by T. R. Ragan
Detective Yuhasz had left her a voice message letting her know there was still no sign of Diane Weaver, but that they’d located her brother, Eric. He and his wife had been murdered. He hadn’t given her details, only that Lara wasn’t there.
Every time they got a lead in the case, any and all hope was instantly dashed.
Fin the tattoo artist was dead.
And what about the name Patrick? Right before Cecelia Doyle died, she’d said she worked for Patrick. Faith couldn’t exactly track down every Patrick in the United States.
It was early in the morning as she walked down the corridor to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. She got in line and checked her messages—still no word from Robyn Price.
Two women ahead of her kept looking over their shoulders at Faith. They were trying to whisper, but Faith could hear every word.
“I was in my daughter’s room on the second floor when I overheard the nurses talking about that McMann woman.”
“I read about the attack in the paper,” her friend said. “It’s a miracle her mother is alive.”
“I wonder if that McMann woman has any idea how lucky they are that they didn’t lose her. And she’s not out of the water yet. Brain injuries can lead to all kinds of problems.”
A tsking noise came next. “Just last night my husband asked me what exactly the woman was trying to prove. Our taxes pay the police to investigate and protect the community for a reason.”
“Exactly. When is she going to understand that those kids of hers are gone and are never coming back?”
Stunned, Faith was about to walk off when Corrie Perelman appeared from the front of the line, marched over to the two gossipers, and said, “Where do you two get off talking that way? Faith McMann is standing right behind you, for God’s sakes.”
“It’s all right,” Faith said, trying to escape without making a scene.
“No, it’s not. If it weren’t for Faith McMann, I never would have found my daughter. I hope neither of you ever have to be put through something as horrible as having a child taken from you. It would serve you both well to mind your own business.”
Corrie took Faith by the shoulders and steered her away from the awful women. She took her to a table in the far corner of the cafeteria and then brought her a mug of hot coffee. She sat down across from Faith and told her, “Don’t fret about a word they said. They’re probably worried about their own sick or injured family members and taking it out on you.”
“You’re probably right. Thanks.”
“Not a problem. If I had a nickel for every horrible thing someone said to me when Samantha was missing, I would be a rich woman.”
“How’s Samantha doing?”
“She’s pretty messed up, actually.” Corrie stirred cream and sugar into her cup, took a long swallow, and said, “But her doctor told me this morning that she’ll be coming home soon.” She looked heavenward. “It’s not going to be easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever is.”
Faith nodded in understanding.
“What’s your next step?” Corrie asked.
Faith checked her phone again, then let out a long, ponderous sigh.
“What is it?”
“There’s this woman. She called my mother before Mom was attacked, said she wanted to talk to me about my kids, but then she disconnected the call. I’ve called her at least a half-dozen times, but she won’t return my calls.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Orlando, Florida.” Faith’s brow furrowed. “What am I waiting for? If she won’t answer her phone, then fuck it. I’ll go knock on her damn door.”
Corrie had pulled out her cell phone and was quick with her thumbs, tapping away. “If you hurry,” Corrie said, “you can make the next flight out of Sacramento and get to Florida before dinnertime.”
Faith jumped to her feet, then leaned over and hugged Corrie. “Thank you,” Faith said as she pulled away. Their gazes met, and Faith thought there was something comforting about looking into the eyes of someone like Corrie, someone who knew what she was going through and maybe even knew what she was feeling: anguish, heartache, hopelessness, and hope all rolled into one.
“Good luck,” Corrie called out as Faith walked away.
THIRTY-TWO
A storm brewed overhead as Miranda took a good, long look at the house at the top of the hill in Oakland, California. Gusts of wind made the long, skinny trunks and wide leaves of the palms lining the driveway sway to and fro.
Jack Byron, the man who’d paid Mother to have his way with her, lived in that house.
She’d always known she and the ugly old man would meet again; she just never thought it would happen so soon. But luck had been on her side the day she and Faith had driven to San Francisco. When Faith went to get her car, Miranda told her she needed to go to the bathroom. Instead she’d run as fast as she could back to where Cecelia Doyle had been shot down, and she’d taken the woman’s wallet and cell phone. Sirens had wailed in the distance, but she’d gotten away before they arrived.
Spending time with Little Vinnie, Beast, and Rage had worked out well, too. Beast had allowed her to look over his shoulder as he used the Internet to find all sorts of information about random people. Since Miranda didn’t know much about technology, she’d asked a lot of questions, including how to unlock an iPhone. A four-digit code was all she needed. Thankfully, Cecelia Doyle ended up being an easy nut to crack. It took only three tries to guess the passcode: 1-2-3-4.
Breaking into the phone turned out to be the easy part. Looking through Cecelia’s contact list took much longer. But Miranda kept at it, and right there on the calendar, on the exact date Miranda was repeatedly raped, was the name Smith/S. F. and a phone number. She’d given the number to Beast and asked him if one of his fancy Internet search engines, or whatever they were called, could figure out who the number belonged to. It had worked! Beast had pulled up an address and photos of a man named Jack Byron.
One look at his photo was all it had taken for Miranda to see that Jack Byron was the same man who had raped and sodomized her.
A part of her had wanted to stay in Roseville. Spending time with Little Vinnie, Beast, and Rage had had been cool, no doubt about it. Rage had taught Miranda how to use the Internet and YouTube, all the things she hadn’t been able to do while she was hidden away at the farmhouse. What Miranda hadn’t enjoyed was seeing how sick Rage was. Rage hardly ate. She pretended to, but when Little Vinnie and Beast were out of the room, she dumped her meals down the disposal.
Miranda liked Rage. She was caring and thoughtful. From little bits Faith had told her, she knew Rage had had a tough childhood. She’d hit bottom when she was forced to give up her little boy, Christopher. It sucked that the adoption agency wouldn’t make an exception and tell her where her son was.
Recently Miranda had read a quote about suffering and how one’s suffering could help to reveal one’s true self. It was an interesting idea. It made sense that without suffering it might be difficult for some to see the true glory of a rising sun or imagine the struggles of a single blade of grass as it pushed its way through the soil.
Miranda had no idea why some people were meant to suffer more than others.
It was what it was.
And all that mattered in this moment was that Miranda’s suffering had brought her here to Oakland where the ugly old man named Jack lived.
She sighed.
It was time to give the old man a taste of his own medicine, show him what it felt like to have no control over his body or situation.
After using black spray paint to cover the lens of the outside camera by the front gate, Miranda climbed over the iron fence and walked up the long drive, careful to stay low. As she approached the side yard, she could see amazing views of the Bay Area, bridges, and San Francisco. It was a nice place. The pervert didn’t deserve to live here.
A gust of wind chilled her to the bone. Miranda pulled the blue knit cap lower over her ears. A bolt of
lightning struck close by and lit the place up.
Startled, she took a second to calm her nerves. She’d never broken into a house before, but once again the Internet had come in handy. She’d borrowed a tension wrench from Beast’s vast collection of tools and then watched a couple of YouTube videos on how to use it to get inside a locked door.
Using an online real estate site had given her access to photos of the inside. The exterior was made up of mostly stone, surrounded by perfectly manicured landscaping. Her plan was to go in through a courtyard leading into one of the smaller rooms in the house.
She made it through the side gate without a problem. No barking dogs. No alarms, at least none she could hear. She was about to enter the courtyard, a ten-by-ten area surrounded by eight-foot walls of stone, but then she saw a shadowy figure through a window.
It was him.
Although the day was gloomy with dark clouds and random bursts of lightning, there was enough daylight to see his stringy gray hair from where she stood. He walked away, disappearing to the other side of the house. She tried the closest door, surprised when it opened. Quietly, she shut the door behind her, then stood there and listened.
She was standing in a room with cedar walls. There was a steam room to her left and stacks of plush white towels in a basket. She peeked out the door and into the hallway. Stone walls and hardwood floors. She took a step back, pulled out the Taser Faith had given her when they went to San Francisco, and readied it. Then she put on her gloves and mask and stepped out into the hallway. Time to say hello to Jack Byron.
THIRTY-THREE
Once Mom fell asleep, Jana walked out of the hospital room and into the hallway to check messages on her cell phone. As usual, Faith wasn’t answering her phone and had yet to return her call.
What was she up to now? Jana wondered.
Feeling the need to stretch, Jana began her daily trek to the Family Birthing Center to look at all the babies. Her phone buzzed.
It was her friend Dee Dee.
Jana pushed the “Talk” button and said, “Hello.”
“You owe me big-time,” Dee Dee blurted. “I have news about the boy your friend gave up for adoption.”
Chills raced up Jana’s spine. “I can’t believe it. This is wonderful news.”
“Thanks to a connection I have with the National Adoption Center and due to your friend’s illness, I was able to get some information. The boy’s adoptive parents’ surname is Fryer. And get this—they live less than an hour away in Placerville.”
“This is amazing. You’re amazing. What do we do next? Do you have a number where I can reach the Fryers?”
“No, but I was given an address. I don’t know the couple’s first names, either. You’re going to have to visit them personally and then cross your fingers and hope they haven’t moved.”
“Wow, this is crazy. What if they refuse to talk to me?”
“That’s a chance you’re going to have to take. And I’m sorry, Jana, but you can’t mention my name or say anything about how you found out where they lived.”
“Of course. You have my word. I’ve never heard of you.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Dee Dee. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty, and no matter what happens, I’ll find a way to repay you.”
“No need. I was kidding about you owing me anything. I’m happy to help. Any news about your niece and nephew?”
“No. Nothing. Dad and Colton are still in Mendocino. We haven’t heard a word. Mom is doing better and should be released from the hospital in the next day or two. Who knows where Faith is. She’s a wreck.”
“Understandably so. I can’t imagine anyone taking my children. I would go berserk. Literally.”
Jana rubbed her belly. She felt suddenly sheepish for telling Faith to stop searching for her children. It had been a selfish thing for her to say.
“I have to go now,” Dee Dee said, “but please let me know how everything goes. I hope the little boy’s mom gets to meet him before it’s too late.”
“I hope so, too,” Jana said. “I’ll let you know. Thanks again.”
It was after five, Eastern Daylight Time, by the time Faith disconnected her call to Mom, letting her know where she was, and parked across the street from the house on Ensenada Drive in Orlando, Florida. According to Beast, Robyn Price was divorced with two grown children who lived in another state. She worked full-time as a bank manager not too far from her home.
Faith saw the silhouette of a person moving about inside. She climbed out of the rental car and crossed the street. She’d worn comfortable clothes, jeans and a T-shirt, but now she wondered if it might have benefited her to wear something nicer, something more inviting since she had no idea who Robyn Price really was and who exactly she was dealing with.
As she came up the walkway and approached the front door, she heard music playing inside. Faith took a breath and then pushed the doorbell.
The music stopped, but no one came to the door.
Faith waited another minute before ringing the bell again. She saw the curtain move.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked from inside the house.
“It’s Faith McMann. My mother told me you called. I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now.”
There was a long stretch of silence before she said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I was told you might know something about the whereabouts of my children.”
“Go away.”
“I can’t. I won’t. I’ll stand here all night if I have to. And I think you know—”
The door opened. The woman’s face was thin and pale. She had a frantic look about her, contrasting greatly with the soothing music Faith had heard only a moment ago.
With jerky motions, Robyn Price waved Faith inside, then looked around outside before she shut and locked the door behind her. “Were you followed here?”
“I don’t think so.”
Robyn was a tiny thing, with a pointy nose and small, round eyes. She walked to the front window, took a peek through the blinds, then put a hand to her forehead as if that might help her think of what to do next.
Faith noticed more than one piece of luggage off to the side. On the coffee table was a purse, wallet, and passport.
“You should have told me you would be paying me a visit,” Robyn scolded. “I never would have allowed you to come to the house.”
“If you had returned my phone calls, I wouldn’t have needed to come at all. You called me for a reason,” Faith said. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll leave.”
Robyn did not look pleased. Her shoulders fell slightly before she motioned toward the living area and told Faith to have a seat.
The walls were beige and without decoration. There was a couch and a coffee table. Nothing more. The entire house was unembellished and sparsely furnished.
As instructed, Faith took a seat and then watched Robyn disappear. The woman was going on a trip. How long, she wondered, was Robyn going to be gone? She was scared, no doubt about it. But why?
There was a knock on the door just as Robyn returned to the room carrying a three-ring binder. She looked through the peephole, then opened the door and pointed to her suitcases and bags. Through the living room window, Faith watched the driver carry her luggage to the dark sedan parked at the curb.
Robyn brought the binder to Faith and handed it to her. “Here. It’s your problem now.”
“You’re going on a trip and you’re not coming back, are you?” Faith asked.
“No. I won’t be coming back.”
“Who are you afraid of?”
“Everyone.” She rubbed her hands together nervously.
After the driver took a second load to the car, Robyn said, “I had a moment of weakness when I called you and talked to your mother. I’ve regretted it ever since.”
Faith started to open the binder, but Robyn stopped her. “I’d rather you look through it later, after I’m gone. I sugg
est you view it in the privacy of your home.”
“Why—what is this?”
“Its contents are the epitome of evil and everything that’s wrong with the world. I didn’t return your calls for many reasons, but mostly because I was afraid for my life.” She stopped to ask the driver, who had just returned, if he would mind waiting for her in the car. He nodded, tipped his head, and quickly disappeared.
Robyn paced the living room as she talked. “I grew up with two brothers,” she began. “Randy and Richard, opposites in every way. Randy was a troublemaker from the start, the sort of boy who pulled girls’ hair and ripped the wings from butterflies. I’ll spare you the worst of it, but it came as no surprise to anyone in the family when Randy got involved with drugs and trafficking. We just never thought in a million years he’d drag his brother down with him.” She shook her head. “Richard did well in school and put himself through law school. He became a public defender and spent sixty hours a week fighting for the underdogs, people who worked hard but just needed a little help.”
Having confirmation that Robyn Price’s brothers might have something to do with her children’s abduction caused Faith’s pulse to race. But she remained still. She needed to stay calm and keep the woman talking. “Do you know who killed Richard?”
“Ah,” she said. “So, you’ve heard of my brothers?”
“Richard’s name has come up, yes. I’m sorry about his death.”
“He doesn’t deserve your sympathy or mine. You won’t be sorry once you’ve had a chance to take a look through that binder you’re holding.” She put her passport inside her purse and then grabbed her coat. “I have to go. My phone’s been disconnected, so there’s no reason for you to try and reach me again.”
Faith stood with the binder clutched tightly in her arms. “So why all the secrecy?”
Robyn paused for a moment before she turned back to face Faith. “Because if anyone ever finds out what my brother sent me, I’m as good as dead. Someday, somehow, they will find out. And when they do, they’ll come after me. And now you.”