Greenwood followed up with questions about the timing of events, details about their route from the school to the house, then thanked Branford for his time.
“Not a problem, Detective. Please, call anytime. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Angela Chapman.”
He hung up and returned to his laptop. The feed from Caitlin’s room showed the mess she’d made. He rewound, watched her tuck the plastic fork under her strap.
What a woman. So much smarter than Paige Lauffer. He smiled at the thought until the inevitable followed. And Paige escaped.
Caitlin would fight him, maybe even to her death. He had no desire to watch her die, but she had to be taught.
He went back downstairs. Outside Caitlin’s door, he opened a wall panel and turned a small plastic valve, then twisted a knob clockwise to the five-minute mark. Then he went back to the shelves and pulled the manila BPD folder from Caitlin’s laptop bag. Five minutes. More than enough time to learn the details of Caitlin Bergman’s personal hell.
CHAPTER
64
GREENWOOD HANDED MIKE Roman a page still warm from the laser printer. “That shows the path of Caitlin’s rental from campus to Professor Branford’s house.”
Mike leaned against Greenwood’s bullpen cubicle and stared at the map, a solid line with marks every mile or so. “The dots are the GPS pings from the car’s tracking system?”
“Right.” Greenwood handed him another. “Next trip went from Branford’s house to the guesthouse.”
Mike compared the two. “How much time between trips?”
Greenwood handed him a third. “You mean sitting in Branford’s driveway? Thirty-seven minutes.”
A patrol officer passed by, slower than necessary, another set of screw-you eyes. Mike had received the same cold look from every cop he’d met in the station house until they’d placed him with Greenwood. He was used to it. Like the FBI agents at Michelson’s house, nobody still on the job liked someone who’d gone dirty anywhere near their shop.
Mike smiled and waved. “It’s not contagious.”
The officer sped up and walked away like it was.
Ignoring Greenwood’s latest page, Mike looked back down at the second sheet. “Long time to sit and talk after the drive across town. Is pot legal in Indiana?”
Greenwood laughed. “Nope. Why do you ask?”
“I spent a lot time working narcotics in Los Angeles, never once met an actor who wasn’t holding something. And I don’t know how well you got to know Caitlin,” he said with a smirk, “but she doesn’t mind the occasional puff.”
Greenwood turned away, maybe to hide his blush. “Makes sense.”
Mike moved on to the third page, a much larger map with four times as many dots—the drive from Bloomington to the Indianapolis airport.
“How long was she at the guesthouse?”
“Hour and fifteen. Started driving to Indy around five twelve, got to the rental return at six thirty-five.”
Mike set the maps on Greenwood’s desk. “You got any traffic cams or footage from the rental return or airport?”
Greenwood shrugged. “The maps suggest she left town.”
Mike noticed an older woman in a beige blazer perched at the edge of the room, arms crossed, standing next to a no-nonsense man in a government suit. “Airlines confirm that?”
Greenwood looked like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ve got calls out, but nothing back yet. Same with the cell company.”
Mike nodded toward the woman. “You got a female captain?”
Greenwood smiled. “Chief, actually. That’s Renton’s way of saying we’re done here. Other guy’s FBI.”
Mike knew the look. “Because all signs point to Caitlin leaving Indiana. And even if she’s missing, she didn’t go missing in Bloomington. Who’d she piss off the most?”
Greenwood turned away from Renton’s gaze. “You were on the job, so you know I’m not gonna bad-mouth my department to a complete stranger. I’m in the middle of some major shit and can’t do much more for Caitlin, but I’ll let you know if I get any replies.” He offered Mike the pages again.
Mike grabbed the maps. “When and if you get any.”
“Unless you’ve got some way to speed up the process, something with a bigger dick than the FBI.”
Mike thanked him and walked away under the chief’s hawk eyes. Five feet out the door, he called the bigger dick.
“Special Agent Martinez, this is Mike Roman.”
CHAPTER
65
CAITLIN SNAPPED AWAKE, her brain embracing the sensation of unbound movement. Nothing held her down to the mattress.
Alone again in the bedroom. The overhead light gave a warm daylight wash, but was it really daytime? Was this Saturday?
She smelled something familiar. Caress body wash, the same scent she used at home, and something else—Aussie brand shampoo. Her hair was wet. Branford had bathed her, yet she had absolutely no memory of the process. What else had he done during her mental gap?
Something felt off between her legs, awkward and foreign.
She reached for the sheet, felt immense, hot pain at both of her wrists. Both ankles felt tender as well, ripped skin rather than muscle damage, like she’d strained against straps.
She pulled the sheet. Another pink pajama top, this time with a word across the front: “Princess.” Further down, white cotton underwear she didn’t recognize.
She took a deep breath, pulled the fabric aside, and saw the end of an oversized sanitary napkin.
“Thank God,” she muttered, removing the mega-pad slowly. No damage done other than the monthly murder of cotton. Still, Branford had been between her legs without her knowledge, permission, or even the flash of a memory.
She tossed the pad on the floor.
Which was worse? Paige Lauffer on a soccer field or this hell?
She shook the thought away and took inventory of the rest of her life. Only one chair at the table, the one bolted to the floor facing the bed. From this angle, she saw bolts holding the table legs in place as well. On top, a small plastic caddy played centerpiece.
Beyond the table, she saw the fourth wall and the door for the first time. The door had a vertical window. Two flat metal discs filled the holes that would normally house locks or handles.
A closed, rectangular metal panel, similar to a post office parcel drop, sat to the left, halfway up the wall. Below the drop, a camping toilet, lid closed. A stack of four plastic milk crates split the difference between the wall drop and the door to the outside world. Each functioned as a shelf for plastic bottles of water and soft drinks, boxes of granola bars, tissue, and toilet paper. A stack of additional pajamas had been placed on the shelves to the right, all pink.
She lowered her bare feet to the floor. Her ripped ankle skin made her want to melt, but she forced herself to stand. She got one step before she slipped and fell toward the table. Worse than a banana peel, she’d slipped on her bloody maxi.
She inspected the caddy on the table. Tampons, sanitary napkins, gauze, Neosporin, extra strength Tylenol, wet wipes, more cotton underwear.
She worked her way around to the door, looked through the window’s thick glass, saw only a rough white stone wall. The same stone as her bedroom’s floor, and the same chalky stone she’d tried to throw in Troy Woods’s eyes to get away. Indiana limestone. Made sense: they’d driven down Tapp Road to get to Branford’s house. He’d built an underground lair in the remains of a quarry.
Caitlin hobbled over to the toilet. She pushed the pedal to flush, sat on the closed lid, and reached for the caddy. Two pills in the Tylenol bottle, no way to overdose. She grabbed a bottle of water, took the pills, loosely wrapped her wrists and ankles with Neosporin and gauze, then applied a tampon and slid on a fresh pair of underwear.
One last look around the room revealed something under the bed—a metal rectangle in the wall, ringed with thick, hardened yellow foam at the same height wher
e a power outlet would be, or once was.
Caitlin couldn’t see any weakness in Branford’s prison.
“Genius,” she admitted, then collapsed on the bed.
* * *
A noise woke her. The wall-panel drop box clanged open, and familiar smells attacked: grease, cheese, oregano.
She stumbled to the drop box, saw another bottle of Tylenol, the smiling face of the Pizza Monster, and a message on a yellow Post-it note: Eat what I give you.
She took the pills and box to the table, sat in the chair she’d been strapped in the day before. With help from a Diet Coke, she got three Tylenol and two slices down.
Behind her, the locks turned and the door opened.
“Put your hands behind you,” Branford said, close in seconds.
No way she could fight him yet. “I tried to eat it all, but I’ll vomit if I eat another slice.”
“Caitlin, your hands.”
She lowered her hands behind the chair, flinched when she felt the cold steel of handcuffs latch wrist to wrist.
“Get up.”
She rose.
“If you move, I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He covered her face with a black cloth bag. It wasn’t tight, but offered no visibility other than the light below.
His hand touched the small of her back. “I’m going to take you to the playroom, the place where I was forced to wash you.”
A shudder ripped through her body.
“Don’t ruin your clothes,” he continued. “Don’t throw away the food I worked so hard to prepare. Don’t hide a plastic fork so you can try to attack me later.”
“I won’t—”
“Stop talking. You’re mine, Caitlin. Say it.”
She hesitated. He tugged on the handcuffs. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she muttered, aware of the cuffs digging into the flesh of her wrists through the airy gauze.
“Now you know me, Caitlin. My name is Embower and I’ll keep you safe. You’re going to walk backward. If you make any sudden movements, I will hurt you.”
She looked down, saw her feet, and stepped backward. Five more steps took her through the doorway.
“Take a step down.”
She did, felt damp crushed stone under her feet.
“Stop here.”
He turned her ninety degrees to the right, then pulled. “Let’s go.”
She counted the backward steps in her head.
Sixteen.
“Turn to your left, then walk forward until your toes touch a wall. Go slow.”
She turned, took two cautious steps, then reached with her foot until she made contact.
“Step up, Caitlin.”
She did, felt another smooth stone floor.
“Five steps forward.”
She watched her feet land on the floor and stopped. His hands touched hers, then the cuffs came off. Seconds later, she heard a door close behind her, then two deadbolts.
A burst of electronic static filled the room, followed by his amplified voice. “Take off the bag and turn around.”
She did. No window in this door, but two large glass cases in the wall filled the room with soft light, one on each side of the door. To the far right, Caitlin saw Branford through an aquarium-thick three-foot-wide window.
He spoke into a wall-mounted microphone. “I’m going to leave now. If you’d like to watch a movie, place the case on the table and I’ll start it when I can. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He smiled, then pulled a curtain over the window.
She rubbed her wrists and stared at the glass, waiting to see if he returned. Not that he needed to; Caitlin noticed a camera in the corner above the window. She turned around and inspected the room.
The off-white wall to her left had a wooden bookshelf full of paperbacks and DVD cases. Two red beanbag chairs slumped together near the end of the shelf closest to the door. At the opposite end, Caitlin found two laundry baskets, one empty, the other the keeper of four neatly folded white towels, and a pre-fab fiberglass shower and porcelain toilet in the far corner. Both looked clean. She saw no plumbing, but a light gray strip of concrete ran diagonally across the smooth limestone floor from the bathroom corner to the wall on the far right. If her math was correct, that right-hand wall, lined by a long stainless-steel industrial table, was the barrier between this room and her own soundproofed chamber.
Between the two walls and opposite of the entrance, the wavy pattern of galvanized sheet-metal roofing panels covered the remaining wall, except for a dark flat-screen TV sealed behind thick glass. Caitlin padded over to the TV area, found a rust-brown love seat on top of a remnant cut of beige Berber carpet. For the television to work, it would need a power source, and with the right odds and ends, electricity could be weaponized. Caitlin inspected the metal panels and thick glass, but rivets held the sheet metal together, preventing access to the TV cabling.
“Caitlin?”
Branford’s voice returned through a different speaker. Caitlin stepped back, looked up at the TV and saw his self-important smile through the frame. He sat at a table. Caitlin noticed the corner of a toaster oven stacked on top of brown cabinets a few feet behind him. Definitely the farmhouse kitchen.
“You don’t look like you’re relaxing. Can I put a movie on for you?”
She said no.
He shook his head, frustrated. “I’m sorry, I’ve had electrical problems recently. April showers bring May flowers, as they say. I can’t actually hear you.”
Caitlin shrugged, shook her head side to side.
“By now you’ve intuited there’s no way out of the playroom unless I release you, yes?”
Caitlin nodded, but her mind drifted to the other room, trying to picture the sealed power outlet under the bed frame. The story of Paige Lauffer’s escape lived under the fragments of things she’d seen.
“Fine,” Branford continued. “I’m going to leave you alone for three hours. Since you haven’t chosen a movie for today, any choice you make will be for your next time in the playroom.” He gestured toward the bookshelves. “I also have a fine mix of plays and popular fiction, even the recent memoir of a famous journalist.”
The screen switched to a second-story video feed looking down at a cornfield. At the far end of the green, Caitlin could make out Branford’s duplex, but saw no sign of her rental car.
She sat on the couch and spent all three hours watching the wind barely move the world.
CHAPTER
66
HE CHECKED THE feed. Caitlin was still watching the TV.
Not bad, considering yesterday’s lesson. How long will it be this time?
Angela, his Angel, had fought for a month before relenting. He’d tried a kinder approach with Paige, his Barbie, and paid the price. Still, Embower hoped Caitlin would understand soon. He had so much to share with his Writer.
Back to the purse. He’d gone through Caitlin’s bag on the first day, found her wallet, minimal makeup, and not one, but two cell phones. The iPhone had been powered on, so he incorporated that into his plan, but didn’t dare turn on the cheap black model until he knew why Caitlin had it. He needed to understand every move she’d made. No false steps, not with a piece this valuable. He rifled through a wad of credit card receipts, smoothed each, and typed the date, amount, and vendor information into a spreadsheet on his laptop.
Seven slips in, he found a receipt from Bloomington Cell in the mall that listed an 812 number.
So the iPhone is your personal device and the second is a burner you bought to appear as an anonymous local number. In disguise like me, Caitlin.
The police would hunt for his Writer unless she’d dropped off the grid on purpose. He needed to close their file.
Embower ran upstairs and checked his costume closet. Dropping the rental car off had been easy enough. He’d thrown on one of his brown pageboy wigs, a black sport coat, and Caitlin’s sunglasses. But to really
make the woman disappear, she needed to be seen in public, safe and alone. He dug through his bins for five minutes, then returned to the kitchen, convinced he had the necessary ingredients.
He consulted Caitlin’s rape report. Even at twenty-one, her intelligence outshone all parties involved, but his favorite part was the recent note she’d added at the top of Troy Woods’s statement.
Miami Correctional Facility. Kokomo, IN.
He opened a web browser and typed in his search: Miami Correctional Facility visiting hours.
CHAPTER
67
“YOU HAPPY NOW, Roman, or do you want to call the president?”
It’d taken a day, and no one was happy about being there on a Saturday night, but Mike was back in the BPD’s station house with Greenwood and Foreman, thanks to a few phone calls from Special Agent Martinez. Chief Renton scowled in the back of the observation room.
“Unless you’re a total dumbass,” Foreman said, pointing at a monitor, “you can see Bergman right there, driving into the rental return lot.”
Jerry Greenwood managed a smile somewhere close to pity and leaned over Mike’s shoulder to move the footage back. “Does look like Caitlin, doesn’t it?”
He played the clip for the fifth time. Three seconds at the gate showed the front license plate and the hood. Two seconds showed chin-length brown hair, sunglasses, and a black sport coat.
Mike tapped on the tabletop. “Find anything at the counter?”
Foreman answered. “Bergman didn’t go to the counter, only had to leave the keys in the drop. The automated system did the rest.”
Mike kept his eyes on Greenwood. “But nothing in the airport?”
Greenwood shook his head no. “Could have changed her mind. Does she know anyone in Indianapolis who might have picked her up?”
“Hell if I know. What about her phone?”
Come and Get Me Page 26
