by Lisa Gardner
“Rest stops, sleepovers, you’re in the box.”
I nodded again.
“Other times . . .” His voice drifted. He seemed to hesitate. “Be good. Play your cards right and maybe you can come out for a bit. Keep me company.”
I frowned, not understanding. Was he saying I might join him in the cab? As in sit in the passenger’s seat? As in, like a real person?
“You’ll sit on the floor,” he clarified now. “No one can see you. Maybe, maybe not, I’ll take the blindfold off. But you’ll be out of the box. Assuming you’re good, of course. Do exactly as I say.”
He paused, waiting expectantly. And, finally, I got it. I was leaving the basement, really truly leaving. And for my punishment/reward, I would now spend all my time, 24/7, with this man. This mean, filthy, awful man in his castle of a big rig, where he got to rule the highway, personal sex slave chained to his side.
And in that instant, I understood something else as well. That he was doing this versus killing me.
Which he’d promised to do so many times before, right before explaining how he’d then roll my body into the nearest canal and let the gators ensure my mother never saw me again.
Everett wasn’t going to kill me. He was going to keep me instead.
I wondered, in the back of my mind, if that meant he’d grown to like me somehow.
And I wondered, in the back of my mind, if that meant I was supposed to like him too.
Everett planted the palm of his hand over my face and forced my head down into the box. I assumed the position, mind churning, as the lid came down. The padlock jangled. My moment of freedom ended. I became once again a girl in a coffin-size box.
Except now . . . Now I was a girl in motion.
* * *
HE LIKED TO TALK while he drove the big rig. Complain, really. About the price of gas, the asshole in the Honda Civic who just flipped him off. The pricks at the understaffed loading dock who just cost him two damn hours, and now he couldn’t even take a break for lunch.
In the good ol’ days, he’d grouse, the smart trucker could fudge his driver’s log and carry on. But no. Everything’s now federally mandated electronic this and federally mandated electronic that. Big Brother. Always watching.
Welcome to the life of a long-haul trucker, he’d tell me. Working for assholes while driving through an entire country of assholes.
In the beginning, every time the rig’s engine fired to life, I flinched. Every time the truck bounced down a rutted road, I went bug-eyed with nausea. After so much time alone in the basement, this—the smell of diesel, the roar of pistons, the violent hum of the beast—was almost too much to take.
And yet, much like my experience with the overwhelming boredom of the basement, I learned to adapt. I relaxed my shoulders into the jerk and sway. I absorbed the relentless growl and hum. And bit by bit, I started to discern the nuances of different road surfaces, the cruising speed of highway, the deep grind of slow climbs.
Life on the road. Where, according to fake Everett’s incessant grumblings, he was permitted to drive eleven out of fourteen hours, before taking a mandated ten-hour rest. Then, regardless of actual time on the clock—say, 11:00 P.M., or 2:00 A.M., or 4:00 A.M.—he’d start driving again.
And true to his word, away from loading docks, rest stops, and the hustle and bustle of civilization, he’d pull over and let me out. I got to pee squatted behind bushes versus trapped in my own filth. I got to eat Egg McMuffins for breakfast, Subway sandwiches for lunch, and fried chicken for dinner.
“Downside of the job,” Everett would say, handing over yet another bag of fast food while self-consciously patting the grotesque swell of his belly.
Dinner was inevitably followed by other demands. He’d driven all day. ’Course he needed to blow off some steam. And he had his love nest all ready to go.
Was it better being out of the basement? Was it worth it being out on the road? Where, from time to time, the blindfold came off, and I watched the world whiz by in a blur of greens and blues and grays.
So many other vehicles racing side by side. So many other drivers. An entire country filled with assholes, as Everett liked to say.
And yet not a single one who ever saw me.
Everett talked a lot. Complained mostly. And sometimes, once in a while, he even cried in his sleep.
Which is how I finally learned about Lindy.
Chapter 20
D.D. LIKED TO BE PREPARED. Hence, before she and Keynes met up with victim specialist Pam Mason at the FBI’s Boston field office, D.D. did the practical thing and Googled her. According to the woman’s professional bio, Pam Mason had a master’s in forensic psych from John Jay. She’d worked crisis management at a major women’s shelter in Detroit—talk about baptism by fire, D.D. thought—before joining the FBI. She’d moved around the bureau for the past fifteen years, including a stint in Miami specializing on human trafficking, then a position with the squad specializing in crimes against Americans overseas. The victim specialist was known for her work on a major kidnapping case in Mexico where the oil executive was returned alive, and for a situation in Guatemala where three young American missionaries weren’t.
In other words, the woman’s work history was as impressive as the number of frequent-flier miles she’d accumulated. D.D. wondered what she thought of life in Boston, let alone her current assignment with the Summers family.
Keynes had arranged for them to meet in his office at the FBI’s downtown Boston headquarters. The meeting place didn’t surprise D.D.; federal agents were big on home-court advantage. Though why anyone would consider the enormous concrete structure—one of Boston’s ugliest buildings, in D.D.’s humble opinion—an advantage, D.D. would never know. Then again, compared to the Hoover building in DC . . .
Never let it be said the federal government was known for good taste.
D.D. debated bringing Phil along. Sure, he had his own work to do with his own squad and his own codetective, Carol, but the FBI valued appearances. Given she was meeting with two federal employees, it felt logical, even balanced, for there to be two representatives from the BPD.
But the moment she thought it, D.D. knew she wouldn’t do it. Precisely because it smacked of politics and she hated that crap. She’d called Keynes from Florence Dane’s apartment not because he was a big-time federal guy but because he was a known associate of the victim. She planned on keeping that tack here. Flora’s disappearance was a BPD case all the way, hence D.D.’s involvement as a supervisory officer. Interviewing Dr. Keynes and victim specialist Pam Mason was her call, and she would handle it.
She was pleasantly surprised to find Keynes waiting for her in the lobby of FBI headquarters. Given it was Sunday, and federal agents prided themselves on working bankers’ hours, versus an urban detective’s relentless 24/7 drill, the building was quiet. D.D. still had to present her credentials and sign her life away—but, sadly, no registering of the sidearm she was no longer qualified to carry. Once she’d secured her visitor’s pass, Keynes escorted her to the elevators and away they went.
He wasn’t one for small talk. No “How was the parking, did you find the offices okay, what do you think of the weather” chatter. Instead, Keynes stood quietly, hands clasped before him as the floors flew by.
He’d discarded his heavy black coat, first time D.D. had seen him without it. For his Sunday attire, Keynes had gone with an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit, with just a hint of texture to the fabric. D.D. wondered if he had a whole closet full of suits, each one looking more elegant than the last. And just how much time and money did he spend on wardrobe anyway?
She had on her caramel-colored leather jacket. It was her favorite; she wore it right up to the coldest, darkest days of winter. Now, she noticed how shiny and worn the leather appeared at the cuffs. Oh yeah, and the apple juice stain lower right side. Awesome.
; Elevator stopped. Doors opened. Keynes gestured for her to step out first, so she did the honors. According to D.D.’s research, the FBI had more than 120 victim specialists and four managers. Dr. Keynes, as one of the head muckety-mucks, was entitled to his own office, complete with an imposing cherrywood desk, a long bank of bookshelves, and a smaller seating area to one side.
His desk bore a state-of-the-art-looking computer, a leather cup of requisite pencils and pens, and, of all things, a Rubik’s Cube—colors mixed. D.D. couldn’t help herself. Her gaze went immediately to the ’80s phenomenon, and she was already itching to solve it.
“You can, you know,” Keynes said, following her gaze.
She kept her hands fisted at her side. “Who messed it up?”
“I did.”
“To solve later? Or as a test for this little meeting?”
“Sergeant, you read entirely too much into a common toy.”
She eyed him warily. “You’re a behavioral expert. Of course I’m suspicious.”
He smiled. It was a good look on him, easing the severity of his smoothly shaved scalp, high-sculpted cheekbones. For a moment, he almost appeared human.
“I like to shuffle the cube. It helps me think. Given what we discovered at Flora’s apartment . . . I’ve had much to think about.”
“I like mobiles,” D.D. found herself saying. “Studying intricate patterns where at first glance it appears as one graceful, multileveled whole, and yet is in fact many separate levels moving in precise rhythm.”
A rap on the door behind them. D.D. and Keynes turned to find a woman standing in the doorway. Pam Mason, D.D. assumed.
At first glance, the woman was older than D.D. would’ve thought. Ash-blond hair worn in a close mass of curls that was last popular right around the same time as the Rubik’s Cube. Even though it was Sunday, she’d followed Keynes’s professional wardrobe example, though with less elegant results, having selected a block-cut, 1990s tan suit with padded shoulders and a cream-colored silk blouse that buttoned all the way to the throat and was finished with some kind of silk ruffle.
The victim specialist appeared about D.D.’s height but, with the cut of her jacket, appeared significantly wider. She was also a woman on a mission. She entered the office, simultaneously tucking a file folder under one arm while sticking out her other hand.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren? Pam Mason, victim specialist. I understand you have some questions about the Summers family.”
The woman grabbed D.D.’s hand in a firm grip, shook it twice, turned to Keynes with another brisk handshake, then moved straight to the seating area, ready for business. D.D. had to admit, she didn’t care for the woman’s suit, but she had to like the woman’s style.
A considerate host, Keynes did the honors of offering up coffee. Both women immediately agreed, and he disappeared in search of every investigator’s favorite beverage.
“Dr. Keynes has apprised me of the situation,” Pam stated briskly.
“Okay.” D.D. shrugged out of her leather jacket, her motions awkward given the stiffness in her left shoulder. She took a seat. “I’m sure you can understand we’re operating on the QT for the moment regarding Florence Dane’s disappearance. Press gets a hold of this . . .”
“You mean the same media that raked the BPD over the coals on the evening news?”
“Thank heavens it was a Saturday,” D.D. commented, as the weekend news had notoriously lower viewer numbers than the weeknight editions.
Pam Mason arched a brow but kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. She folded her hands, placed them on the small table. “How can I help?”
Keynes reappeared. He bore two mugs of steaming coffee for them, nothing for himself. Man was so superhuman he didn’t even require caffeine? Figured.
“I understand that Rosa Dane is acting as a mentor for the Summers family.”
Pam Mason nodded.
“I’m wondering . . .” D.D. had to collect her thoughts, not sure how much she wanted to say. Not sure how much she had to say. “I’d like to understand more about the Stacey Summers case. From the family’s perspective. The father, Colin, called me this morning. At the first mention of Flora’s name, he already assumed she was involved in taking down Devon Goulding. Given we never released that detail to the press . . .”
“He knows things.”
“Exactly. Combine that with the fact Flora has taken a personal interest in Stacey Summers’s disappearance and now appears to have gone missing herself . . .”
Another arched brow, then it was Pam’s turn to collect her thoughts. She took a sip of coffee.
“I’m assuming you’re familiar with the details of Stacey’s abduction,” she said at last, “given that the BPD is handling the case.”
“I know we have the world’s most-watched kidnapping video, and yet no real leads.”
“Do you think she’s alive?” Pam asked abruptly, which was not the question D.D. had been expecting.
She found herself staring at Keynes, of all people, who sat with his long, elegant fingers steepled in front of him.
“What’s that expression?” D.D. replied finally. “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst? I hope Stacey is still alive. But given the statistics on missing persons cases . . .”
Pam nodded. No doubt she was as familiar with the primacy of the first twenty-four hours as the rest of them.
“I guess the question is,” D.D. found herself saying, “does the family believe? Or maybe”—she thought about it—“does Rosa Dane, as their mentor, believe?”
“The family wants to believe,” Pam supplied. “Most families do. But as the days stretch longer with no sign of their daughter . . . They are under a tremendous amount of stress, both feeling the pain of their daughter’s disappearance and the agony of their own helplessness.”
“How are they coping?”
“Interestingly enough, it’s the mother, Pauline, who is probably doing the best, though I’m sure Colin would disagree. By all accounts, the marriage is a solid one. Traditional New England roles. He’s a workaholic investment banker; she raised their daughter, tends the home, and is involved in the community. Church, local high school, various charities, the like. Stacey is their only child; Pauline suffered several miscarriages before her birth, which makes Stacey a miracle child.”
D.D. winced. She couldn’t imagine that kind of salt on the wound; to have already lost multiple babies, then, nineteen years later, having the lone survivor, no doubt the apple of her parents’ eyes . . .
“Stacey is described as kind, vibrant, happy, athletic,” D.D. said. “Mother or father?”
“Definitely takes after the mom. They’re very close, the kind of mother-daughter that are often mistaken for sisters. Pauline took the news of Stacey’s disappearance very hard. I’d never describe her as weak, but she’s one of those women who wears her heart on her sleeve, which makes her transparent in her pain.”
“Support network?” D.D. asked.
“Good. In addition to church ties, they have a close network of friends in the neighborhood, other families from Stacey’s school, that sort of thing. In the beginning, they were deluged with food, offers of assistance, et cetera, et cetera. One of my first jobs, in fact, was turning everyone away, given Pauline’s delicate mental state.”
“Delicate mental state?”
“The initial shock definitely overwhelmed Pauline. She fell apart. But, to be fair, she then let her support network help put her back together.
“The tight network of ladies from church, fellow moms, her own sisters, they give her strength. Colin, on the other hand, concerns me more. He’s the consummate alpha male. For most of his life, there’s been no problem he couldn’t solve. Now this. The very foundations of his world have been rocked. Pauline externalizes her pain, which allows others to help bear the load. Colin purely inter
nalizes.”
“He was quite . . . angry . . . when he spoke to me by phone.”
The victim specialist merely nodded.
“And Rosa Dane’s role in all this?”
“She’s the equalizer between the two. She’s empathetic enough and optimistic enough for Pauline—Rosa’s daughter’s safe recovery one year later being an example of success. But Rosa is also tactical, which is what Colin wants. She’s well versed on media appearances, as well as the need in this day and age to work social media.”
“Bet the lead investigator loves that,” D.D. muttered.
Pam Mason shrugged. All detectives wanted to control their own investigations. And all families wanted to be involved.
“Was Stacey close to her family?” D.D. asked.
“Very.”
“Any reason to harbor any suspicions on the home front?”
“No. I’ve spent three months with the Summerses. They really were the postcard for family closeness. And frankly, I don’t say that lightly. In my line of work, I spend more time pulling skeletons out of closets than framing happy family photos.”
“So Pauline is leaning on family and friends to get her through, while Colin nurses his rage and rides the local investigators. Is he back to work?”
“Yes. Limited hours, but I recommended his return. Staying home isn’t good for him. Work is how he copes.”
D.D. couldn’t argue with that, given her own predilections. “Is the wife angry about that?”
“No. Like a lot of stay-at-home wives, she’s accustomed to the house being her domain. Her husband’s sudden appearance twenty-four/seven strained the patterns of their marriage more than it helped. Part of my job is to help a family understand that the more it deviates from its established rhythms during the time of crisis, the more everyone’s stress escalates. Normalcy is also an excellent coping strategy.”
“Does Rosa Dane agree with that?”
The victim advocate hesitated. “Rosa is a rare mentor. She listens to Pauline. She talks to Colin. I’ve . . . been impressed. Generally speaking, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s program . . .” Pam Mason made a noise in her throat.