Samantha kept staring at the photos, wide eyed, lips slightly parted. Her eyes glistened with tears she quickly blinked away. More words came to his mouth and escaped before he could stop himself. “Don't tell anyone.”
She blinked and turned to him, eyes gleaming. “Who would I tell?”
He swallowed hard. “It's just that... I shouldn't really have these pictures.”
“But they're so beautiful,” she said, and she turned back to the screen.
They're so beautiful. She was right. The photos were beautiful, and that was reason enough for him to have them. If it was perfectly understandable to her, there might be no problem. He reached for a pillow and held it on his lap to calm his hands.
“These are on random shuffle?” she asked. “I'd like to see them in order.”
He reached down slowly to pick up the remote control from the floor. Without looking at her, he said, “I should warn you: The album ends with the last photos he took before he died.”
She sucked in air through her teeth. “I want to see the whole thing, right to the end.”
Right to the end. “So be it,” he said, and he brought up the menu to toggle the slide show.
“Wait,” she said. “What are those files that are grayed out?”
“Near-duplicates and accidents.”
“Accidents?” Her tone was suspicious, accusatory.
Robichaud swallowed down his guilt. “Yeah. I guess maybe they're test shots. They're blurry and facing away from the view.”
She was very still, studying him and then the screen, moving only her eyes. “I'd like to see them all,” she said coolly.
He adjusted the settings and started the slide show of the last seven days of Warren's life.
The show began with images of dew drops on spider webs. It took two minutes to finish the day's shots. The second day had fewer, and finished almost as quickly as it had begun, with a spectacular crimson sunset framed by trees and the local red and rocky terrain.
Robichaud studied Samantha's face as she watched the images, the changing screen casting her pretty features in red, blue, and green. He had to remind himself to keep breathing.
There was a knock on his screen door. He'd left the outer door open for ventilation, and now his elderly neighbor was there, practically inside the room with them, peering through the screen.
Mrs. Dawson said, “Sorry, Danny. I didn't realize you had a guest.” She lifted one creased palm and waved. “Hello, dear!”
Robichaud jumped up from the couch and went to see what his neighbor wanted. Rather than make introductions, he stepped outside to speak with his neighbor. Mrs. Dawson explained she had come by to borrow a gardening claw. The handle had come off hers.
It took ten minutes to complete the tool-lending transaction, in which he loaned her his gardening claw and took both pieces of hers, with a promise he'd fix the parts using super-strong glue. She kept glancing at the screen of the door, but was too mannered to push for an explanation.
He waited until his friendly and inquisitive neighbor was gone before he went back to the house. No sooner had he pulled open the screen door than Samantha came bolting out like a spooked horse fleeing a barn fire.
“It's okay,” he said, reaching out to catch her by the waist. “I'm right here. I didn't go far.”
She dodged his arm and put some distance between them before turning around to face him, dark eyes blazing with emotion.
“Why do you have his photos?” she demanded.
He shrugged. There was no explanation that would make his actions acceptable.
She shook her head and started walking toward the road. She called back over her shoulder, “Thanks for the nap, but I should be getting back. I'm meeting someone soon and I don't want to be late.”
He sensed the last part was a lie. Earlier, she'd admitted to having no plans at all for the day. She was making excuses to get away from him.
“Samantha, wait. I'll give you a ride back to your car.”
She waved away his offer. “I'm fine. I need the fresh air, anyway.”
He watched her march away. The journey back to her car would be a mile and a half. She'd be fine. And maybe it was for the best. Every minute with her was a form of sweet torture. He didn't know how long he'd be able to remain professional.
He walked back into the house and looked at the television, which had turned a dark gray. He swore under his breath and ran to check the slot in the computer where he'd had Warren's camera's memory card plugged in.
The memory card was gone.
He checked the computer's local drive, where he thought he'd saved a copy of all the images. The photos folder was empty, and if the files had once been there, they'd been permanently deleted, not findable in the recycling bin. What was Samantha up to? What had she seen on the photos to cause such a panic?
He cursed again, reached for his phone, and made a call.
“I need your help,” he said with a sigh.
* * *
Samantha had covered nearly a mile, and was sweating under the midday sun. Her throat was parched, but even her thirst couldn't take her mind off the evidence in her pocket. She had to get to her vehicle, get to safety, and find someone she could trust. She might just get in the car and start driving, not stopping until she was two states away.
A compact car slowed and rolled along beside her.
“Need a lift?” called out the driver.
As she leaned forward to peer inside the car, she stepped on some loose gravel and rolled her ankle painfully. If she hadn't needed a lift before, she certainly did now.
The driver was the diminutive Charles DeWitt, his eyes bulging with concern for her.
“Sure,” she said, and she climbed into the vehicle. The interior was spotless, and so cool it gave her a chill. She rubbed her arms and then reached for her seat belt, her hands shaking visibly.
Charles said, “You look like you could use a drink.” He made a small snort. “That's what I thought when I saw you looking lost at the art show, too. That nice lady could use a drink!”
She let out an absurd laugh. “I probably could use one. Thanks for the offer, but I don't have time. I'm meeting a friend shortly.”
“Did you just come from the deputy sheriff's house?”
She ignored the question and changed the topic by asking about the air conditioning controls.
The driver turned left at the lights, moving away from the diner. Samantha cleared her throat. “Actually, I'm going to Yolanda's, if you don't mind.”
“Oh! Sure. I'll make a couple right turns up ahead.” The driver reached over and popped open the glove box. There was a silver flask and a bottle of water. “Help yourself to whichever one you need, or both.”
Samantha's hands shook as she reached forward. She'd not had a drink yet that day and was already in withdrawal. She told herself, as she had many times before, that this was the last drink, and she took a swig from the flask. It was gin, and as sweet to her as water in the desert. She thanked the driver and switched over to the water. The white lid didn't crack when she twisted it off. She thought of germs and wiped the rim with the hem of her blouse before taking a swig.
A few minutes later, they were still driving. The rocking of the car was so relaxing. Were they driving in circles, caught in a loop? Her eyelids fluttered. She thought she saw the neon sign for the diner grow larger and then disappear over her shoulder. She started to ask how much longer Charles would take to run his errands, but her head was full of cotton, and the words wouldn't form in her throat.
She rested her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She thought of the camera memory card in the tiny pocket of her shorts, and then she lost consciousness.
Chapter 13
June 10th
3:15 p.m.
Residence of Ricky and Hilda Francis, Los Angeles, CA
Hilda paced the living room, her thoughts racing. She hadn't been in a panic like this since the twins had woken up with a terri
ble fever in the middle of the night. The panicked feeling was intense, and it was the same instinct. She had to do something.
Her husband, Ricky, was skeptical. That night, he'd been the one who'd run a cool bath to bring down the twins' fevers, and now, once again, he was the one who was calm. And once again, his urgings that Hilda remain calm and not panic had the opposite effect.
“We shouldn't have let this go on for so long,” Hilda said, still pacing.
Ricky pointed to the living room rug, which had already suffered so much abuse from the twins and their wheeled toys. “You're going to wear a hole in that poor rug,” he said. “Why don't you get on a plane and fly out there?”
“To Colorado?” She stopped in her tracks. For Hilda Francis, the only thing more terrifying than her friend Samantha being in trouble would be leaving the three boys to burn down the house.
Ricky sat up on the sofa with a groan and reached for his laptop.
Hilda said, “No, I can't go. I won't leave you and the kids. It's time Sammy pulled herself together, anyway.”
“Calm down,” he said, irritating her with the useless command for the tenth time that day. “I'm not booking a ticket. I'm getting some phone numbers.” He tapped away at the keyboard. “We can check the local hospitals, and highway patrol. The state troopers would have a report if she's been in an accident. What town is she supposed to be in? Aspen?”
“No,” Hilda said guiltily.
Ricky looked up from the laptop, eyebrows raised. “What's going on?”
She swayed left and right, paced once, and took a seat on the front edge of the room's rocking chair. “She's in Owl Bend.”
He took a deep, audible breath, and stroked his beard. That was where Ricky and Hilda had started their honeymoon tour of the southwest—a trip they had recommended to all their friends for their own honeymoons and anniversaries.
“She's at the honeymoon place?”
Hilda swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“By herself,” he said.
“She wanted to be by herself. You know Sammy. She never wants to be a burden on other people.”
He shook his head. “I can't believe it's gotten so bad.”
Hilda could only nod in agreement. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.
Finally, Ricky said, “We need to check the psychiatric wards.”
“Okay,” she said weakly. Now that the secret was out, the tension that had been holding her upright lessened, and she slumped back in the rocking chair with a creak. “Will you help me make the calls?”
“You know I'd do anything for Sammy.” He gave his laptop screen a sad look. “I wish I'd known how bad it's gotten. We could have done something sooner.” He tapped the keyboard and frowned at the screen. “Airfare isn't that much,” he said. “We could all go, as a family. It could be a vacation.”
Hilda smiled for the first time in two days. “Honey, traveling with a pair of hyper two-year-olds is not a vacation.”
Ricky smiled back and gave her a slow blink. “Don't worry. We're going to find Samantha and get her the help she needs.” He tapped at the keyboard again. He was going to say something about Samantha drinking again, but he bit back the words. There was no point in voicing their worst fears. Even without verbalizing them, they flashed through his head. She could be dead in a ravine somewhere.
The first number he found was for the local law enforcement. He called the number and got a man who introduced himself as Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud.
Ricky explained who he was and why he was calling.
There was a long pause. Ricky thought he'd lost the connection, but then Robichaud spoke. “I know Samantha Torres,” he said. “In fact, I just saw her yesterday morning for breakfast. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
Ricky checked with his wife and then answered, “The night before last. Sammy and my wife talk at least once a day, and they send each other text messages constantly. But we haven't heard a peep since Wednesday. Today's Friday, so I guess that was the eighth.”
There was noise on the line, and the muffled sound of people talking. Robichaud said, “Can you be reached at this number, Mr. Francis? I've got to check on something, and I'll call you right back. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes.”
Ricky confirmed he'd be at that number all day, said goodbye, and relayed to his wife what little information he'd gleaned.
Hilda bit her lip and blinked back tears. “I've got a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach,” she said. “Remember when I got that ache right before Gran died? It's like that.”
Ricky clenched his jaw. He was upset, too, and he felt the terror in his gut. He looked at the clock and noted the time. “Twenty minutes,” he repeated.
* * *
Twenty-seven minutes later, they got the call, and it wasn't good.
“Her rental car is still parked at the diner,” Robichaud said. “She might have had engine problems.” There was a pause, and Ricky's gut filled with ice water.
Ricky asked flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, “Now what?”
“I'm going to put you in contact with my secretary. She'll be your liaison. I wish I could talk to you some more, but I've got work to do.”
A female voice joined the call and started asking questions. Ricky didn't have the answers, so he handed the phone to Hilda, and she helped as much as she could.
Chapter 14
June 9th
(The previous day)
Samantha Torres awoke in darkness. It was 8:35 p.m. on Thursday—not that she had any way of knowing the time. She'd been unconscious for five hours. The man who'd offered her a ride and a drink, Charles DeWitt, had drugged her. That much she figured out within seconds of gaining consciousness.
She screamed. She knew it was hopeless, but she screamed anyway. Her abductor would have gagged her or taped her mouth shut if there were any chance of someone hearing her cries.
She screamed until she was hoarse, and then she screamed some more.
Her hands were tied at the wrists with something unyielding. It wasn't rope, or metal, but rigid plastic. Though she had little to be thankful for in that terrible situation, she was grateful her hands were tied in front of her instead of behind her back. At least she could push herself into an upright sitting position and reach forward to rub her sore ankles, which were also lashed together with the same material. She could sit, or kneel, but she couldn't stand, because the ceiling was so low.
At first, she thought she was in a basement or a cellar, but as her eyes adjusted to the blackness, she was able to make out some dim shapes. The thing she'd struck her head on when she'd tried to stand was a beam of wood, a joist. She was underneath a floor, in a crawlspace. She could feel that she was still wearing the clothes she'd been wearing that morning—denim shorts and a blouse. Both were probably black from the grime and dust she was rolling around in. Other than some aches in her limbs from being tied up, the only part of her that hurt was her head, pounding with a headache.
She took a break from screaming to explore her confines. The crawlspace was rectangular, and approximately five hundred square feet, but most of that was inaccessible, due to the solid stone bedrock rising up to meet the floor's support beams. She was limited to less than a hundred square feet. The corner, at the edge of the foundation, offered the most headroom. She could kneel there and stretch her torso. It was the place she felt the least vulnerable, with her back against the wall.
How could she get out? She'd gotten in somehow, and it stood to reason she could get out the same way. She groped the walls for a door, or a hatch. She found nothing. She used her bound hands to feel along the ceiling until she found the ridges of a trap door overhead. She tried pushing it open, using her shoulder and straining against it until she feared she might break something in her body, and still the trap door wouldn't budge.
She crawled the hundred-square-foot perimeter one more time before returning to her corner. With her back pressed up against the
cool wall, she thought about killing him.
Charles DeWitt had actually looked happy to see her walking on the road hours earlier—so happy, she'd seen him as a “friendly face.” After the photo slides she'd seen in Daniel Robichaud's house, she'd been in such a panic that anyone who wasn't Daniel Robichaud might have seemed like a friendly face. But now she was here, and she realized she'd been wrong.
Now that she had nothing but the darkness, there was ample time to ponder how much she'd been wrong.
She knelt, sat, or lay on the concrete floor for hours, with nothing to distract her from her thoughts. No drinks, no friends, no scenery, no internet, no television, nothing. She imagined her death at the sadistic hands of Charles DeWitt. She grieved. She accepted. And she came back to the awful reality, only to repeat the cycle of dark thoughts.
Eventually, she fell asleep, huddled in the corner.
Hours later, she awoke with a start. Something overhead creaked, and there was light. She could see the crawlspace that had been only dim shapes so far. The walls and concrete floor weren't as filthy as they'd seemed in the dark. Part of the floor was poured concrete and part of it was natural rock. She saw a flash of movement at the edge of her vision, and suddenly the light was gone. The trap door had been opened, but now it was closed again.
She screamed, but there was no help. The lights stayed off. She grew quiet and crawled over to the area beneath the trap door. Her heart pounding with hope, she shouldered the ceiling again and pushed the trap door. It seemed to move, to give way. She gasped in excitement and pushed again, only to find—to her heartbreak—that the trap door hadn't budged after all. It was only her legs, slipping out from under her to give the illusion of escape.
She called out, “Hello?”
The only reply was the floor creaking.
“Charles?”
He didn't answer, but she sensed him there, listening. She bit back venomous words. She wanted to call him a coward, a weak-hearted joke of a man who had to drug women because he didn't have the stomach to fight them. But he knew what he was, and reminding him would only guarantee her death, and possibly hasten it.
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