The Lonely Mile

by Allan Leverone

  He swung the door open wide and blinked in surprise, his heart pounding as hard as ever. Standing in front of the door, fanning her face to try to generate a little air flow in the sweltering heat of the oven-like apartment building, was FBI Special Agent Angela Canfield. She looked tired and drawn, like she hadn’t been sleeping well, and it occurred to Bill that he wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of responsibility for Carli’s disappearance.

  “Oh, God,” he said. He hadn’t thought his fear and panic could get any worse, but he had been wrong. “Is it Carli? Have you—?”

  “No,” Canfield said quickly. “We haven’t found her. I’m not here because of Carli.”

  Bill shook his head, confused. “If you haven’t heard anything about Carli, then why…?”

  “I’ve put in sixteen hours today and needed to get away for a while. I left my partner, Mike Miller, in charge at the home of the murdered bus driver and gave him instructions to call my cell if anything significant turns up. In the meantime, I thought it might be a good idea to see how you were holding up. That was a pretty rough scene between you and your ex this afternoon.”

  A trickle of sweat rolled down Bill’s neck. He felt flushed. “It was a bad scene,” he agreed, “and it didn’t feel good to be screamed at in front of all those people, but I can’t really disagree with her. It was my fault. Sandra wanted to keep Carli home where she would be safe, and I convinced her to let our baby go to school. I caused this heartache, plain and simple, and I don’t blame Sandra for reminding me of that.”

  “There’s plenty of blame to go around,” Canfield reminded him. “Don’t forget, I put my stamp of approval on the whole thing, too. I offered my assurance as a law enforcement professional that Carli would be safe.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Bill answered. “If I had disagreed with you, there is no way Sandra would have given in. None. I’m her father. I’m the one ultimately responsible for protecting her. I’m the one who led that crazy I-90 Killer to her door. I’m the one who failed. It’s just that simple.”

  Angela laid a hand on his arm. It felt cool against the heat radiating off his skin. “It doesn’t do any good to blame yourself,” she said quietly. “It won’t get us any closer to bringing Carli home, and that’s the goal—to bring Carli Ferguson home.”

  Bill felt dizzy and suddenly tired. Angela left her small, cool hand on his arm and drew closer to him. He looked down into her jarringly bright blue eyes, then he took a half-step toward her, lost in those intense eyes. She matched his advance with a step of her own, and now their bodies were almost touching. This was crazy. Carli was missing and he was going to—what? Get involved with the agent in charge of the investigation? She lifted her hand off his arm and touched his cheek, her eyes never leaving his. She reached up and kissed him, softly at first, then more demanding.

  His fear and anger and frustration intersected, exploding into a hunger, a need to leave the despair behind for a few moments with this desirable woman. He returned her kiss with passion, like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. He drew her slim body into his with an unspoken need that matched his own. Their tongues danced and darted, and her body was warm and sweaty.

  Bill pulled his lips from hers reluctantly. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he managed, “for a hundred very good reasons.”

  “I know,” Canfield responded, “maybe a thousand.” Then she unbuttoned his shirt. She took firm hold of his shirttail and led him down the short hallway to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 36

  “IS THIS HOW YOU want our first time to be?” Carli asked, stopping Martin in his tracks.

  He stood at the side of her bed, hands on his jeans where he was preparing to unzip them, and gaped at his angel in astonishment. The words she had just spoken were the last things he expected to come out of her mouth. Is she messing with my head? Or is it possible she really wants me? Maybe she’s been waiting for an older man. That would be too much to hope for, but still…

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me? What do you mean?” It was imperative he not allow this young girl, destiny or not, to realize how badly she had rattled him just through the force of her personality.

  “Well,” she said, squinting up at him, “I’ve been in these clothes all day and they’re dirty and wrinkled, and I’ve been sweating and nervous, and…well…I really have to go to the bathroom. Would it be all right if I washed up first, before we…well…you know?”

  Martin smiled. All of his past failures, all the girls who were impure or unworthy, all the times he had been forced to suffer the crushing disappointment of discovering his companions were not as he had imagined them to be, all of that paled before this moment with this little beauty. All of the aggravation, the nearly four years of searching and trying and suffering, had been worth it, because it had all led up to this moment, with his lovely Carli shining her big blue eyes into his, asking to clean up before consummating their love.

  “Of course,” he replied. “How thoughtless of me.” He walked forward slowly, fumbling in the right front pocket of his jeans for the handcuff key. He bent down and stroked his angel’s flaxen hair. He felt her stiffen reflexively, and her eyes widened in fear. The ever-present anger began welling up inside him at her response to his touch and he forced himself to maintain control.

  She’s not the same as the others, he told himself, clamping down on the rage before it could begin to consume him. She’s just nervous. I think she wants this as much as I do, but she’s young and inexperienced, like a virgin bride on her wedding night. Of course she feels a little overwhelmed, it’s to be expected.

  He reached forward and inserted the key into the side of the cuff encircling the bed post, opening it and leaving the other bracelet securely fastened to his angel’s wrist. There was no point in taking any chances. He held his arm out and helped her rise to a standing position, steadying her when she wobbled slightly. It had obviously been a long day for her, and she was exhausted.

  The strange-looking couple moved slowly to the crumbling basement stairs and began climbing up to the main floor.

  CHAPTER 37

  BILL ALLOWED HIMSELF TO be pulled down the hallway by Angie—Agent Canfield—all the while thinking, What is going on here? It wasn’t that he didn’t find the pretty young agent attractive, sexy, and desirable—he most certainly did.

  But he had too much on his plate right now to even consider any kind of romantic entanglement, and the fact that this woman was in charge of the search for his only child’s kidnapper, the man who was suspected to have carried out over a dozen similar kidnappings and presumed murders, made involvement impossible, at least for now.

  They turned the corner into Bill’s bedroom. For a moment, he wondered how in the world she had known where it was, then realized the shabby apartment was so tiny his bedroom was located in the only place it could be. “Agent Canfield—”

  “Angie,” she interrupted, turning into him and reaching up to kiss him again.

  Bill pulled away. “Okay, Angie, then. Listen, Angie, this isn’t right.”

  She squinted at the words as if not quite understanding them, like maybe Bill had unexpectedly spoken some obscure foreign language. “It isn’t right? What’s not right about it? I know I look young, but trust me, I’m over twenty-one, and I know you haven’t seen your twenties in a while. I know you’re no longer married. Are you seeing someone?”

  “Well, no, but still. I’m sure your bosses would consider you sleeping with the father of the latest I-90 Killer victim highly inappropriate. I’d hate to be responsible for you facing some sort of disciplinary action.”

  The agent began shaking her head, but before she could say a word, Bill continued. “And here’s the other thing. I find you incredibly attractive, Angie, and it’s not like I wouldn’t be interested under different circumstances. I’m really flattered that someone as beautiful and on-the-ball as you would even give a guy like me a second look, but the only thing on my mind right now is Carli. I
’d make lousy company tonight or any other night until my little girl comes home. Find my daughter, bring her home, and if you’re still interested in me, then, maybe, we could do this the right way.”

  She looked up at him, saying nothing, and her piercing blue eyes seemed to turn frosty and hard. Bill felt a sense of unease, and then she broke his gaze and glanced down at the floor, moving back a half-step, putting some distance between their bodies. “Angela…” he said gently.

  “I travel a lot,” she said quietly. “I’ve been working this I-90 Killer case for a long time, seemingly getting nowhere. I just wanted…I don’t know. I just thought maybe we could share some of the burden of pain rather than each shouldering it separately. I—I’m sorry…”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I understand.” Agent Canfield turned and walked back down the short hallway toward the apartment’s front door, saying nothing more, Bill following a step behind. She reached for the door handle, and Bill said, “One question, Angela, you know, since you’re here.”

  “Yes?” The coldness seemed to have disappeared from her eyes, and Bill decided he must have imagined it. She was right about one thing: she certainly was under a lot of pressure.

  “Be honest with me. What are the chances we’ll find Carli alive? And don’t give me the FBI party line. I want your honest opinion as an investigator.”

  Angela said nothing for a moment, and Bill thought she was going to walk out the door without answering. He waited, watching her pulse beat slow and steady under the delicate skin of her neck. Then she spoke. “Everything I told you yesterday was the truth. I believe there is every chance Carli is still alive. And I believe there is every chance we’ll find her. We just need one break. And we’re going to get it.”

  Bill nodded and wondered for a moment about what a relationship with this driven young woman would be like, reaching the obvious conclusion in seconds: that he would never find out. Once Carli was located and returned safely to her family—Bill refused to acknowledge any other possibility—Special Agent Angela Canfield would disappear, either continuing her search for the I-90 Killer, or onto another case if they were fortunate enough to catch the crazy sociopath.

  One way or the other, she would soon be gone, and Bill would go back to his old life, managing his two hardware stores alone and in anonymity. He smiled at her and she locked eyes with him for a moment, her expression giving away nothing. Then she slipped through the door and was gone.

  Bill stood in his kitchen for a long time, thinking about lonely FBI agents and lonely, desperate fathers and especially about lonely, frightened, lost young girls. Then he padded down the hallway and into his bedroom, alone this time, and slid into bed under a light blanket. He was convinced sleep would remain elusive for hours, if not for the remainder of the evening.

  But he did fall back to sleep. It took a long time and plenty of tossing and turning, but eventually, sheer exhaustion overtook him, dragging him into an uneasy slumber, where his body was technically asleep but he teetered just below the level of wakeful consciousness. And the dreams returned again, in all their strange, colorful, jangling glory, torturing Bill with near-remembrances and tantalizing flashes of hinted significance.

  The vivid sequences, with their too-bright colors and knife-sharp edges, all right angles and disturbing images, were similar to the ones he had endured a couple of nights ago—long, nonspecific nightmares in which he was torn apart, suffering and anguished. The enemy in these remained the same faceless, shadowy nemesis as before.

  Interspersed among these dreams were once again shorter visions, the ones he had thought of as “dream-commercials” before. Slow-motion replays of his actual confrontation with the I-90 Killer, snippets of memories from those fateful two or three minutes that he could not get out of his mind.

  It was these shorter dreams that caused Bill to bolt awake in bed, sweating and shaking, straining to remember all of the details and yet unable to manage it. There was something of significance hidden among all the distorted images his brain was showing him; something that would make a difference in some way; something that would matter. He had no idea how it would matter, only that it would.

  The dreams kept coming, slowly, tortuously. They were like Grade B horror movie zombies, shambling along, stiff-legged, toward some seemingly random destination. Bill would suffer unconsciously as long as he could stand it, until finally his mind would force his body awake. He would sit up in bed, desperately trying to recover the rapidly receding memories of his nightmares, ignoring the pounding headache attacking his temples, trying to glean the nugget of significance he knew was there in the dreams, but unable to do so.

  With Carli missing, Bill had expected the night terrors to return, but it was frustrating suffering through them repeatedly without gaining any insight into their significance. Bill felt certain they contained the secret to rescuing Carli, if only he could read the clues his subconscious mind was trying to feed him.

  There he was, watching himself aim in slow motion at the back of the I-90 Killer as the man attempted to spirit away the young girl, knowing he should just shoot the kidnapper but instead issuing the shouted warning to stop, the warning he now regretted with his entire being.

  There he was, reaching for the girl’s shoulder to pull her to safety behind his own body, knowing the I-90 Killer was going to shove the girl at him and make his escape, but unable to change the sequence of events.

  There he was, in stifling heat more appropriate to August than May, leaping down the four steps to the rest area parking lot, desperate to catch up to the I-90 Killer, knowing he would not, but trying anyway.

  There he was, watching helplessly as the man motored past him toward the safety of the interstate in his shabby box truck, at least a decade old, carelessly repainted, and belching blue smoke, and—there!

  Bill sat up in bed, ramrod stiff, not sweating and frightened this time but sweating and excited. Hopeful. Insanely, unreasonably hopeful. He forced every detail of this latest snippet of the encounter with the I-90 Killer into his memory banks, knowing he was hanging halfway between wakefulness and sleep, determined not to lose what he had just seen in his dream to the fading half-light of burgeoning consciousness.

  Electricity coursed through his now wide-awake body. What he had just seen might hold the key to saving Carli.

  CHAPTER 38

  CARLI KNEW HER FATHER would come for her, so she did what she had to do. She smiled and pretended to accept her captor’s advances. She tried to convince him that the thought of his disgusting hands all over her body was anything other than repulsive. She tried to convince herself that the thought of having sex with a stranger—and a sociopathic serial kidnapper/killer at that—who was at least twice her age was anything other than sick.

  So she smiled at him and told him she wanted to clean up first.

  And that much, at least, was true. She really, really wanted to wash up. She had sweated rivers, first from the unseasonable May heat, and then from terror. Her clothes felt damp and filthy, and although there wasn’t much she could do about that, the idea of running a washcloth over her face and maybe under her arms felt like heaven. Plus, if he agreed to allow her to freshen up first, it would delay the inevitable moment when he would place his nasty, disgusting rapist hands on her and do the things to her that she could not bear to think about.

  And every second she delayed was one second closer to the moment when she would look up from her dirty, disgusting bed and see her dad. That’s what she told herself because that’s what she knew to be true.

  She was marginally surprised when her captor actually agreed to her request. She had been certain he would snicker and tear her clothes off, doing the things he wanted to do without regard for her desires. After all, he had kidnapped her in order to do these things, why would he suddenly consider her comfort?

  But he had agreed. He actually seemed to believe this elaborate fantasy he had constructed where the two of them were some bizarre, moder
n-day Romeo and Juliet, holding hands, partnered together against the rest of the world. That was fine with Carli. Maybe she could continue to use his insane fantasy against him.

  He had unlocked the cuff from the bedpost and led her to the basement stairs, supporting her by the elbow like some twisted suitor, like some undead freak straight out of a Roger Corman movie.

  She tried to pretend not to mind. She tried to pretend the feel of his hand on her body didn’t make her skin crawl, that it was not the worst, most horrifying thing she had ever experienced. She needed to focus on the positive: Her diversion was working. It was working! He was bringing her to the bathroom to clean up, which meant he was not raping her. Yet.

  And every minute that passed where he wasn’t raping her brought her one minute closer to being rescued by her dad. She believed it. She had to believe it.

  They reached the partly closed wooden door at the top of the stairs, and the I-90 Killer nudged it open with the toe of his shoe. “So, you said your name is Martin?” she asked, hopefully in a voice that sounded calm and sincere, trying to keep him occupied, trying to show an interest and feed into his crazy, romantic fantasy.

  “That’s right,” he said. She hoped by making a connection with him she would somehow humanize herself to him, maybe make herself a little less disposable. She knew it was unlikely. Carli had seen plenty of news reports over the last three-and-a-half years about the I-90 Killer. He had kidnapped, raped and, the authorities believed, murdered over a dozen girls, and those were just the ones they knew about. How do you humanize yourself to an inhuman monster?

  She allowed herself the illusion of hope, that, perhaps, he had made up a name and not used his real one. Because if he had told her his real name, it could mean only one thing—he would never release her, never allow her to describe him to the police or tell them his name or in any way implicate him. He would use her, and then, when his bizarre fantasy began to bore him, he would send her off to her “final destination,” as he had put it. Undoubtedly, that meant killing her and dumping her body into a shallow grave as he had presumably done so many times in the past.