by Lisa Gardner
As if he really is that much in control.
With all the time in the world . . .
My own breathing hitches. I don’t mean to. Hate to give him the satisfaction. But the steady, even beat is getting to me. No one breathes that regularly. No one, in this situation, can possibly keep that calm.
Then, suddenly . . . a dawning realization. A slowly shuddering fear.
No, I don’t want. Please not . . .
I can’t help myself. Having had the thought, now I must know. Shuffling forward. One step, two, three, four.
My toe hits it first. I stop. Freeze in my tracks and focus my ears once again.
Breathing. Much closer now. But just as steady. In. Out. In. Out.
I extend my arms. Order myself to be strong. Remind myself I’ve already been through the worst; I can handle anything.
Still, as my fingers encounter the first wooden edge of the coffin-shaped box . . .
While from inside comes the continued sound of the occupant’s steady breath. In. Out. In. Out. Sleeping, because what else is there to do when trapped in a dark wooden box?
I close my eyes. It doesn’t help. I can still hear her breathing. My fellow abductee, his prior victim. In. Out. In. Out.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“I am not afraid,” I hear myself whisper.
But in my mind, I can see Jacob, and he is laughing again.
Chapter 17
NEWBIE DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY was the first to arrive at Flora’s apartment. But if she seemed surprised to discover her supervisor actually on site, she did a good job of disguising it. Phil and Neil followed shortly after, and then the party really got started.
District detectives were assigned to canvass the neighborhood and interview available residents for any possible witnesses to Flora Dane’s recent comings and goings, while a sketch artist would be sent to visit the landlords. Carol volunteered to pull security video from the corner store, as well as peruse local traffic cams for any sighting of Flora. Given the volume of footage, however, they needed to narrow down the timeline of Flora’s disappearance in order to be more efficient.
Phil did the honors of searching her computer, while Neil placed a call to the girl’s cellular provider and credit card companies. Unfortunately, Flora’s network browser didn’t show any activity for the past thirty-six hours—since shortly before she headed out for her ill-fated adventure with the predatory bartender. Her cell registered only a single call from her mom the evening before, while her credit card hadn’t been used in a week. Frugal of her, but not helpful for moments like this.
D.D. prowled the tiny apartment, feeling restless. Keynes was tucked in a corner, mobile phone pressed against his ear. He’d agreed to fill in the mom, not a job D.D. envied.
Like most major cities, Boston had electronic eyes everywhere. From business cams to traffic cams to ATM cams, every street, every corner, yielded possible surveillance opportunities. In theory, this should produce a bonanza of information for investigators. Except that was exactly the problem. There was too much footage, and much of it low-quality resolution. Meaning security footage worked best when used backward—first formulate what you think there is to see, at what time it most likely happened, and then go look for it.
So what exactly went down in this security-tight apartment? Yesterday, late morning, Dr. Keynes dropped off Flora outside. Her mother was already upstairs, had made muffins. She fed them to her daughter; they caught up briefly. So, Mom, about last night . . . How did such a conversation go? And what did Rosa Dane think of her daughter’s late-night escapades?
D.D. stood in the kitchen. She pictured herself as the mom, baking muffins. She pictured Flora walking through the door, clad in secondhand Boston PD sweats and covered in garbage. She remembered the smell that had coated her own skin from the crime scene, then, with a short nod, headed for the bathroom.
Sure enough, on the back of the door hung a bath towel, still damp. She removed the lid from the wicker clothes hamper tucked in the corner and immediately wrinkled her nose at the stench. Garbage-scented Boston PD sweats. Check.
So among Flora’s first order of business upon returning home would’ve been to clean up. And then?
Girl had been up twenty-four hours at that point. She would’ve been tired, as well as hungry. According to witness statements, she’d been drinking at the bar, not eating.
D.D. was biased on the subject, but given a choice between eating and sleeping, she’d go with eating any day of the week. Especially given that Flora’s mother would’ve been waiting for her in the kitchen, with the scent of homemade muffins wafting in the air.
Following that instinct, D.D. returned to the kitchen. This time, she discovered a gallon-size freezer bag tucked in the corner containing six blueberry muffins. The leftovers, she would guess. And they still looked delicious.
Next, she checked the refrigerator, where she discovered a brand-new jug of orange juice and bowl of recently cut-up fruit. Edges of the apples were just starting to brown, so she was willing to bet they came from yesterday’s snack with the mom as well.
As for other contents . . . She pulled out some takeout containers, sniffed experimentally, recoiled. Best she could tell, Flora had one edible meal in her whole kitchen, and that was the food supplied by Mom. Which meant?
“She never ate dinner,” D.D. stated out loud.
“Pardon?” Dr. Keynes had come up behind her. He still wore his coat, though it was now unbuttoned. How he didn’t sweat, given the stuffy confines of the small space, she’d never know.
“Yesterday. Flora returned home, showered, ate with her mom a late breakfast, early lunch—”
“Brunch?”
“Sure. Muffins and fruit. Brunch. But that was it. I mean unless she went out. Which, given the lack of credit card activity, let alone her own state of mind . . .”
“She would’ve rested. Post–adrenaline crash.”
“Okay. But she ate with her mom, what, one or two in the afternoon?”
“Rosa confirmed she left shortly after one.”
“So most likely she would’ve lain down for a nap. Too early in the day to go to bed, bed.”
Keynes shrugged one shoulder. “Given the large windows, the overall brightness of the space, I suspect she would retire to her room to rest.”
“You mean the shrine to kidnapping victims everywhere?”
Another elegant shrug. He turned and headed for Flora’s bedroom. D.D. followed behind him.
Like the rest of the apartment, the room was small. The newspaper articles plastered all over the walls offered its main distinction. Otherwise just the modest desk and the rumpled bed, which definitely appeared to have been slept in.
D.D. pushed by Keynes’s larger build, which nearly filled the narrow space, to cross to the bed. She leaned over the thin pillow, sniffed experimentally. When she looked up again, she spotted Keynes studying her.
“Searching for chloroform,” she provided. “It has a distinct smell, which takes a bit to fade. Might be traces on the pillow. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.”
“He would have to have subdued her quickly,” Keynes said. “Otherwise, given Flora’s training . . . Where are the signs of a struggle?”
He had a point there. The apartment appeared relatively untouched, one of the more unsettling things about the situation. And indeed, given what Flora was capable of . . .
“He had already made a key for the locks. It’s possible he was already inside, waiting for her.”
“Not likely. Rosa was here for several hours before Flora returned home. When Rosa is anxious, she doesn’t just cook, she cleans.”
“And if she was puttering around, tidying up this small space,” D.D. filled in, “where could an intruder hide that she wouldn’t have seen?”
“Exactly.”
D.D. nodded, following the train of logic. “All right. So first Rosa arrives at the apartment. Let’s herself in, does her thing. Then you drop off Flora. Mom and daughter catch up, exchange words . . . ?”
She eyed Keynes expectantly. But he refused to take the bait. Apparently, he either didn’t know what Rosa had said to her daughter—which D.D. didn’t believe for a minute—or he didn’t feel it was relevant to the investigation.
“Mom departs shortly after one. At which point, we know Flora didn’t make any calls and didn’t use her computer or credit cards. Which leaves us with?”
“She took a nap.”
D.D. liked it. Certainly, in her experience, unconsciousness was about the only thing that kept a younger person from his or her electronics.
“When she woke up,” she said, gazing at the rumpled bed, “he was here. Already in the room. Already standing over her.”
“Because this is where he chloroformed her,” Keynes said.
“Yeah. And she never ate again. I mean, up all night, then returning to muffins and fruit . . . I gotta say, first thing upon waking, I would’ve been famished.”
“I’m told you’re a woman who appreciates an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“Checking up on me, Shrink Man? You’ve been told correctly.”
Keynes ignored her sarcasm, staying focused on the matter at hand. “He already had a key made. Meaning he could enter the apartment at any time.”
D.D. shook her head. “He wouldn’t go after her in daytime. Come on, the kind of guy who takes the time to copy a key is the kind of guy who does his homework. Given Flora’s rap sheet—”
“Not a matter of public record.”
“He would’ve done some digging. That whole ruse, posing as a building inspector? This guy has patience. He would’ve taken proper precautions to abduct a target as high risk as Flora. Not to mention, this is a third-floor walk-up unit. She puts up a fight, the other occupants would come out to the stairwell to discover what’s going on.”
D.D. paused, considered the matter. “He needs it to be dark,” she reiterated. “Otherwise, he’s too exposed. Think about it. He can’t use a rickety metal fire escape without calling attention to himself, meaning he had to have used the main stairs, just like the rest of us.”
“Does the building have a camera?”
“Former residential home? We’re not that lucky. But consider his options. He knows he can get into the apartment. He’s planning on ambushing Flora, rendering her unconscious, which means he then has to carry her out. Carrying an unconscious body down three flights of stairs is pretty noticeable. So he’d pick a time after dark. When most residents wouldn’t be coming or going.”
“He watched the apartment. Got to know the routines.”
“Consistent with someone patient enough to scam himself a set of keys.”
“He’d also be watching Flora. Getting to know her routines,” Keynes provided.
D.D. nodded. She pushed her way back into the main living area, where she crossed to one of the front-facing windows. She drew back the filmy curtains Flora seemed to favor—the kind of gauzy affair that offered some privacy while also still permitting plenty of light—and peered out onto the street. “We should investigate vantage points,” she murmured. “Maybe even a new tenant in the surrounding area. If our theory is correct, our guy would’ve had to have been hanging out for a while in order to learn everything he needed to learn.”
“Permit parking,” Keynes commented.
D.D. nodded, having noticed the signs earlier. Meaning parking on these streets was restricted to locals, who had to prove residency in order to gain a parking pass. Those who parked without one risked being ticketed. Something else to have a local detective check out. Because their suspect definitely would’ve parked close in order to escape with an unconscious woman. Meaning if he didn’t have the proper permits, they might find a trace of a parking ticket.
“Does Flora have a car?” she asked Keynes, as it was possible the kidnapper had stolen Flora’s own vehicle for transport.
“No.”
“All right. So we’re talking early nightfall. Not so late that Flora had woken up and eaten dinner, but not so early that it was still light out. Say, five thirty, six.”
“Seems like a high-traffic hour,” Keynes observed. “Risks the other residents coming and going from work.”
“Unless that’s how he does it.” D.D. paused, the idea grabbing hold. “Social engineering. That’s his thing, right? Pretend to be a building inspector in order to get a key. Maybe he dressed up for yesterday’s event as well. Boyfriend? Taxi driver?”
“Escorting an unconscious woman from her apartment?” Keynes raised an eyebrow.
“EMT. Home health worker.” She glanced at him. “Local cop? An occupation that could easily explain the situation, assuming he was noticed. Then, he’d simply brazen his way through. Walk straight down the stairs, with his drunk or sick or groggy female companion. In a neighborhood as high traffic as this one, simply acting as if you belong is half the battle.”
Keynes nodded. “Officers should canvass for neighbors who were out and about yesterday around dusk. See if anyone noticed a particularly large guy who appeared to be assisting an impaired woman. Maybe an official worker of some kind who blatantly stood out.”
“A particularly large guy, just like Stacey Summers’s kidnapper.” D.D. glanced at him. “Did you know Flora’s mom is a mentor for Stacey’s parents?”
“Rosa mentioned it.”
“Flora seems to have taken an interest in the case as well.”
“As you can tell from the bedroom wall, Flora is interested in a good many cases.”
“But she’s looking for Stacey Summers’s abductor in particular. The way she spoke at the crime scene yesterday . . . That’s who she was hoping to discover at the bar. And immediately, she drew a connection between that case and her own attacker.”
“Do you know why she does it?” Keynes asked softly. “Why Flora continues to put herself in dangerous situations?”
D.D. shrugged. “Adrenaline rush. Post-traumatic stress. Some God syndrome where she enjoys reveling in her own power after four hundred plus days of feeling powerless.”
“I don’t know,” Keynes said, which surprised her. “I doubt Flora knows why she’s doing what she’s doing either. Or, at least, can put her finger on one particular stressor. Who she reminds me of is a soldier who returns home from her tour of duty, only to re-up again and then again. At the end of the day, real life feels too alien, while knowing the war is still going on, that she has brothers out there still fighting . . .”
“Is that what those articles are?” D.D. asked. “Her brothers-in-arms? The missing people she can’t leave behind?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think there’s a connection between Flora’s disappearance and Stacey Summers’s kidnapping?”
Keynes didn’t answer as much as he hesitated. D.D. did a little double take, letting the curtain drop and stepping away from the window.
“You do, don’t you?”
“When Flora’s landlady, Mrs. Reichter, described the ‘building inspector,’ my first thought was the Stacey Summers abduction video. Not to mention, three months later, there are no leads, no additional witness statements, no new information in that case. You have to admit, it takes a particular kind of predator to pull that off.”
“You mean such as the kind of guy who would pose as a building inspector to copy a set of keys?”
“The idea crossed my mind. Plus, the front door of Flora’s apartment being left open, all the windows unlocked. It feels to me, whoever did this—he’s showing off. Bragging even. Which would make sense if this isn’t the first time he’s gotten away with something.”
D.D. arched a brow. She didn’t know exactly what to make of Keynes’s suspicions. Even
if he was onto something, given how little they knew about Stacey Summers’s disappearance, linking Flora’s case to hers hardly helped them. What they needed was a detailed sketch provided by the elderly landlords downstairs. Then, they needed half a dozen witness statements tracking the perpetrator’s trek through the neighborhood, plus a parking ticket issued to the evildoer’s personal vehicle. Short of that . . .
D.D. turned toward the window again. “Is it possible we have it all wrong? Flora wasn’t kidnapped at all but simply broke under the stress of the past twenty-four hours and ran off?”
“No.”
“Because she wouldn’t leave her cell phone behind, or her personal computer, yada yada yada.”
“No, because she wouldn’t do that to her mother.”
D.D. sighed again. Everything about this case already hurt her, and she had a feeling it was only going to get worse. “I need to talk to Rosa. Both about her daughter, but also her involvement with the Summers family.”
“If I might make a recommendation?”
D.D. shot Keynes a look. “By all means.”
“I don’t think you should question Rosa just yet. If anyone knows about the family dynamics and the latest developments, it’s Pam Mason, the Summerses’ victim advocate. You want insights, speak to her first.”
Chapter 18
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO AVOID ABJECT TERROR?
How to fight nighttime chills, the fear of the bogeyman under the bed? How to sleep like an angel? Or walk down dark alleyways with a spring in your step?
Do you want to know how to be me?
First, you find the void. It’s a place everyone has, deep, deep inside themselves. That spot no one can touch. I have it on expert testimony that some find it through meditation or Zen retreats or the diligent pursuit of mindfulness. Let’s just say I discovered the void under different circumstances.
But everyone has it. A place where you stand in silence. A place that permits you to be untouched even in a crowded room. A place where you are utterly, totally, simply, terrifyingly alone.