by Jonah Paine
This case was already ugly, but there was room for it to get a lot uglier.
CHAPTER TEN
A police station is like a sieve. It contains so many powerful stories, and so many people who might see a personal advantage in currying favor with criminal, a reporter, or a blogger.
It was, therefore, no surprise to anyone that reporters began buzzing around the station, following up on the breaking story that the killer of one girl might have abducted another.
On his way to the press room, Sam wasted a few moments wondering who had tipped them off. The idea that Betsy Patterson's kidnapping might be the work of the same man who had killed Jasmine Martin was not something he had shared widely. It was possible, he thought, that Bud had tipped off the press, but he didn't like to think about that. His partner had his flaws, but he didn't act recklessly. And this was a reckless act: it had the potential to alert an extremely dangerous man that the police were getting closer to him. It might spur him on to act sooner, when what they needed was for him to take his time. Betsy's life might depend on it.
When he joined Bud and their lieutenant at the podium, Sam was relieved that there were only five or six reporters and cameramen in attendance, most of whom looked bored and inattentive. Clearly the local news rooms didn't believe this was a big story, at least not yet. With any luck the story would be buried deeply enough that hardly anyone would notice.
Something caught his eye, and Sam found himself staring at a young woman he hadn't seen before, thin and beautiful with bottle-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. When the woman caught his eye, she gave him a mischievous smile. Sam smiled back, and made a mental note to be careful around that one. He could tell already that she was going places, and he didn't want her to run him over on her way to success.
The lieutenant, a heavy-set man with brown hair that hung slack against his face, tapped the microphone to check that it was on. "Thank you for coming," he said, and Sam could see him checking for the position of the television cameras to make sure they were capturing his good side. "At this point we don't have much to say. We can confirm that we are investigating the abduction of Betsy Patterson, and we are simultaneously investigating whether there is reason to believe that this case is connected with the tragic death of Jasmine Martin earlier this month. At this time we have no substantive reason to believe the cases are connected, but we are exploring all avenues. Our efforts are focused on locating Betsy Patterson and returning her to her family as soon as possible." He gave his best grave look directly to the cameras. "If anyone has information on this case, you should contact the police tip line immediately."
He waited for questions. At first it looked like there would be none, and Sam was right on the point of turning and heading for his desk. Then the blonde raised her hand. "Celeste Young, Channel 5 News," she said by way of identification. "This question is for Detective Patton."
Sam had been thinking about what he needed to do next, but with the mention of his name he jerked back to attention and walked awkwardly to the podium. "Yes?"
"Detective Patton," the reporter asked in a voice full of command but with eyes that somehow managed to sparkle at the same time, "what about the two cases makes you think they're connected?"
Sam hated her already. In truth he was working mostly on a hunch, and he didn't like it when people dragged his ideas out to examine them before he'd had a chance to work out the particulars. "As the lieutenant stated, we have no clear and undeniable connection between the two cases, other than that the two young women were close in age. However, the fact that the cases might be connected is reason enough to investigate what the connections might be. As an officer of the law, I try not to close off any possibilities until I'm clear on what the truth might be."
She smiled at him, past the microphone in her hand. "And do you have a suspect?"
I do, Sam thought, but outwardly he shook his head. "We have a person of interest, but no suspect yet. The investigation is ongoing."
The questions continued for a few minutes, until the reporters in the room realized that the police really did have little to say about the case, at which point they began packing up their equipment and leaving. Sam was exchanging a few words with Bud, planning their next move, when he smelled a faint trace of perfume.
He turned to find the blonde reporter at his side. He remembered her name: Celeste. He didn't think he'd ever forget those eyes. "Yes, ma'am?" he asked, being deliberately formal.
"I was hoping that I could buy you a cup of coffee, Detective," she said with a smile that he found dangerously convincing. "I'm new in town, and I'd love to pick your brain about the city and the work you do here."
I'll bet, Sam thought. "I'm sorry, Mrs. ..."
"Young," she finished for him. "Celeste Young. Channel 5 News."
He smiled. "I'm sorry Mrs. Young of Channel 5 News, but I'm busy with the case right now. Maybe some other time."
It was her turn to smile. "I'm counting on it. And it's Miss."
"Excuse me?"
"It's Miss Young. I'm not married."
Sam inclined his head and turned away. She was dangerous, that one, but he was still thinking about her eyes as he walked out of the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sam parked his car outside the bar and turned off the engine. He sat in the dark and looked through the window at the neon signs that adorned the door. He had a lot of memories associated with this place. Most of them were bad.
He didn't like being here, he didn't like it at all. He also didn't have much of a choice.
With a sigh he swung open the door and climbed out. Inside the bar smelled of alcohol, sweaty bodies, and cleaning fluid. He nodded to the woman behind the bar.
"Hey, Flora. How you doing?" he asked.
She gave him a weary smile. "Sam! It's been a while."
"Not long enough. Is she here?"
She gestured with her head to the rear of the bar. "Where else would she be?" she asked, and turned away before he could answer.
Sam walked between the tables and tried not to make eye contact with the drinkers seated there. He shouldn't be here. He needed to leave as soon as possible.
Patty was at a table in the back, her head bent over a glass and one arm over the shoulders of the man sitting next to her. Sam walked up and waited for him to notice her, but it wasn't long before he realized that she wasn't noticing much of anything. He cleared his voice.
Patty looked up and focused on him with bleary eyes. "Shit," she muttered.
He took her by the arm, pulling her to her feet. It wasn't an easy maneuver; Patty was like a rag doll in his hands, and he had to brace himself to support her weight in addition to his own.
"Leave me alone!" Patty whined, fighting against him. She was drunk, though, and the alcohol fought against her even more strongly than Sam did. He began walking her toward the door.
"We'll get you home, and you'll sleep this off, and you'll be really fucking embarrassed about what you did tonight," he said tightly, already breathing heavy from the exertion.
"Fucker!" Patty yelled, but Sam wasn't listening, and none of his wife's bar friends seemed inclined to help her. It wasn't easy and it wasn't pleasant, but he managed to get her outside and into the car. Once the door was closed and they were driving down the street, the spirit seemed to go out of her and she spent the ride staring silently out the window.
When they got back home he followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he helped her undress and tucked her into bed. He sat on the edge of the bed until he heard her breathing shift into the patterns of sleep. After that he spent an hour or more in the dark, listening to his wife's breathing and smelling the stink of alcohol on her breath. He looked out the window and thought about better times.
In time Sam found himself down in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of water cold from the refrigerator. Patty was asleep upstairs, but he wasn't thinking about her anymore. Instead he was thinking about Missy.
In his me
mories his daughter got more beautiful every day, her hair more curly and her smile more full of life and innocence and joy. Sam could see her as if she was standing in front of him, wearing a purple dress with sunflowers on it and smiling up at him. She wore a barette in her hair and his mind echoed with the song she sang, the song she made up about flowers and sunshine and her Mom and Dad.
She was so beautiful that day, so bright and pretty with the dress she wore over her swimming suit and just as excited about the prospect of cake as she was to see her friends. Memories of his daughter triggered other memories in Sam's mind, memories that he had not invited: the sounds of children at the party, the smell of chlorine, the easy conversation among the parents as they watched their children play.
And then he remembered what came after, but that was too raw, too much for him to take tonight after everything that had already happened. Sam forced those memories down and deliberately, methodically filled his mind with things that would not bring him to the edge. He closed his eyes and breathed deep until the tight feeling in his chest relaxed and he began to feel normal again—not good, but normal.
Sam opened his eyes again and brushed away the beginnings of a tear in his eye. Then he mentally said goodnight to his daughter and headed up to the bedroom. He badly needed sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sam was the sort of man who thought the coffee at his favorite coffee shop was way too expensive, and yet he went there every day all the same.
He liked almost everything about the place, from the smells of the place, to the absurdly complicated caffeine concoctions, to the bright and friendly baristas who, he suspected, were not actually that bright and friendly when they weren't on the clock.
Standing in line, he was contemplating his order—did he want a latte or a chai tea—when he heard his name. Turning his head, he saw the reporter from the day before. What was her name again? Chelsea? Katie?
"Good morning, Detective Patton," she said with a smile that made the entire room light up. "Do you remember me?" she asked, extending her hand.
He took her hand in his. She had very soft skin. "Of course I remember you," he said, still fumbling for her name. Sam never forgot a face, but he was terrible with names. And then it came to him in a flash. "Celeste Young, right?"
She smiled even brighter. "Yes! I'm flattered. Not many people remember me right away."
Sam was quite certain that she was lying. Celeste was the sort of woman who made an impression. "Nice to see you, Ms. Young," he said, extricating his hand from hers.
"I was hoping you might join me, when you get your coffee. I'd love to talk. Off the record?"
Sam knew that the only answer he could give, as a police officer and as a married man, was "no." Still, the word did not come. Things had been tough lately, and he couldn't remember the last time he had coffee with a friend. Not that the young reporter was a friend, but she was certainly being friendly, and right now that's exactly what Sam needed. He gave her a nod, then went to the counter to place his order.
Celeste had chosen a table next to the window, where there was a lot of light and a pleasant view of the street outside. Sam sat in the other chair.
"Do you come here often?" Celeste asked. She had a way of making everything sound like a tease.
Sam chuckled. "All the time. It's my vice."
Celeste took a nibble from her muffin and wiped some crumbs from her mouth. "If that's your only vice you're doing better than me."
"I have other vices," Sam replied, "but none that make for good conversation. Do you live around here?"
Celeste waved a hand vaguely. "Oh, not really. I like trying new places, though, and today I thought I'd give this one a try. And then when I saw you here, I thought to myself: it must be fate."
"Without a doubt," Sam said with a smirk. "There's no other possible explanation."
Celeste took on a look of mock outrage. "Why Detective, are you insinuating that I followed you here? That I arranged this whole thing?"
"Did you?" he asked, amused.
"Well, maybe," she admitted. "Not that I'm stalking you or anything, but I might have asked around and heard that this is your favorite place. And maybe I figured that, if I kept coming here, sooner or later we'd run into each other and then I'd have a chance to strike up a casual conversation, perhaps while seated at a table by the window."
He chuckled. "Mission accomplished."
She grinned. "It's going on my resume as an accomplishment. But seriously, I'm not here to pry anything out of you. I don't want inside information on your investigation. Well, that's not true—I do want that, but I know you won't give it to me. But I'm new in town. I have almost no friends and no connections, and you seem like the sort of guy who might be willing to share what you know about this place. Help a girl get her bearings."
Sam considered her over the lip of his coffee cup. There was no doubt in his mind that Celeste had an agenda, and of course he knew that her interests didn't necessarily coincide with his own. Still, she was very easy on the eyes, and she had a disarming way of admitting the truth right when he expected her to lie. He found that he enjoyed her company, and if he was honest with himself he'd admit that he was flattered that such a pretty girl wanted to spend time with him. It had been many years since a woman Celeste's age had shown any interest in him. It felt nice.
After a pause, he put down his mug and smiled at her. "How can I help?"
Hours later Sam pulled his car up in front of Celeste's apartment building in an up-and-coming part of town.
A few years back this had been a slum that Sam made a point of avoiding, but then the artists moved in for the cheap rent, and the developers were not far behind. Now crumbling factory space had been converted into luxury condominiums that Sam wouldn't be able to afford on his detective's salary unless he gave up food and took out a big loan.
Ten minutes of Celeste sitting in his passenger seat had been enough to fill his car with the delicate traces of her perfume. Sam wondered how long the aroma would last. He wanted it to last, for a few days at least. It was nice, having her her in his car, even if it was for only a few minutes.
"Here we are," he said unnecessarily. Celeste hadn't made a move to get out of the car yet. In the half-light he could see the half-smile she was giving him, as she waited to see what he would do.
Then it came to him in a flash. "Right," he said, and undid his own seatbelt to step out of the car. He walked around to the passenger side and held the door open for her. Celeste smiled, inclining her head to accept the gesture, and took his hand to step out to the curb.
They walked together to the front door. "Thank you for a very pleasant evening, Sam," Celeste said as she turned to him on the front step. What had started as coffee had turned into hours of conversation about anything and everything—the city, how the police department worked with the press, the things Sam had seen in his years on the force, what had brought Celeste to town. Sam opened up to her like he hadn't in years, not since Missy died. Celeste appeared fascinated by all of it, and he drank in her attention and her regard.
"I had a good time," he offered, knowing that wasn't the half of it. Then, not knowing what he was planning, he leaned in toward her.
It had had started as a hug, or at least that's what he would say if he was dragged in for questioning by the Marriage Cops. Somewhere along he way, though, Celeste matched her movements to his and the hug became a kiss. Their lips rested lightly together, and Sam's entire body came alive with the warmth and the closeness of the woman pressed up against him.
He pulled away, confused and ashamed but also a little disappointed that the kiss had come to an end. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," he mumbled.
"Sam," Celeste started.
"I'm gonna go," he said, and turned back toward his car.
"Sam, it's OK," Celeste called after him.
"No, it's not," Sam said mostly to himself as he climbed into the driver's seat and angrily turned the key.
The air smelled of moisture and rot, and for the thousandth time since she woke up inside her cage, Betsy Patterson turned away from her fears at what might be in the dark.
She didn't know how long she'd been down here. There was no sunrise or sunset to mark the passage of time. When she woke the first time, she cried and screamed and then she prayed for deliverance. She was sure, back then, that God would hear her prayers and she'd soon hear the sounds of someone coming to release her. That prayer had gone unanswered, though, as had the prayers—so many of them—that followed. Still Betsy prayed. She had no choice but to pray. Prayer was hope, and without hope she'd die.
It was black as night in her cage most times, so dark that if she held her hand inches in front of her face she couldn't see her fingers. The dark was comforting in a way, though. The dark meant that she was alone in this place. She hoped to see the light, because light might mean that rescue was coming, but light also brought the bad man.
He came in silence. The first thing Betsy would hear was his breathing. It was deep, and heavy, like she imagined a bear might sound when it crept up on its prey in the woods. She had never seen him clearly. Her imagination built him out into an enormous creature, a monster that barely fit inside the room. When she heard his breathing she shut her eyes tight and tried to hold him out.
"Betsy, little Betsy," he'd whisper. "Are you afraid, little girl?"
Betsy might have screamed or begged, but she knew by now that it was no use. He wasn't here to listen. He was here to make her afraid.
"You should be afraid, Betsy. I sit upstairs and I think about all the things you hold dear. You hair. Your eyes. Your pretty little fingers. I think I might take those things from you, Betsy, one by one. I might take a knife and pop out your eyes, I might take my sharp knife and slice off your fingers. I might cook them in a stew and feed it back to you."