Psychological Thriller Boxed Set
Page 36
“Come here.” I pull her in and carefully stagger us over to the bedroom. “Lie down. I’ll make some coffee and call Rich. He said I could reach him anytime.”
“Good.” Her tired eyes look up at me with hope for the first time in hours. “The detective said she’d call the schools. Call her, too. Tell them to screw the red tape. We’ll head over to where this Ota girl lives ourselves. I don’t want anything to get bogged down in some shitty police protocol. Reagan is scared and she needs us.”
“Will do.” I plant a wet kiss over her forehead and help her lie onto the mattress before heading downstairs. In the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee hits my senses, and for a brief moment I expect to find Reagan playing the part of barista. She’s been known to whip up a cup of cocoa on the Keurig. She knows how it works. I’ve seen her make a cup of tea for Allison on occasion. But it’s not Reagan whipping up anything spectacular. It’s my father dressed in an unremarkable sweater vest, his corduroy pants a little too baggy. It’s fair to say he’s dropped a little weight since Mom passed, and if my lack of appetite is any indication of what happens when you’ve lost your mind, then I suppose I’m not too far behind on wasting away to skin and bone.
“What’s going on?” He whistles out a quick tune and I stop short. My father has been an impenetrable bastard when it comes to dealing with death, with unimaginable situations in general. The day my sister died he whistled long into the night while my mother screamed as if her flesh were on fire. That whistling of his unnerved my brothers and me to no end, but that was simply who he was, the whistling bastard. He did it the night Wilson died as well. In all fairness, my father is prone to whistle on most days, but the fact he chose those occasions and this one above all of them offends me.
“I’m making coffee.” I blow past him and retrieve a mug for Ally.
“I beat you to it.” There’s a rise in his inflection that grates on me.
“Why are you so damn happy?” I pluck the creamer from the fridge and the sight of Reagan’s thermos stops me cold.
“I’m not happy, son. You know that. I’m trying to help you out. I thought I could—”
“Well, you can’t.” I shut the fridge with a slap. “Look, Reagan is missing. If Allison hears you down here dancing around, whistling fucking Dixie, she’s bound to run after you with a hatchet. She’s losing her mind and so am I.”
His forehead erupts with thick lines, but it’s my agitation, not Reagan’s disappearance that’s sponsored them, and it pisses me off. “You’ll find her. Reagan is probably off having the time of her life.”
“She’s six for God’s sake!” My voice riots throughout the cavernous space. “She’s not sixteen.” I tone it down a notch as I make a quick cup for Ally. “Reagan is a little girl. She’s scared is what she is. She’s in a new state, with a girl she’s only known for five minutes.”
“Then why in God’s name did the two of you let her run off like that?” His voice comes at me hungry with accusation. “Any fool knows you don’t let your kid head to some stranger’s house for the night. I don’t care how comfortable you felt with the little demon she was playing with.”
Little demon. That’s exactly what Ally called her upstairs. “Look, nobody is accusing the little girl of anything. As far as we know, she’s a victim in all this just like Reagan. They probably went off for a little adventure and got lost.” Who am I kidding. My mind skipped to the worst-case scenario as soon as Allison staggered out the door last night—a band of hippies, an evil man with nefarious intentions.
“But who is this little girl? Where did she come from?” His voice peaks in an odd manner as if those were lines from a play and we were starring in some bad summer stock. Nobody grates on me like my father. I have never understood why. Yes, he was oppressive as hell to live with, but you’d think I’d be over it by now.
It’s best I leave him before my coffee finds its way to his face.
I tread lightly upstairs, only to find Ally fast asleep. I head back down and plant myself on the couch next to my father, putting in a call to both Rich and McCafferty. About an hour later, they both show up on my doorstep looking like shit and I offer them a cup of coffee.
“No, thanks.” Rich bows his head at my father as we make our way to the sofa.
“I’m fine, too.” McCafferty pulls out a paper and pen, old school, and something about that technological setback makes me wonder about the care my daughter’s case is getting. Case. My blood runs cold at the thought of Reagan’s picture plastered on telephone poles, on milk cartons for God’s sake.
McCafferty looks up at me with those stone-cold eyes, her features unmovable like a death mask. “I contacted every school district in the state.”
“The state?” A fist builds in my throat because instinctively I know this isn’t going to end well.
“Private and public. There’s not a teacher who’s heard of a child who goes by the name of Ota—Otatay or anything like that.” She glowers at me a moment as if I had the audacity to make the whole thing up. “We’d like to send a sketch artist to the house this afternoon to work with you on a composite.”
“Yes, of course.” My pulse runs wild. Holy shit. Little demon is right. “You think this was a setup?” I look to Rich with his plain open face, and for a moment I can see my mother in his features and I fight the urge to bawl. For so long after she died I wished it were my father instead. I have always imagined he would go first and, somehow, he had weaseled his way out of my death fantasy scenario. I bet he was whistling Dixie the second that impact took her life.
“A setup?” Rich looks to McCafferty as if asking for permission. “It’s too soon to tell. You mean one of those child porn rings or something?”
“Shit.” I slap my forehead because for fuck’s sake the thought of someone harming my baby in that way hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Whoa, whoa.” Rich pulls my hand away. “It’s not like that. My boys are still combing those woods. The fire department has pitched in, and we’ve got a volunteer league that’s due to meet at the Boys and Girls Club in a few hours. You want to be there for that?”
“I don’t know. I think I’d better stick around and make sure Ally’s okay. We’re going to want to keep looking ourselves. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“Good.” McCafferty clicks the tip of her pen. “I need you to tell me a few things about yourselves.”
“Such as?”
“Have the two of you had any marital problems lately?”
I shoot a quick glance to my father. So help me God, if he starts whistling away, I’m going to throttle him myself. “No, of course not. Nothing out of the norm. We’re here, excited about our move. I’m looking for work.”
“So you’re unemployed,” she says, jotting it down as if it were a point of interest.
“Yes, but so is half the damn country.”
“And your wife?” She never looks up from that yellow notepad.
“She’s staying at home. She used to work real estate for a time before we moved, but we agreed we didn’t want nannies raising our child. She’s been home ever since.”
“And she’s happy with this arrangement?” McCafferty scowls up at me as if I’ve imprisoned my wife to a form of servitude.
“Yes, she’s happy.” The words spit out like razors. “Up until last night, we were both very fucking ecstatic.”
“Calm down,” Rich whispers. Rich has always been the levelheaded one, the voice of reason, but at this moment he feels more like the devil’s advocate. Between my father’s chipper mood and Rich’s command for me to cool it, I’m about to shoot through the roof.
“Are there any weapons in the home?” McCafferty gives the place a quick once-over as if she might see one.
“Yes, I’ve got a gun with a hair trigger sitting on Reagan’s nightstand. No—I don’t have any guns. Allison and I both frown on it. We had a security system at the house back in L.A. We didn’t think we needed one here.”
“Concordia is safe—or so we thought.” I lean into the sofa, good and pissed at the fact I ever ventured out this way. What the hell was I thinking? You could smell the stench of death all the way back to L.A. on a clear breezeless night. Deep in my heart, I knew it was a mistake before the suggestion ever left my lips.
“It is safe.” McCafferty clicks her pen shut and leans in with those sad, drooping hound dog lids. “Or at least it was until last night.”
“We’ll know more this afternoon.” Rich slaps me on the knee and rouses me from my stupor. “The first forty-eight hours are critical in an investigation like this. Just keep those prayers going up. My mom has the entire damn town on bended knee.”
“Good to know. Thanks, man—appreciate it.”
The four of us walk outside, and I watch as McCafferty hops into her midsized SUV and whips out of the driveway.
“You like her?” I nod to the dust she left in her wake. I’m not sure why I don’t have an easy feeling about the woman, but something about her rubs me the wrong way.
“She’s good people. Means well. A little butch if you ask me, but that’s just how she rolls. She’ll get to the bottom of things, though, and that’s what you want. That woman knows her shit. There’s never been a case in Concordia she hasn’t cracked.”
“How many missing children have you had around these parts?” I didn’t really need to ask the question. I already know the answer.
“None up until yesterday. But the girl knows her stuff. Mark my words. She’s going to have a solid lead before the sun goes down.”
“She’d better have two solid little girls.” Dad nods to Rich before ducking back into the house and out of the icy air.
It’s so cold out Reagan could have frozen to death last night. I wait until the door shuts tight before stepping in close to Rich.
“What was up with those questions?”
“Just routine, man.” He slaps at the back of his neck and his face lights up like a plum. “She asked me a few things in the hall, but in all honesty I don’t know the two of you well enough to answer any of it. What have we seen of each other? A few holidays here and there? I told her to ask you herself. It’s not so bad. She has to do a thorough investigation.”
“Of what, us? Dude, there’s some motherfucking maniac out there—”
He raises a hand and winces. “And that cussing of yours. I get it. You’re on the brink, but I’d hate for you to give her the wrong impression.”
“What do you mean the wrong impression?” It takes all of my self-control not to knock him back into that patrol car and remind him there’s an angry, hostile world he’s sworn to protect and serve. “I get it. Life moves at a snail’s pace around here and old school values and morals still reign supreme, but so do perverts and you’d be a salty son of a bitch too if your daughter was out there somewhere and you didn’t have a clue.” I give his tire a kick before thrashing my shoe into his front bumper. “You fucking piece of shit.”
Rich waits until I settle down, remaining calm, cool, and collected like he always is, like he always has been. “You know where the Boys and Girls Club is. We’re starting the meeting at noon. Bring your wife. Everyone’s looking forward to meeting her.”
“I will.” I scratch the back of my head and watch as he gets into his comfortable car and pulls out of the driveway with that comfortable look on his face.
Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was whistling Dixie.
* * *
Noon comes like a bastard without my daughter and both Allison and I force ourselves to throw some fresh clothes on and drive down to the Boys and Girls Club. The lot is brimming with cars and so is the overflow in the street. A police officer stands in the middle of the intersection directing traffic and flags us over.
I roll down my window as he slows me to a stop. “You here for the missing kids?”
Ally leans in past me. “God—have you found them?”
“No, ma’am. We’re just getting the volunteer league together. Park to the left if you’re here to help.”
“We’re here to fucking help,” I mutter as I land a spot at the distal end of the lot. Ally and I stagger the long way across the city park, across the street before finally hitting the short box of a building that houses the Boys and Girls Club. Dad volunteered to stay back at the house this afternoon. I asked him to hang around in the event Reagan and her friend came strolling back like nothing happened. Although something tells me that girl was no friend.
Ally leans in while holding my arm as if she needed it to keep her upright. She managed to run a brush through her hair, but her face is bloated and blotchy from tears.
“Who the hell do you think she was—an actress?” she asks the question as if reading my mind. “How could she not exist?” Her fingers pinch into my arm, crushing right down to the bone.
“She does exist. Maybe you misheard her name. Maybe she made it up. Maybe—I don’t know, maybe she’s in on it.”
Ally stops short and I take a quick step back while looking into the blood-red eyes of my exhausted wife. I had already put her through the ringer, and now we’re both in another fresh hell. I’d give anything for this to have been some other horror that we’d have to deal with. An illness, another affair, ten damn lovers in a row—anything but Reagan.
“There was something.” Her voice scratches below the surface.
“What?” I pull her in by the shoulders and steady my eyes over hers. “What was it?” I give a quick shake to her petite frame without meaning to and spot McCafferty in the distance, slack-jawed and taking those damn notes as if her career depended on it. A part of me wants to run over and rip that stupid notebook she’s cradling to shreds. “What happened?” I wrap my arm lovingly around Allison’s shoulders and drop a gentle kiss to her cheek for show.
“That first day we met. I—I don’t know. It was stupid.”
“It doesn’t matter—just tell me.”
“That first day—when she took off to find Reagan, the grass where she was standing—it looked pale, dried up, and yellow as if her feet had the power to kill it.”
A shiver runs through me, ice cold and foreboding as I plant another kiss over the top of my wife’s head. I glance back at McCafferty and give a solemn nod in her direction. Here we are—a happy little family minus one. Now get back to finding my daughter, you judgmental little bitch.
I dip my mouth close to Ally’s ear and whisper, “I’d keep that one to yourself for now.”
The hall inside the Boys and Girls Club is buzzing to life with an uncalled for level of jubilation and the scent of stale coffee. People of all shapes and sizes sit shoulder to shoulder as Rich takes the stage and fills them in on the anemic facts we know. The energy in the room is palpable. You could power an entire city off the tension and the undercurrent of excitement.
Rich clears his throat into the mic. “Over there are little Reagan’s mother and father.” He points our way, and I lift my finger in lieu of a wave. “We’ll be taking sign-ups for the next hour or so, and then we’ll organize into groups for the sweep. It’s looking like a storm is about to push through, so please dress accordingly.”
The meeting wraps up and bodies swirl throughout the bustling hall as people hurry to get their names down for the sweep as Richard called it. Sweep. You sweep rivers for bodies, snow fields, deserts. Who knew it would be a simple word like sweep that has the power to incite a holy terror in me?
An entire throng of bodies line up to wish us the best of luck, offer up their prayers while encouraging us to never give up hope. Every other face is more familiar than the last, which doesn’t surprise me. Hell, going to the grocery store in town has sponsored an unwanted high school reunion just about every time.
“James Price?” a female voice calls from my left and I look to find the one familiar face t
hat I was hoping to never see again. But here she is, right where my shitty luck dictated she be.
The tall brunette with thick layers of caked on makeup, red glossy lips, eyelashes up to her eyebrows would be my old, long-forgotten train wreck of an ex.
“Monica.” Shit. Monica Phillips was the high school homecoming queen to my king, my long-time girlfriend who some might say I up and abandoned when I took off for western pastures, to Wake University. But that wasn’t the case at all, and Monica knows it. Monica Phillips is as batshit as they come, and the truth is, I couldn’t get out of Concordia fast enough to get the hell away from her destructive behavior. She is rabbit boiling insane, hack off your balls if you’re not careful psychotic—and I fake a smile just to greet her. “Monica,” I say her name once again because there are no real words I’d like to exchange with her now or ever.
“Rumor has it, you’ve been in town for weeks. Have you been avoiding me?” She digs a jovial finger into my gut and I cringe. “And I take it this lovely little thing is your poor wife?” Monica’s voice hits an all-time high as she offers a look that mimics something just this side of sympathetic. She’s not fooling anyone, least of all me. I doubt she gives a shit that my daughter has gone missing. Nope. Her little trot to the Boys and Girls Club in spiked heels was just for me, and I’m about to get ten years of pent-up bullshit tossed my way.
“Allison Price.” Ally extends a hand to the viper, and I carefully monitor the situation in the event she gets it bitten right off. But if anything, it’s Monica who had better watch out. Ally may come across as a soft little rose, but she has a bite stronger, deeper, and darker than just about any woman I have ever known. My left eye twitches at the thought because that’s not entirely true. That title goes to another woman, one I’m afraid to let invade my thoughts in fear she could hear them.
“I’m Monica Percale, nee Phillips.” She touches her hand to her chest.
Percale. I do a quick scan of my mental yearbook. Don’t know the poor sap, don’t want to.