Making Her Way Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Beth was surprised at the thought. She’d never spent the night in a man’s arms, never woken cuddled up to one. She’d tried sex, of course, but had never been very good at it. Self-conscious about her visible scars, she’d been too protective of her invisible ones to ever lay herself bare, which she suspected truly great sex—certainly real lovemaking—required.

  Why am I so calm?

  Because he’d held her other times, too? Because this was what she’d really wanted last night, when she hoped that he would stay. Because…she trusted him?

  Oh, really smart, she told herself sharply. She’d known the man for less than a week, and in that time he’d been enemy as much as friend. Hot and cold, remember?

  And yet, she thought, bemused, I do. I do trust him.

  She let herself stay where she was long enough to savor this unfamiliar feeling of security and warmth and something more. The sense of being cherished, illusory though it was. I can dream, she thought almost angrily, closed her eyes, breathed him in…and finally, finally, made herself ease, inch by inch, away.

  His chest continued to rise and fall in the same slow rhythm. Reassured, she slipped from bed, found her slippers and robe, and went to deal with the laundry.

  If he’d woken up first, would he have kissed her? What would she have done?

  The ache of hope went cold and died when she thought, What am I doing? How can I be feeling any of this when I don’t know what’s happened to Sicily? When she could already be dead?

  Guilt was an emotion she knew well, one that came naturally to her. It made an excellent protective garment, she discovered as she moved wet clothes to the dryer and then went to the kitchen to start the coffee.

  * * *

  HE BROUGHT A CELL PHONE IN with him for the first time, along with her breakfast. Sicily thought it was breakfast, that this must be morning. When she asked, he said she could use the bathroom before eating.

  Her eyes went right to the window, seeking a glimpse of green plants and daylight. But something glistened blue and purple, like stained glass, and she stopped in place. “What’s that?”

  Behind her, he said, “What’s what…? Oh, the guy upstairs is a loony. That’s a… Nothing that matters to you.” His voice had sharpened. “Go on.”

  She hurried, because she could tell he wasn’t relaxed enough to wander away while she was in the bathroom. When she came out, he herded her back to her room. Sicily took one last look over her shoulder at the shimmery something outside the window, but she still couldn’t see it well enough to be sure what it was.

  Once she sat down on the mattress again, he told her, “Here’s what you’re going to say. ‘Grandma and Granddad, it’s Thursday and I’m okay. Please do what he says so I can come home.’ That’s it, got it?”

  Sicily nodded. She could blurt something out really fast…but what? She didn’t know where she was. Telling them he was holding her in a basement apartment wouldn’t help. Seattle was full of older houses with basements, many of them probably rented out as apartments. And they might not be in Seattle at all. She wished she knew what she was seeing outside, what made the guy upstairs—probably the landlord—loony. But…she didn’t. This meant there was nothing she could say that would do any good.

  Besides, if she cooperated he’d be pleased with her. He might relax. The door was unlocked right now. If there were some way she could, she didn’t know, trip him or something, this might be a good time to run.

  Excitement rose in her. If she could get out of the bedroom far enough ahead of him to shut the door, she could lock it. Lock him in.

  She realized he’d said something and she didn’t know what. She couldn’t let him see what she was thinking! I have to look crushed, she decided. Like it would never occur to me to try to escape on my own.

  She mumbled, “I’m sorry, I was trying to remember what I’m supposed to say.” She made herself sag a little.

  “I told you what to say. I’m going to call now. You keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk, okay?”

  She bobbed her head. There was a nasty edge to his voice that scared her.

  He’d squatted beside the bed, close enough to hand her the phone. He was way bigger than her. She could push and he’d fall on his butt…but he could probably grab her before she could get out of reach.

  He pushed a button and she heard ringing. So he’d already dialed. It only rang twice before a man answered.

  “Laurence Greenway.”

  “Mr. Greenway. Today’s your lucky day. You get that second chance. It’s going to cost you, though. Another million. You have today to get the extra money together.”

  The voice said something.

  “Here’s your proof,” her captor said, and thrust the phone at her. His eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t blow it, kid.”

  Sicily drew a deep breath. “Granddad? Um, this is Sicily.” She tried frantically to remember exactly what she was supposed to say. “I’m okay.” Something else. On a rush of relief she remembered. “This is Thursday. If you do what he says I can go home. So…will you, please?”

  “Sicily!” her grandfather exclaimed, but he snatched the phone back. Before she could make any move, he stood and walked out. She heard him say, “Here’s the deal.” And then he was gone, leaving her breakfast sitting where he’d left it.

  But he had, she discovered on investigating the contents of the bag, brought her an egg-and-bacon sandwich again, this time with little blueberry biscuits.

  * * *

  THE MINUTE HE SAW THE CAR sitting in its designated spot at the Mountlake Terrace apartment complex, Mike knew it was the wrong one. No rusty fender, no dent in the trunk. The paint had been decently protected and still had some shine. He kept going, easing over a speed bump and following the circle around the half dozen identical buildings to reach the exit.

  The address for registered owner number two was in Ballard, a historic Seattle neighborhood. He got back on the freeway and headed south, his thoughts reverting to this morning.

  He’d awakened to find himself alone in Beth’s bed. He wondered if she’d set a Guinness World Record for getting out of bed once she discovered he was also in it. His clean clothes were nowhere to be seen, so he made his appearance in the kitchen in his shorts. Beth had been there, to his disappointment enveloped in a thick, fuzzy robe that was belted snugly around her waist, not revealing the gown of some thin fabric he knew she wore under it.

  She had given him one startled, shy look. “The load should be done any minute,” she said really fast. “You’ll hear the beep. If you think anything needs ironing, I’m glad to do it. I’ll take a shower now. Oh, and the coffee is ready.” And she fled the kitchen.

  He was dressed by the time she reappeared, also dressed. “I never think my clothes need ironing,” he reminded her, and for a moment she almost smiled.

  She had bustled unnecessarily around the kitchen to produce pancakes, really good ones with some kind of whole grain. He was almost done, reaching for his cup to take a last swallow of coffee when she said suddenly, “You slept with me.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “You had a nightmare. You don’t remember?”

  Her lips compressed. Her “no” was doubtful enough he suspected she did—or that some uneasy memory was forming.

  “When I held you, you relaxed. I guess I fell asleep.”

  She gave one brief, sharp nod.

  “Sorry,” he said, not bothering to sound as if he meant it.

  “I…” She was choking on whatever she was trying to get out, but at last she managed. “Thank you.”

  That was all either of them said about last night. Mike found he was feeling pretty good about it, relieved she hadn’t been mad or seemed horrified. He’d set a precedent now. Getting back in her bed would be a litt
le easier next time.

  You wish, he thought, amused at himself.

  Before he’d left her house, Carol Trenor had called to let him know Greenway had gotten another call. He put his phone on speaker so Beth, too, could hear the message as it played. Her breath caught when Sicily spoke, sounding flustered, less sure of herself than she had the other day. Scared?

  Beth had confirmed that yes, that was definitely Sicily, and Carol let the rest of the message roll. Their guy had gotten smarter. Tomorrow morning, Greenway was to set out by himself, if he ever wanted to see his granddaughter alive again, and take his cell phone with him. He’d be given instructions on the go.

  “That’ll be a bitch for you,” Mike said, and he and Carol threw around ideas while Beth withdrew before his very eyes.

  “Just remember, she’s okay,” he reminded her after he’d ended the call, and she nodded, but he could tell this message had hit her hard. He’d hated to leave her.

  He took the Forty-fourth Street exit in Seattle and drove east toward the Sound. The hilly neighborhood consisted of small houses dating to the 1940s or ’50s, many painted white. Some had nice gardens, while other yards had been abandoned to yellowing grass and overgrown junipers. Home owners versus renters, he suspected. To his surprise, the home that was his target had a front yard brimming with flowers, including roses covered with red blooms growing over an iron arbor. The street was steep, the narrow driveway had been carved out of the hillside. A single-car garage made up the basement. He parked at the curb and had to climb a set of concrete steps to reach the level of the yard. Heck, the house actually had an over-the-rooftop glimpse of the Sound.

  A woman came to the door, looking suspicious. He showed his badge and explained that a 1982 Ford Fairmont had been seen at the scene of a crime. He asked if the Fairmont registered to her was still in her possession.

  “No, I sold it. But…oh, no.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth, eyes dismayed. “I never turned in that form to the driver’s licensing place. The man who bought it said he’d register it right away so I didn’t think it was important. He didn’t?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She’d sold it—well, let’s see, maybe a month ago? For hardly anything, which was why she hadn’t thought much about the registration. She thought the transmission was failing, and the brakes had been making noises, and really she’d thought she was lucky to get anything for the car. Had she known the purchaser? No, she’d never met him before. Well, no, she hadn’t advertised, she’d told friends she was getting rid of it and put up a notice at the grocery store where she worked. She remembered that the man had been a friend of a friend—or at least an acquaintance of another checker at the store where she worked. She gave Mike his name and number.

  His last question was, “Can you describe the individual who purchased your car?”

  Her nose wrinkled slightly. “Tall, skinny, long-haired, beard. He kind of made me nervous, to tell you the truth. I’m not sure I’d have let him take a test drive if Chris hadn’t sent him over here.”

  “Brown-haired, black…?”

  “Blond,” she said without hesitation. “His eyes were…well, not brown. Gray or hazel.”

  Mike took out the driver’s license photo of Chad Marks. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

  Her mouth formed a circle as she looked from the photo to Mike’s face. “Why…that’s him!”

  He smiled at her. “You’ve been a great help. Thank you.”

  At last, he had something to go on.

  Back in his Tahoe, he reluctantly decided he had to tell Carol Trenor what he’d learned.

  Her initial reaction was to be irritated that he’d pursued a lead without keeping her informed. When he told her that a woman had identified Chad Marks as the purchaser of the car Mike had seen less than a block from the drop, though, she got over her pique.

  “You’re on your way to talk to the friend who supposedly knows Marks?”

  “I’m ten minutes away from the grocery store where he works.”

  “Good. If you get an address—” her voice had become steel “—you won’t go near it without talking to me first, you understand?”

  Pissed, he said tightly, “I understand. I’ll call as soon as I talk to him.”

  “All right.” He thought she was going to hang up on him, but instead she said, “You’ve got sharp eyes. No one else noticed the car.”

  “I was hanging back a little.”

  “Good thing,” she said, and left him with dead air.

  Forty-five minutes later, his optimism had taken a dive. The manager informed Mike that Chris Adler had the day off. He wasn’t scheduled to be on again until Saturday, but the man asked if there was anything they could do to help.

  Yeah, they could help him by giving him Chris’s home address. Mike had one, courtesy of DMV records, but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure he hadn’t recently moved.

  There was some discussion, because of course personal information was kept confidential. Chris wasn’t in trouble, was he? Once the manager was reassured that Mike needed only to ask him some questions about an acquaintance of his, the address was grudgingly handed over. Good thing, because it was different from the one Mike already had.

  It was a basement apartment maybe half a mile from the lady who had previously owned the Fairmont. No one answered the knock. Mike walked around the house to check upstairs, where he got a home owner who said, “I didn’t hear him come in last night. He’s got a girlfriend. He stays there sometimes.”

  Unfortunately, the landlord didn’t remember the girlfriend’s name, much less where she lived. “He’s got a cat, though,” the guy added. “He doesn’t leave it for a more than a couple of days.”

  Mike explained the urgency. The man kept shaking his head. He really didn’t know.

  Back to the store. Nobody working today had met Chris’s latest. “Becca? Becky? Something like that?” one of them said. Nobody could think of the full name of any of Chris’s friends. Nobody thought he was especially good friends with any coworkers.

  Mike returned to his SUV, simmering with frustration and ridden by the knowledge that he didn’t have time to wait for the grocery checker to decide to come home from his girlfriend’s. But he couldn’t think of anything better to do than stake out the apartment.

  Wending through streets made narrow by cars parked on each side, he called first Carol and then Beth.

  “Somebody he works with must know him,” she said, taut voice telling him she shared his feeling that time was running out. “People talk at work. You know how it is. You chat even when you aren’t friends. Maybe none of the ones there today are on regular shifts with him. Somebody might remember a name. Can’t you get the names of other employees that aren’t working today and ask them yourself?”

  “I should have done that. You’re right,” he told her. “Okay. I’ll check out the apartment again and then go back to the store.” He signaled to turn into the alley that led behind Chris Adler’s apartment.

  Goddamn. Mike’s usual patience had deserted him. He was so close. He could taste it. So close to finding Sicily. But the chill he felt inside told him close wasn’t good enough. The kidnapper needed her to give proof of life, but she’d already done that this morning.

  That little girl’s time had run out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THIS WASN’T EXACTLY A STAKEOUT, since Mike wasn’t trying to be surreptitious. Sitting and waiting was close enough. Usually staying alert was the challenge. The monotony was there, but not the boredom. In one way the minutes crawled, in another way time passed with the roar of a freight train bearing down on a stalled car.

  Sitting still so long, Mike developed nervous tics he’d never had before. He thought he might have gone nuts if he’d had to stay unobtrusive in his car, but at least he co
uld get out and stretch, walk around a little since the home owner knew he was there.

  Other people were trying to locate Adler. Every Adler in the phone directory was getting a call, in case one of them was related. The FBI had taken on the task of tracking down the grocery store employees that Mike hadn’t managed to contact. So far, no cigar.

  It was killing him. To be lucky enough to get this kind of break and then be stuck was almost worse than having nothing at all to go on.

  After calling Beth again this morning to let her know where they were at, he hadn’t phoned again. He didn’t want seeing his number to get her hopes up. And that was killing him, too. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted it for himself, and he hated to think about her alone, waiting.

  Midafternoon, on impulse, he called his parents. His mother answered.

  “Michael?” she said in alarm. “Aren’t you working? You’re not hurt, aren’t you?”

  “I’m all right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’d gotten out of his Tahoe and leaned against the front bumper. The day was gray but not cold. He was being scrutinized by two cats, a brown tabby with tomcat jowls that sat on a fence post across the alley, and the dainty tortoiseshell looking out the window of the basement apartment. Chris Adler’s cat.

  “What’s up?” his mother asked.

  “Bored,” he said, although that wasn’t quite it. “Thinking about you.”

  There was a long silence that made him realize he’d given something away.

  “Something is wrong.”

  “I’m working the kidnapping of that ten-year-old girl. Sicily Marks. Have you followed it?”

  “Of course I have! I wondered if you were involved.”

  “It’s been a hell of a week,” he told her.

  “You don’t like the ones involving children, do you?” his mother said gently.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. That’s what you got, talking to people who knew you too well. “No,” he admitted. “Do you know Nate would have been about the same age?”