olivia’s face reveals a hint of recognition, and she smiles sleepily. “Oh, yeah, Warren. What happened?”
“What happened is that I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more, and I decided I needed to crash.”
“Where are we?” asks Olivia.
“Rest area,” replies Warren. “Just inside Jersey. We can make it into the city in less than an hour.”
Stretching her arms in front of her, Olivia yawns, saying, “Awesome. I can’t wait to get to the Y.”
Warren scratches his head, then turns to the girl, and says, “Yeah, listen, about those plans. I think I’ve changed my mind. If it’s all the same, I think I’ll just drop you at the Y, and head on back to New York State.”
“But, what about the meat packing district?” asks Olivia. “I thought you said you wanted to find a job?”
Warren looks out the window, with his back facing the girl. “Yeah, well,” he explains. “The more I think about it, the less the idea appeals to me. That city’s a sewer, you know. I mean it’s okay for you kids and all. But, for guys like me…well…I’d only get in trouble. You know what I mean?”
Olivia is confused. “I guess,” she replies, softly. “But, what will you do?”
“Oh, I imagine I’ll go back home, and see if I can’t square things with the old lady.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” says Warren. “I think that’s the best thing right now.” Then, taking a deep breath, Warren starts the engine, shifts into gear, and drives out of the rest area, onto the highway. “Let’s see if we can’t find that Y, okay?”
“Sure,” sighs Olivia. “It’s on West 14th Street, between Avenue of the Americas and Seventh Avenue. Here’s the address.” She hands Warren a slip of paper, which he stuffs in his shirt pocket.
In just under an hour, Warren turns off the Avenue of the Americas onto West 14th Street, and slides the pickup in front of the YMCA, double-parking alongside a pizza delivery truck. Jesus, they sure start early with the junk food. Scanning the street in both directions for any sign of a meter maid, he decides its safe, and jumps out to help Olivia, who is struggling to get her knapsack out from behind her seat.
“Here,” he says, taking the heavy knapsack from the girl, “I’ll help you carry this inside.”
Olivia looks up and down the block, frowns, and says, “Maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to get a ticket.”
Warren laughs. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. “Even if I get one, they’ll never collect. So come on. At least let me carry the damn thing to the front door.”
“Okay,” laughs Olivia. “But, I warn you. It’s heavy.”
They make an unlikely-looking couple, as they walk together to the front of the building: he a middle-aged man, and she a mere teenager. As soon as they reach the entrance, Warren sets the knapsack down and reaches out to shake Olivia’s hand. Sensing his discomfort, and almost in spite of it, she throws her arms around the man’s neck and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Well, I guess this is it,” she says. “I don’t really like goodbyes, so I think I’ll just say ‘see you around.’”
“Yeah,” replies Warren with a laugh, “I don’t like ‘em either. Usually I just slip out the back door or something.” He looks down at the ground, and it’s obvious to Olivia that the statement has more meaning than he’s willing to admit. It’s a very awkward moment for both of them, and they just stand there quietly, each one apparently trying to figure out what to do next. Finally, Warren breaks the silence. “Well, I guess I’ll see ya kid.” He starts to walk away, and then stops. ‘Hey kid,” he says. “You know something?”
“What?”
“I think you’re gonna make a terrific model.” He starts to walk, then stops once again. “Oh, and one more thing…”
“Yeah?”
Warren starts to laugh. “Don’t forget to call your mother.” And, with that, he turns away, and heads for the pickup.
“Thanks for everything Warren!” shouts Olivia at his back. “And don’t worry. I will.”
But, she doesn’t; at least, not right away. Determined not to contact her family until she finds a job, it’s more than two weeks before she even tries. By then, her mother and brother have moved, and only a frantic call to a relative enables her to get back in touch with them.
And, Warren doesn’t head for home. The winters are much too cold there he’s decided, so, instead he steers his way to the New Jersey Turnpike – and south – towards Florida.
Chapter 55
Bobcat reeks of Chinese food. I can tell by the expression on his face that he’s got something to tell me. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then burps, grins sheepishly, and waits for me to ask the obvious question. For a second
, I hesitate, but I don’t have the heart to postpone his impending revelation. “So? How did you make out?”
In response, Bob plops a manila folder onto my desk. “Lots of pictures,” he says. “Very pretty girl. And, the mother wasn’t nearly as much of a hard case as I had expected. Her husband’s in Attica, doing five years for armed robbery. That’s why she finally felt safe to call us.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and extracts the evidence bag containing the hairbrush, dangling it in front of me. “And, I got this,” he says, proudly.
“Nice work. Shouldn’t be any problem getting a DNA sample from that. I’ll get it off to the lab first thing in the morning.” I pick up the manila folder, and begin to look slowly through the pictures. A few are posed, probably for a school yearbook, and others are candid. But, there is one thing consistent in each image—a certain appearance, a certain feel. It’s a kind of look with which I’ve become way too familiar during my years in law enforcement. It’s the look of desperation. Suddenly, I’m filled with a sense of dread that I haven’t known in some time. With a sigh, I return the pictures to the folder, closing it, and setting it back down on my desk.
When I look up, Bobcat is still standing there. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. It doesn’t take much to make some people happy. I only wish I could share in his enthusiasm.
The following day, I receive a call from Frank Lynn.
“You won’t believe it,” he shouts. “She’s in Miami Beach, at some fancy hotel.”
“Who is?”
“Wanda. After I talked to you, I decided to call the credit card companies, you know, and cancel the cards—so she can’t keep buyin’ all that shit. All of a sudden, I get this call. She’s screamin’ at me, sayin’ all she needed was a little break. She tried to use the card at some restaurant, and they told her it was no good. She wants to know why I canceled the credit cards. So, I told her…”
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 20