Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  “A young lady named Lee Ensler. The journalist. A graduate of Brown University. Comes from a wealthy family. Before the breakout in Oregon, she had no past record of criminal activity. The Oregon State Police think she just fell under Colely’s spell. Terrill Colely’s a handsome dude, apparently, and a practiced con. She visited him once, just once, before helping break him out. And she’s been underground ever since.”

  Kubiak said, “We’ve reexamined the ransom message they put on their videotape and compared it with some of Lee Ensler’s writings. I’ve only had time to look at a couple of samples, but I think it was her creation.”

  Hastings said, “You think they’re still around?”

  Gabler said, “We have to hope they are. They were here for the drop.”

  And that was this morning, Hastings thought. Hard to believe it had only been this morning.

  Gabler said, “I think you’ve hit on it, George.” He was giving Hastings a look of admiration now, the professional sort. “But we’ve still got to find them.”

  Kubiak said, “We can fax photos of the suspects to all the local law-enforcement agencies. Give them to the media tonight. Media will run them starting tomorrow morning. But…” He refrained from saying that the girl might be dead by then.

  But Terrill Colely was already a wanted man. He had had two deputies killed in Oregon months ago and no one had caught him for that. He or someone associated with him had killed Tom Myers and then abducted a girl. They had their money, and the history gave no evidence that they were going to show the girl any mercy. It was on Hastings’s mind and he knew it was on the agents’ too.

  Kubiak said, “Maggie Corbitt and Jan Rusnok have ties to St. Louis. We have that.”

  Hastings said, “Are Rusnok’s parents living in St. Louis?” He had asked about her, not Corbitt, because they had already said that Corbitt was from Arkansas.

  Kubiak looked through the file. “Yeah,” he said. “Ten twelve South Gray. That’s near the Bosnian neighborhood.”

  Not far from my own, Hastings thought. He turned to Gabler and said, “Why don’t we go there, see what they know?”

  Kubiak said, “She’s got a brother too. Lives near the airport. I’ll go talk to him.”

  Gabler said, “Craig, it’s your command. Don’t you think it’d be better to send a couple of agents instead? I think you need to be here to coordinate.” Gabler made a conciliatory gesture. “It’s your command.”

  “Okay,” Kubiak said. “I’ll send Crider and Dolworth to the brother’s. You guys go to the parents’.” He turned to Hastings. “Can you spare a couple of men to look into Maggie Corbitt?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call ’em.”

  * * *

  Gabler and Hastings drove south by southwest on Gravois Road, the street narrow, sloping down under a railroad bridge, the engine increasing volume as Hastings throttled it back up the other side. Soon, the faux German architecture came into view. South Gravois neighborhood, not really German anymore but Bosnian. Fifty thousand refugees having settled there since the Serbians had officially and unofficially declared war on them. They were a tough people, used to harshness, and Hastings wondered if they knocked on the wrong door at this hour of the night, would they be answered with a shotgun blast? A good many of them didn’t speak English.

  He drove past the Croatian-owned video shop next to the QuikTrip, slowed, then turned down a narrow street with tightly packed little row houses. He made a couple of turns and then he saw the address they needed.

  Hastings double parked the Jaguar, blocking the road. He left the police light on. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

  They rang the doorbell and rapped on the front door until the porch light came on and they saw an old woman’s face peering at them through the window. Looking at two white men in jackets and ties and a flashing red light in a car in the street behind them. It’s a frightening thing to be awakened in the dark of night by sharp knocking on your door, even if you’re not old, but Hastings hoped that she would see the view through her window and figure out they were police.

  She didn’t open the door and now they could hear her raised voice from behind the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “Police, ma’am. We need to speak to you immediately. It’s an emergency.”

  “Let me see your identification.”

  They held their badges up to the glass so that she could peer at them. She gave them an old woman’s scrutiny, then took in the sight of the unmarked police car beyond. But said again, “What do you want?”

  “Ma’am, it’s about your daughter,” Gabler said. “Please let us in.”

  She unlocked the door and chain and opened the door. They walked in. It had the smell of a retired person, the heat turned up. The woman was holding her robe closed at the neck. She looked like she was in her sixties. She said, “Is Jannie dead? Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”

  “No,” Gabler said.

  The old woman blinked at him. “Is she in trouble, then?”

  “She may be,” Hastings said. “We’d like to try to help her. Do you know where she is?”

  “I haven’t seen her in a couple of months. What’s she done?”

  “We don’t know if she’s done anything wrong,” Gabler said. “But we do need to speak to her immediately.”

  The woman looked at the FBI agent and then at the police officer. She said, “Why?”

  Hastings said, “A girl has been kidnapped. She may be killed if we don’t find her in time.”

  “What’s that have to do with Jan?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Hastings said. “But we need to speak to her.”

  “You think she’s involved?”

  “Maybe.”

  The lady’s jaw was quivering now. “No,” she said. “No.”

  Gabler said, “You said you don’t know where she is.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Gabler said, “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “It was before Thanksgiving. She was supposed to come to her brother’s on Thanksgiving. She knew about it.”

  “But she didn’t come?” Hastings said.

  “No. She didn’t. She came the year before, though. But didn’t stay long. She said there was no place there for her.”

  Jan Rusnok’s mother looked as if this had not surprised her.

  Gabler said, “Where is Mr. Rusnok?”

  “He died last year.” There was little emotion in her voice then. Perhaps she was relieved.

  Hastings said, “Did Jan live here before?”

  “She moved in and out. She’d come back here after some boy would dump her. But she never stayed long. She said we were common.”

  “But she stayed here?” Hastings said.

  The old lady shrugged. “What are we supposed to do?” It was their daughter.

  Agent Gabler said, “Ma’am, it’s very important that we speak to her. A young girl’s life may be at stake. And if your daughter is mixed up with the people that kidnapped her, she’s in danger too.”

  “Sir,” Mrs. Rusnok said, “I don’t know where she is. She didn’t even come to her dad’s funeral.”

  “We’re sorry about that,” Hastings said. “But we have to find her. Please help us.”

  The old woman was shaking her head. “She doesn’t…”

  “Pardon?” Gabler said.

  “She doesn’t talk to us.” The woman looked up at the FBI agent. “She doesn’t tell us anything.”

  Gabler said, “You said that she would move out when another man would come along. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Gabler said, “Who was the last man?”

  She was looking down at the ground again, perhaps because of a bad memory. But then they saw that she was trying to remember, trying.

  She said, “There was a boy that brought her to Kenny’s that Thanksgiving. He was a loser, you could see that. No manners. A bad egg. His name was Ray. Ray something.”
r />   Gabler said, “Can you remember the last name?”

  The woman was shaking her head again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  Gabler looked at Hastings and then looked back at the woman. “Excuse me,” he said. He moved down the hallway and made a call on his cell phone.

  “Craig, this’s Gabe. Who did you send out to the brother’s house?… Charlie?… Give me his number.… Yeah, we’ve got Jan associating with a Ray something, but we don’t have a last name.… All right.”

  Gabler placed another call, to Agent Charles Crider. Hastings turned back to the old lady. She caught his expression and said, “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

  Her face in itself told a story. Not a clueless old lady, but probably pretty sharp. She knew that her daughter was capable of being involved in such a thing. Hastings wondered how long the woman had been able to see her daughter clearly, how long she had resisted closing her eyes to it. She was maybe sixty, but the despair made her look older. Her words told more. You’re not going to hurt her, are you? Resignation in that question, a hard acceptance of what her daughter had become. She had likely seen the same hatred and nihilism as Sam Fisher had seen. She had lived with it and was decent enough to wonder if she’d had some part in forming the girl’s character.

  Hastings said, “We don’t want to.”

  The woman was looking directly at him now, in a way that almost shamed him. Though he didn’t know why.

  Mrs. Rusnok said, “She wasn’t always that way.”

  Hastings didn’t say anything. He heard Gabler say, “Oh, that’s great, Charlie, that is great. Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

  Gabler walked back to Hastings. He said, “Ray Muller. That’s the guy’s name. Charlie’s calling Craig now.”

  Hastings looked at Mrs. Rusnok. He said, “Does that sound right?”

  She said, “I still don’t remember. He never told me his name. I guess Kenny remembered, though.”

  Hastings said, “Would you mind if we took a quick look through her room?”

  “Go ahead.” She seemed very tired now. “But it’s not really her room anymore. I doubt you’ll find anything.”

  She was right about that. Her daughter hadn’t left any clothes or personal effects or notes to Ray Muller with a home address. It was a free hotel room for Jan Rusnok and little more. Soon they were finished and walking through the kitchen, where Mrs. Rusnok was sitting at a small red covered kitchen table. She looked up at them, wondering if they could share anything with her, and they couldn’t.

  Hastings said, “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Five minutes later, they were back in the car, heading back downtown.

  * * *

  Craig Kubiak was standing behind another agent, who was sitting in front of a computer screen. Agent Crider and his partner, Shelly Dolworth, got back to the field station just a few minutes before Hastings and Gabler; they still had their overcoats on. Kubiak turned to make eye contact with Gabler.

  Kubiak said, “We’ve got him.”

  “Ray Muller?” Gabler said.

  “Yes,” Kubiak said. “He’s drawing a government disability.”

  “For what?”

  Kubiak said, “He was in the army and he got stabbed. Not in combat, mind you. A fight with another soldier. Listen, he was trained in electronics and telecommunications. He was discharged in ninety-eight and he’s been drawing the disability since. He’s thirty years old. County records show that he’s divorced and actually had custody of his son for a couple of years. His ex-wife was paying child support to him until she proved to the court that he was spending it on himself and leaving the kid with his mother. A turd.”

  Craig Kubiak in his white shirt and spectacles was sounding more like a beat cop now than a federal agent. He said, “The disability checks are sent to a farmhouse in Illinois. Near White Hall. Off State Highway 9.” Kubiak looked at Hastings. “You know where that is?”

  Hastings nodded.

  Gabler said, “Have you called Shellow?”

  “No,” Kubiak said. “Not yet.”

  Hastings said, “What’s the problem?”

  Gabler said, “We want all the toys, we have to get authorization. Probably from our SAC. At a minimum, our ASAC.”

  “For what?” Hastings said.

  “Explosive entry, Hostage Rescue Team, stun grenades, and vehicles disguised so that we look like we’re delivering flowers or some shit.”

  Hastings sighed.

  Gabler said, “Listen, about fifteen years ago, a bunch of FBI agents tried to take two guys armed to the teeth after a vehicle pursuit. Two, that’s all. All but one of the agents were killed in the firefight. This was before Waco, before Ruby Ridge. Ever since then, they’ve more or less taken … conservative approaches. They don’t like agents getting killed.”

  The agent at the computer screen was turned around in his seat. Agents Crider and Dolworth were still with them, Hastings the only Metro cop.

  Hastings said, “Well, how long will it take to get authorization?”

  “It’s not so much the time,” Kubiak said. “It’s what we have to get authorization. Or don’t have.” He looked at Hastings now. “I wonder if it’s too—speculative. A girl who used to work with Tom Myers…”

  Hastings said, “We’ve got more than that and you know it. Craig, it’s right there in front of you. I know you see it.”

  Kubiak looked around the room at the other agents and read their expressions and body language. He returned his eyes to Hastings.

  Kubiak said, “Are you going to go around me?” Meaning to St. Louis PD and the Illinois State Police. Craig Kubiak wasn’t trying to talk tough now and his tone was not disrespectful. He was asking a straight question.

  “I’d rather not,” Hastings said. “But you need to make a decision. Now.”

  A few moments passed, no one in the room saying anything.

  Then Kubiak said, “Okay. I’ll get the authorization.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Between three and four in the morning, Lee got out of bed and went and stood by the window. There was a full moon out. Lee looked up at the moon and felt it looking down on her. Seeing her naked and bright. A Kiowa moon, Lee thought. That was when the Kiowa would attack the settlers—under a full moon. Light to guide them in the slaughter, yes, but it was good medicine too. An inspiration. A sign.

  She thought there had been such a moon when Gabrielle ran away. The dumb girl probably thought the moon would help her, give her light to escape back to her piggy hairdresser world. She only got about a mile. Stayed near the road and stopped at a convenience store. That’s where they found her. Jan and Terrill had found her there and Jan had gotten out of the car and walked over to her and told her they loved her and they were family and talked her into coming back. And then Terrill and Mickey took her out to a field and killed her. She was still there now, buried in her own sod.

  It’s all sod, Lee thought. Sod, dirt, and ashes. She pictured herself in another place. Another time. Inside the settlers’ sodhouse as the Indians tried to get in … opening shutters and pointing rifles out, but they keep coming … and then she pictured herself on the outside, astride a horse, pointing a rifle at the sodhouse, waiting for a head to appear in the window … She wondered vaguely if she had been there when it happened. If she had been a man, a warrior in another time.

  She had not slept since her husband left her room. Her man. Her man needed her, she knew. He had come to depend on her. She had not slept in days. The effects of the speed would start to wear off and she would feel sick, feel that awful, horrible coming-down feeling, a feeling of hunger, of knowing you should eat something, but knowing too that food would make you sick. A sandwich … two pieces of flour and shit white paste that was Wonder Bread with that disgusting sweet brown frost of peanut butter in between … get dry heaves just at the thought of
it. And she would take another tablet and the nausea would pass. Speeding onto the entrance ramp, and then slipping back onto the highway and falling back into a comfortable rhthym.

  She could talk about this … this thing with her husband. But it would make her a drag if she brought it up now. He didn’t need a drag while this was going on. He needed to work, to lead. He needed—he thought he needed—to help his sister. Sister Maggie. For that’s what Maggie was to Terrill. She was a big sister. An annoying, bossy one. She thought she was helping Terrill, but she wasn’t helping him. She was retarding him. Hindering him. Defiling him. It was gross. Deviant. A sister screwing her little brother. Screwing another woman’s husband. It was unclean, unhealthy. It was not beautiful or edifying to do that to him.

  Sometimes, lying in bed at night, she would visit dark places. And in those dark places she would see them together as children. See them growing up together. See Maggie approaching Terrill when he was still a child, a beautiful boy. She was doing things to him. Teaching him to be strong, but doing awful, nasty things to him too. Bad things. Once or twice, Lee had cried out for her to stop. But she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t listen to people. Not even to her own brother.

  Lee put a T-shirt and underpants on. She walked out into the dark hallway, oblivious of the cold. Downstairs, she cleaned the kitchen. Then she cleaned the living room. And when that was finished, she thought about cleaning the little piggy’s room downstairs. But the piggy would try to talk to her, bother her if she did that. So she went back to the kitchen and this time cleaned the cupboards and drawers. Around five, she went back upstairs. She saw her jeans hanging over the chair and she didn’t like the way they lay there. She took the jeans off the chair and pulled them on. Then she got back in bed.

  THIRTY-SIX

  At dawn, she awakened him, shaking him in bed. His back was to her and he turned and said, “What?” Too loud, the dumb ass.

  Maggie said, “Ssshh.”

  Terrill said, “What is it?”

  “You need to get going,” Maggie said. Her voice was a whisper, conspiring.

  Terrill turned over to look at her. “Now?”

  “Yes.”