I froze when I saw his open eyes, the confusion present as his brain tried to wade through the layers of sleep and decipher what was before him. In the dark room, I wasn’t sure what he could see, and I tossed the knife to the ground, leaning forward and distracting him with a kiss. He pushed me off, accusing me of trying to cut off his luscious locks.
I stuck my toothbrush in my purse the next morning, deciding that sleepovers were something I obviously couldn’t handle. Thank God he woke up. His face was too beautiful to be mutilated.
Carolyn stands in the hall of the station, filling a plastic cup with water from the fountain. She watches the flow of clear liquid, the cup getting heavier and heavier. Something enters her peripheral vision, and a hand reaches out, takes the cup from her.
“Carolyn. Let me take that for you.”
She looks up, meeting John Watkins’s eyes. “John. Thank you.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “I called around this morning. Spoke to Screven and Evans County. They’ve both had a girl disappear that was around Annie’s age, Screven seven years ago, Evans three. The girls were never found. I’m waiting on a callback from Effingham County to see if they’ve had any similar disappearances in the last decade. We may be looking at a serial—”
“John. Please don’t use that word with me. I just…can’t take it right now.”
His eyes soften. “Shit, Carolyn. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He pauses, looking at the floor. “I’m just not used to this sort of thing around here. You know us—we normally go after missing cows and abusive husbands.” His southern drawl is soothing, bringing back so many memories of easier times. “Carolyn, can we step outside? I’m dying for a cigarette and could use the company.”
She looks over at the office that has been their prison for the last six hours, the edges of Henry’s wheelchair visible. “Just for a bit. I could use some fresh air, but I don’t want to leave Henry too long.”
He smiles, the gesture not reaching his eyes. “Great.” He pushes on the exit bar and opens the door, holding it for her. She steps out, the sun harsh on her unprotected eyes.
The police station sits on an unassuming corner of Brooklet, at the far end of Main Street. The small size of the town means that only a handful of stores line the one-block street, and she can see a number of people on the town’s only street of commerce. Out here, life is ordinary; people are going about their everyday business, seemingly oblivious to her situation. To a woman who has every aspect of her life crumbling, the proof of normal life seems painfully unfair. She leans against the building, folding her arms and turning her face to John. “What is it? Did they find her?”
He looks over, surprised. “What?”
“You quit smoking six years ago. Bitched and moaned enough that folks in Savannah probably heard the news. So you brought me out here, away from my husband, for something. What is it?”
“I almost don’t even want to mention it…” He looks down at the dirt, spits a wad of something to the side. “The Feds called. They’ve gotten a bunch of calls on the hotline number. Most of them are useless, but one of them, a young girl, she called about Michael.”
Carolyn stiffens, her back leaving the white brick. “Michael? My brother?”
“Yeah. Only this girl didn’t call him Michael—she called him Ralph. The AMBER Alert doesn’t say where Annie disappeared from, just says the vicinity of Savannah. So for this girl to call and mention Michael, it’s strange, you know?” He studies her face, sitting back against the hood of the closest car, an old black-and-white cruiser.
She clenches and unclenches her hands, taking measured breaths. “What did this girl say?”
“That he’s had a bunch of phone calls with her—sexual ones. That the calls always center on fantasies he has with a young girl. One named Annie.”
The world closes in on her with one black swoop that darkens her vision and has her legs collapsing beneath her. He steps forward, catches her arms, and pulls her to her feet. “Carolyn, Carolyn. Be strong. Stand up. I need you with me.”
She pushes against him, moving to the car and sitting on the hood, her hands shaking and gripping her dress, scrunching the fabric and then smoothing it out. “Jesus. Did you ask Junior about this? He’s Mike’s son, he might…” she raises a hand to cover her mouth, the words dying on her lips. Junior, a nineteen-year-old kid…images of him as a child flash before her. She closes her eyes and sends a small prayer upward.
“I haven’t asked anyone about this. You know this kind of thing, Carolyn. Once you throw it out there, the thoughts, the suspicion, never goes away. The call might be bogus. Could be some girl with a grudge. Do you think…do you know anything about him that we need to know? About his sexual preferences?”
She shakes her head rapidly. “I don’t know. I was older…he never…not that I ever knew. No. I would never suspect Michael of that. Never. Christ, he’s spent time with her. Alone! It can’t—”
“Carolyn.” His voice is strong, and she holds on to it with all of her remaining sanity. “It could be nothing. Don’t worry just yet. But we have to check it out. You know that. It’s nothing against you or your family—”
“Enough!” She jerks to her feet, surprising him, and he takes a step back. She holds up a hand. “Don’t insult me, John. Annie is the focus here. I could give two shits about any inconvenience or offense that is put on my family. If Michael is responsible for this, I’ll be the only person you’ll need to arrest, because I will kill him myself. And I mean that, with every fiber of my being.”
CHAPTER 55
JEREMY’S TRUCK IS an F-150 single-cab that is meticulously clean and smells faintly of air freshener. It has GPS, and I pull over at the first gas station I find and plug in the address for Ralph’s rented trailer. It calculates that I am twelve hours and twenty-four minutes from my destination.
I fill up the gas tank while I am there, the feel of the gas pump strange in my hands. My hands sweat on the metal pump, the flow of liquid causing a vibrating sensation against my palms. I glance at my watch: 5:47 p.m. More than a half hour spent outside of my apartment, and no one is dead and no uncontrollable urges have racked my body. I think briefly of the cam appointments I am missing, the men who are constantly refreshing their screens, waiting for sexy Jessica, who would not appear. The order came again. GO.
I steel myself for disaster and head for the convenience store—rough, gritty pavement underfoot, I breathe deeply, focusing. I need food for the road and to use the restroom. There is one car parked in front of the store and one in a gas bay next to me. Two cars. One or two employees. Blood spray hitting the glass cooler doors. Bodies thudding against tile floors. I leave my bag in the car and head for the store unarmed. Trying to block out other thoughts, I center my mind on Annie. Save Annie. Save Annie. Ignore everything else.
The door to the store swings open easily, exposing me to bright fluorescent lights, the smell of hot dogs and other food. My eyes meet rows and rows of food I have been deprived of for three long years. Soda. I think my body has forgotten the power of crisp-from-the-can carbonation. Chocolate. Real, nondiet chocolate in the form of fifty-plus options. Chips, nuts, Twinkies. Alcohol. My lust for death disappears in the presence of such abundant decadence. I grab items from the shelves like a woman possessed, filling my arms with anything and everything I can hold. I dump an armful of sugary perfection on the counter, and the dark-skinned man behind it shoots me an odd look. I move to the coolers, grabbing Fanta, Cherry Coke, a Monster Energy drink, and a Dr Pepper. This is easily one of the greatest moments I have had in recent memory. I set the drinks on the floor, snag a white Styrofoam cooler from a shelf and move the drinks into that, then add a few more from the refrigerated shelves. With a huge smile on my face, I move to the register. “I’ll need a bag of ice, also. Please.”
He glares at me, strangely irritated by the swell of business I bring to his store. There is a flurry of fingers, clicking, and register sounds. “Thirty-t
wo eighty-six,” he announces. I pull out two twenties and hand them to him, waiting while he counts out the change and slides it across the counter before bagging my loot and shoving the items toward me.
“Thanks.” I beam at him. The gun would be the best route to taking his life. My knife wouldn’t reach across the wide counter. “Have a nice day.”
GO. Annie.
I call Mike from the road, dialing a number I’ve used for him in the past, hoping it is still active. I cradle the phone in the crook of my neck as I drive, hands at ten and two. I’m nervous at being on the open road and in this strange vehicle. I have only ever driven my high school car—a ten-year-old Honda Accord that had belonged to my mother. This truck feels huge in comparison, taking up more than its fair share of the road.
Mike answers on the third ring. “Yo.”
“It’s Jessica.”
“What up, chica?”
“I need to employ you for the next day. How much will it cost me?”
“Damn, girl. Lately you’ve been like the fucking lottery. What do you need done? It won’t take me all day, I’m sure.”
“An assortment of things. I need you committed to whatever shit I ask for, so yes, it will need to be all day. Nothing else, just me for twelve hours, maybe more.”
“Starting when?”
“Now.”
“Now, now?”
“Yeah.”
“For twelve hours? I guess I can cancel my hot plans. Given your excellent payment history.” I can hear his grin through the receiver and fight to keep irritation out of my voice.
“Fine. How much?”
“A thousand. I’m giving you a break on this, but if you go too far outside of the legal realm with your requests, there may be surcharges.”
“Everything you do is out of the legal realm.”
He laughs. “Whatever. Clock’s ticking. What do you need?”
“First, turn on a television. Keep it glued to CNN or some other news outlet. If there are any updates on a missing child named Annie Thompson, call me and let me know. Second, you know Ralph Atkins?”
“Of course.”
“Pull him up. I want to know if there are any guns registered to him. Also, see if you can track his cell.”
“What’s his cell number?”
I think for a moment. “Fuck. I didn’t send it to you?”
“No. Do you have it?”
“Yeah. I’ll have to look through my cells and see which one he calls. I would have saved his number on that phone. Give me five minutes; I’ll find somewhere to pull over, and I’ll text it to you.”
“I don’t know what exactly you think my capabilities are, but the best I’ll be able to do, if he is using his phone, is get a general idea of where he is.”
“That’s fine. I just need to know if he is at home or somewhere else.”
“Jess, what’s going on? I’m going to be able to help you out a lot more if I know what you are trying to accomplish.”
I watch the centerline, my vehicle moving closer and closer to oncoming traffic, fighting to keep the big vehicle in line and under control. “I think Ralph Atkins has Annie Thompson. I think he kidnapped her. I’m trying to find him…or them.”
“And do what?”
“Play fucking hopscotch, Mike. Why does it matter? Now you know what I’m trying to do, so just help me.”
“Why don’t you call the police? No offense, but you suck fake dick for a living, you’re not a secret agent.”
Because I want to kill the piece of shit myself. “I already called them. I don’t think they’re doing anything with the information, but that’s why I need you to keep an eye on the news.”
“I’ll log into a forum I’m part of, have someone tie me in to the police scanner for that area—see what we can pick up.”
“That would be great. Good thought.”
“It’s what I’m here for, babe.”
“I’ll text you Ralph’s cell in a few minutes.”
“Ciao.” There is a click, and then I am alone in the truck again. I toss the cell down on the seat and press the gas harder, until the speedometer reads sixty-eight, eight scary miles per hour above the speed limit. God, I need to grow a pair of balls.
CHAPTER 56
I DRIVE, SCARFING down crunchy Cheetos, Twix bars, Twinkies, and sodas. I begin to feel nauseated after I’ve finished about half of the gas station haul. It’s as if all of the junk food has molded together in my stomach and become a rolling knot of carbonation, preservatives, and high-fructose corn syrup, sending my stomach into irritated spasms. I vow to stick to water and fruit at the next pit stop. I remind myself that there is a greater purpose for this trip than my own junk food debauchery. The last thing I need, in the midst of a lethal, perfectly orchestrated attack, is an attack of diarrhea.
My opinion on Jeremy continues its upward ascent when I realize he has satellite radio—a technological wonder that has apparently gained in popularity since I last owned a car. I find a Georgia news station and keep the radio on it. Their reports on Annie are few and far between. If I go off the limited information in their reports, the police have no leads and no clear idea where Annie could be. I call Mike again.
“What’s up, my evil-avenging angel?” I hear music in the background, a clash of air guitars and screaming.
“What is the scanner saying?”
“They went to Ralph’s house. Searched the premises for Annie, but she’s not there and they’ll need a warrant to look through his stuff, though they did take a computer with them. The cops are keeping a cruiser parked down the street to watch his house all night.”
“Good. So my tip was taken seriously. Did you get the cell number I texted you?”
“Yep. It shows him in the general vicinity of his home address—so it corroborates the police statement that he is at home.”
“So Annie must be at the other house.”
“What other house?”
“I assume you have a copy of his computer clone—the one you sent me.”
“Duh.”
“Scroll through his search history. There are two Craigslist properties that he viewed a bunch of times about a month ago. One of them—the trailer, not the house—he signed a lease on. I think that’s where he has her. No other reason to have it.”
“I see it. I’ve been going through his shit for the last hour. Unless he hunts.”
“What?” I approach a car and put on my blinker, flying past them in the opposing lane. My stress and trepidation over driving took a flying leap out of the truck seventy miles ago.
“You said there was no reason for him to have this second place. That’s true, unless he hunts. This place is smack-dab in the middle of a four-hundred-acre hunting preserve. That’s the only reason the owner can get five hundred bucks a month for this piece of shit. It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.”
“So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.”
“Deer bodies. But yeah, when you put it that way, it sounds all psychotic.”
I push harder on the pedal, watching the shaky needle climb past eighty-five. “What came back on guns registered to Ralph?”
“Nothing showed up. But this is Georgia, baby. If someone needs a gun that’s off the books, all you have to do is know someone who knows someone who’s part of the system.”
“What’s the law on hunting guns—rifles, shotguns—do those require registration?”
“In Georgia? I don’t know.”
“Find out. And let me know if anything comes across that scanner. I don’t care if it’s discussion about Jessica Simpson’s tits. I want to know about it.”
“You’re a lot more fun when you’re naked.”
I grin into the darkness of the empty truck. “No doubt.”
“Talk soon.”
I hang up, fighting the
urge to open the Snickers bar I can see lying in the plastic bag on my passenger seat. I glance at the GPS’s clock: 7:15 p.m. Ten hours and fifty-two minutes from Annie. It seems so far, almost a thousand miles stretching between her home and mine. But in actuality, I am lucky. What if she had lived in California? Or Alaska? There wouldn’t have been time to reach her, not unless I hopped on a plane. And while I am reckless enough to leave my apartment, to risk harm to others in my hunt for Ralph, I know that I would not be able to handle an airport. Not be able to handle a red-eye flight surrounded by peaceful, sleeping bodies. I’d probably try to strangle my seatmate with the seat belt, my arsenal of weapons locked away in the checked baggage. Plus, I’d have to deal with the litany of questions about said arsenal. Yeah. Total disaster.
I lean forward, watching the road, and press harder on the gas pedal.
CHAPTER 57
THE POLICE KNOCKED on Michael Atkins’s door at 6:12 p.m. on Monday night. He and his wife, Becky, had just sat down to a meal of overcooked beef stroganoff. When the knock sounded, Becky threw down her napkin and rose with an annoyed sigh. Michael stayed in his polished dining chair, tilted his head, and listened. Then she was back, her lilac perfume competing with the smell of beef. “Michael? The police are here. About Annie.”
They questioned them together in the formal living room. Becky’s hand grasped Michael’s and on certain questions squeezed it almost to the breaking point. Their answers had been quick and concise.