She's Not There

by Marla Madison

  Last autumn, on a day much like today, Lisa had stopped to sit on a bench during one of her walks along the lake. She’d been nervous when a black dog appeared in front of her out of nowhere. But the animal had simply sat and stared at her—sadly, it seemed. After a minute it came closer and leaned against her leg.

  Concerned about the animal, she’d taken time out of her schedule to drop it off at the county animal shelter. A day later, Lisa bought a crate, dog bed, food, and a leash. By the end of the next day the dog, who Lisa’s daughter Paige named Phantom because of her shiny black coat, became a happy resident in Lisa’s home. Her name quickly evolved to Phanny and she became Lisa’s best friend.

  Through the window, she saw pink rays of sun seeping out from behind a low stretch of steel-blue clouds, promising a pleasant morning. She had time to walk into town with Phanny and pick up a cup of steamy designer coffee.

  When she arrived back home an hour later, Lisa showered, dressed for the office, and settled in at her desk to answer calls and go over her schedule. A message from Amanda Hawkins, director of the Women’s Center, was tagged Urgent.

  Amanda picked up her phone on the first ring. “Lisa, have you seen yesterday’s paper?”

  “No, why?”

  “It’s in a small column in the ‘surrounding counties’ section of the Journal. A client has gone missing. Jamie Denison.”

  Lisa’s nerves coiled. “Are you aware that she didn’t show up for her appointment yesterday?”

  “Yes. Donna said you filed a Missed Appointment notice.”

  Lisa leaned back in her chair, attempting calm as a sense of foreboding overcame her. “Jamie’s always been reliable. When she didn’t show up, I tried her cell but she didn’t pick up. She wasn’t at her job, either. When I tried her home phone, someone answered and asked if I were Jamie calling. I couldn’t say who I was of course and apologized for dialing a wrong number. I’ve been worried about her.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you knew and I wanted you to hear it from me in case you hadn’t.”

  “I appreciate that, Amanda. Did the article say what happened?”

  “No. It was only a small piece. It did say that her car hasn’t been found, so I would imagine they think she left of her own volition.”

  “Hopefully, Jamie just needed to get away by herself to do some serious thinking. Amanda, I need to talk to you about something. I’m afraid it might be related to this. Someone informed me that there’s been a dramatic increase in the number of abused women who’ve gone missing. The numbers were based on figures accumulated by the Women’s Centers.”

  Lisa heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. They made an appointment to talk and Lisa hung up the phone, noticing the clouds that had been dispersing earlier had regrouped, taking over the sky. A chill traveled through her as the two events, the missing women, and Jamie’s disappearance, merged in her mind like a bad omen

  4

  A coworker advised Jeff Denison to hire an attorney. A disturbing suggestion, but Jeff knew without being told if it turned out his wife’s disappearance was not of her own design, he would be the prime suspect. But this wasn’t about him—it was about Jamie. Where the hell was she?

  He’d left the police station that morning with no more knowledge of what had happened to her than when he arrived. And he hadn’t had to be a detective himself to see what they were thinking—she’d left him.

  It was noon before he arrived back at his townhouse to meet Jamie’s parents. They’d been in constant touch since Saturday morning when he’d gotten home after being in Appleton for three days and found his wife gone.

  Sitting at a table centered by an untouched plate of sandwiches, the three of them, Jeff and Jamie’s parents, faced each other’s panic.

  Jamie’s mother wiped her eyes. “Are they even looking for her?”

  Jeff had already laid out every word of his meeting with the Brookfield police department. He was losing patience. Sitting here doing nothing but talking about it was killing him. “Yes, of course they are. There’s a statewide notice out for her car, and they’re questioning all her friends. I imagine they’ll talk to you soon.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder what they’d have to say. Her parents shared his frantic concern about their daughter, but their eyes seemed to be glazed with suspicion. Or maybe that was just his imagination, lack of sleep, and too much coffee making him paranoid.

  They admitted having an appointment with the police early that afternoon. Jeff felt a twinge of guilt at his relief that they would be leaving soon. He had to do something. Drive around and look for her car? Anything but sit here and endlessly discuss her absence, while the 911 call, with its subtle accusations, lay huddled in the corner like an evil presence.

  He said, “They seem to think she’s just gone somewhere to be alone.” He didn’t add, “to get away from me,” but the thought had crossed his mind.

  Her mother sniffled. “She would never go away without letting us know.”

  Jeff didn’t think so either, but he had to keep hoping that was exactly what she’d done. Struggling not to think about the alternative, he told himself that any moment now she’d come walking through the door.

  After Jamie’s parents left, Jeff drove around the area, searching for Jamie’s car until he finally admitted it was a senseless pursuit. He returned home to spend the evening searching through Jamie’s things, looking for any clue to where she might have gone. He was surprised to find her checkbook mixed in with the clutter in one of the drawers. But Jamie was an avid credit card user, and only wrote checks if she had to. As he flipped through the duplicates of the checks she’d written in the last few months, a name caught his eye. Each week for the five weeks before her disappearance, there was a check made out to the Women’s Center of Oconomowoc.

  Jeff knew what that meant. She’d tried to get him to go to counseling with her but he had put her off more than once. Jamie must have decided to go by herself; the fact that she hadn’t told him about it added to his torment.

  He lost himself in his work the next day, grateful that the others were leaving him alone. An electrical engineer, Jeff was a chip and circuit designer.

  Jobs in the field were rare, and when he’d gotten the offer to work at Durand Systems, a company manufacturing state-of-the-art defense equipment, he’d been thrilled to find work in his desired field and still be able to stay in the Milwaukee area.

  His coworkers were supportive and sympathetic. He hadn’t seen anything in their eyes like he had in Jamie’s parents. Not yet anyway.

  Later that morning, thoughts of Jamie overwhelmed him. He was trying to force his thoughts back to the project he was working on when the piped in music caught his attention. Someone had put on an oldies station. His stomach knotted as he recalled the lyrics; they were from a haunting song he’d never given any thought to. But now . . .

  “Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright—but she’s not there . . .”

  He put his work aside and took out the slip of paper with the phone number he’d written down the night before. In the stark light of day, the numbers stood out as if they had something to tell him. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number of the Women’s Center.

  5

  Seven years earlier

  The Grotto, one of the newer nightspots in the Third Ward, a tony area south of downtown Milwaukee, had a waiting line in front of its door by ten any night of the week.

  After waiting in line an hour for the privilege, a man sat at the bar ordering a drink and thought it had better be worth it. Reflected in the mirror behind the bar that ran the length of the room, a face looked back at him—a face he’d yet to accept as his own. Sometimes it morphed into the old face—repulsively ugly.

  Tonight’s club outing was an experiment; he needed to make an effort to get out with people and achieve comfort in his new persona. It would be easier in a place he remained anonymous.

  He’d barely taken a
sip of his drink when a red-haired woman leaned in and asked if he would call the bartender over for her. With no encouragement, she stayed glued to his side, boring him with idle chatter. Nauseated by the floral scent of her overpowering perfume, he had a mental flash of the bouncer tossing her out into the street where she landed in front of a speeding truck. They should kick people out for being boring—or wearing tacky cologne.

  Then he spotted her. At the far end of the bar, clutching a martini and swaying to the beat of the music, was a woman he’d known in graduate school. And despised. The bitch had been one of the reasons for his intended life-ending plunge across the riverbank in the truck.

  Her name was Nicole. She was hot—curvaceous and leggy in a shimmery blue dress. The dress and her long auburn hair lit up in flashes of color from the lightshow that accompanied the band. He remembered the small bouquet of freckles adorning the bridge of her nose, delightful when she laughed. But she’d never laughed with him. Always at him.

  Suddenly, she looked his way, smiling. He realized she had no way of knowing who she was flirting with—would never recognize the man he’d become. An image flicked through his mind—a picture of her lying in the street next to the redhead—both of their bodies crushed, their lovely faces obliterated.

  An urge to get her alone crept through him. There were things he wanted to tell he, show her, do to her. He wanted to fuck her so hard she’d scream for mercy. He watched as she went out on the dance floor, merging with the steamy mass of writhing bodies.

  He ditched the redhead. And waited. He didn’t have to wait long before she approached. It had been so easy. Before he had time to buy her another martini she suggested they go to her place, which was only a short distance from the club.

  Inside her apartment she put on music and poured them a glass of wine. As soon as he set down his wine glass, she was all over him. In seconds, he was hard, his breathing rapid. When she rose from the couch, leading him to her bedroom, he followed, practically panting. They had their clothes off in an instant. With none of the niceties of foreplay, they fell onto the bed and he pushed inside of her, thrusting with a frenzy of pent up sexuality.

  When he rolled off of her, he knew she hadn’t been satisfied. But before he’d caught his breath, she climbed on top of him, her breath hot on his chest as she nibbled downward. He gasped with exquisite pleasure when she reached her target. In the dim rays from a tiny nightlight, he saw her wild tresses drifting across his abdomen, her full lips making love to his cock.

  Without warning, a hot, bubbling hatred invaded his ecstasy, curiously spiking his enjoyment. This woman would never have even spoken to his former, hideously ugly self, much less sucked his dick. She was a bitch who’d laughed at him behind his back—how could he have ignored that?

  He reached down as if to caress her face. His increasing wrath nearly took on a life of its own as he pulled her off of him. She rolled onto her back, smiling wantonly as he pinned her to the bed. His hands reached for her throat, encircled it and began to tighten while her beautiful features became a mask of wild terror. She struggled against him, gasping for air as his fingers continued their vise-like grasp on her slender neck. His hands wrung her tender flesh until she no longer struggled beneath him.

  He studied her as she laid there: a picture of serenity, hair a sunburst of curls on the pillow, her makeup worn off, the tiny freckles on her nose exposed. Death suited her; her beauty was displayed in front of him like an opened rose.

  Her killer was breathless, awestruck by the act he’d committed. Savoring the memory of his hands on her throat, the feeling that he’d had the ultimate power over her, he became aware of the huge erection jutting from his groin. Still gasping for breath, he took it in his hand .

  6

  Wednesday morning after Lisa finished with her early clients she heard a troubled message from Jeff Denison on her voice mail. How had he managed to find her? The Center wouldn’t have given out that information. Unsure how she wanted to handle his call, she left the office, confident that a noon-hour walk would give her direction. The day was beautiful, the trees brilliant in a full palette of fall splendor.

  The mystery of the statistical increase in missing women and Jamie Denison’s disappearance weighed heavily in Lisa’s thoughts. She’d been trying to decide what to do about it. Amanda Hawkins, though alarmed, had only been able to tell Lisa she’d check into the numbers and get back to her.

  The dilemma though, had given her a welcome diversion from the breakup with Tyler. She’d arranged to talk with Richard Conlin, a homicide detective in Milwaukee. Maybe that would stir things up.

  Her walk ended at a small deli where she picked up a turkey sandwich and carried it back to the office. She decided to return Denison’s call. However he’d managed to get it, he had her name; she couldn’t un-ring that bell.

  When he answered Lisa introduced herself, and without giving him time to interrupt, launched into a speech about confidentiality, explaining to him that even if she were Jamie’s therapist, she couldn’t discuss anything Jamie had told her in therapy.

  As soon as she’d finished, he said, “I’d like to make an appointment with you—as a client.”

  Before she could protest, he added, “I’m not asking you to tell me anything Jamie said to you. I know you can’t do that. I think therapy might make it easier for me to deal with this, especially if I can talk to someone who understands our situation. Whenever you have an opening, I’ll make time.”

  Lisa, sympathetic to his anguish, knew seeing him wouldn’t be an ideal circumstance for counseling. But the man’s pain had come through during the obviously memorized speech he’d recited.

  She wanted to help him. “How about tonight?”

  Jeff Denison arrived at Lisa’s office promptly at seven. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  He looked exactly how she’d pictured him—a serious young man in his late twenties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a well-pressed denim shirt and khaki’s. If it were possible for someone to look like an engineer, Jeff Denison was the perfect representation.

  “Mr. Denison, after I talked to you this afternoon I double-checked your wife’s paperwork. Because Jamie felt confident that eventually you’d be joining her in therapy, she signed a waiver giving me permission to talk to you. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to discuss anything she told me.”

  Seeing his eager look she quickly added, “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be any help in finding her. She never told me she planned on leaving. I’m sorry.”

  Jeff paled. “If she didn’t leave, what happened to her?”

  “It’s possible her decision to leave was impulsive, not planned out at all.” She knew if she were to be of any help to him, it would be to ease him through his pain. His wife may or may not have met with foul play, but Lisa’s function was to guide him through the aftermath of Jamie’s disappearance.

  7

  Enjoying a rare morning at his desk, Richard Conlin was catching up on an overdue accumulation of paperwork, although as a Milwaukee homicide detective he preferred action to sitting in the office. He’d been sipping coffee while he worked, and regretting his promise to meet with some shrink who was coming in to talk to him. Maybe he could finesse her over to someone else.

  The woman, Lisa Rayburn, was a psychologist and part-time counselor at the Women’s Center in Oconomowoc. Probably writing a freaking book. Two days ago he’d gotten a call from Patty Barkley asking that he talk to Rayburn. Patty, from special crimes, acted as liaison between the department and the Women’s Center. Refusing to see Rayburn would have made him seem unsympathetic to women’s issues.

  He looked up to see a woman with dark blonde hair standing in front of his desk. She held out her hand. “Hi, my name is Lisa Rayburn. Sorry to interrupt, but the woman at the desk told me I could come back.”

  Richard rose, accepting her proffered hand. “No problem. I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.”

  He took in her dark blu
e pantsuit—he hated pantsuits on women. A legman, they hid his favorite part of a woman’s anatomy. She was attractive, about forty give or take, wore her hair pulled back on her neck, and used little, if any, makeup. Everything about her look was conservative; she reminded him of the female attorneys he saw in the courthouse—unapproachable. He preferred his women colorful, flashy even. Good thing his partner wasn’t around, she was definitely his type. With her even features and generous figure she’d be right up Justin’s alley–not fat, but voluptuous by today’s bony standards.

  Lisa knew Conlin was appraising her. She got right to the point of her visit.

  “I’m sorry to take up your time, but I’ve come across something that I believe you should look at. I’ll try to outline it as simply as possible. Then you can tell me whether it’s something that needs your attention.”

  “That works for me. Would you like some coffee? It’s not Starbucks but it’s always strong and hot.”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.

  “Okay, give me the crux of it.”

  “I’m a clinical psychologist. I have an office in Pewaukee and volunteer one afternoon a week at the Women’s Center of Oconomowoc. I’m writing a textbook for clinicians on the treatment of abused women. Most of the prep work for this kind of book deals with finding appropriate case studies and then gathering statistics that are relevant to them.“

  Lisa had decided he didn’t need to know she hadn’t gotten that far with her book yet—that the statistic in question had come from a graduate student. He’d winced when she mentioned the book, so she’d have to be brief.