Shana Kahn sat propped up in her hospital bed, munching scrambled eggs and a toast with grape jelly. “My captor fed me this menu!”
“Mrs. Kahn, you need to focus so we can find your kidnapper,” the Detective said impatiently.
A memory dot came to mind, causing Shana to swing the food table arm away from her bed. “Rod threw a plate of eggs in my face. The eggs fell to the floor and got mixed with my poo.”
Was this an encore of last night’s hallucinations, or new evidence, Hernandez wondered. Better to treat it as valid than have her superiors kick her in the butt for not doing a thorough investigation. “Where were you at the time of these meals?”
“Rod’s grandmother’s house. She was dead, though. He said he didn’t kill her, but I’m pretty sure he was lying.”
Hernandez had put the police artist sketch on hold, requesting a shrink come interview Kahn first, but Dr. Poinsetta couldn’t make it until noon. Kahn’s husband and kids hadn’t come to visit yet, so she had the woman all to herself. “What makes you think he’s not telling the truth about his grandmother’s death?”
“I don’t even know if she was his grandmother. The house was vacant, and Rod said it was up for sale. He could have broken into the house and taken it hostage, too.”
Hernandez had to concede she had a good point. “Any broken windows or doors?”
“No, but he could have come down the chimney, like Santa Claus!”
So much for valid points, thought the detective. “Do you remember driving far from Central Park when he first kidnapped you?”
Kahn groaned. “Rod thinks I have Alzheimer’s, but your memory’s a lot worse than mine, Detective. I already told you I remember nothing between feeling a bee sting on my thigh and freaking out when I found myself chained to a radiator pipe.”
“More likely a Diazepam injection than a bee sting.”
“You and Rod can enjoy a good chat about drugs. He’s a medic, you know.”
The detective noticed Kahn seemed not to realize she’d shared that information the night before. “Did he say where he works?”
“He told the bicyclist about a multi-vehicle collision on the expressway—I know you people call it freeway—and how he had to get to work, second shift. So maybe the local fire department?”
Hernandez had already checked it out. No one by the name of Rodney Stewart, Rodem Stewart, Romey Stewart, or any Stewart worked there. Also, no listing for any Stewart living within jogging distance of the wooded area where Shana Kahn was found. Nor were there any nearby homes within ten miles of the crime scene sporting a For Sale sign. Suddenly, the detective experienced an ah ha moment. “You said your captor told the bicyclist that he’d jogged to the woods.”
Kahn nodded as she spread jelly on a second slice of toast.
“You also mentioned that he hauled you over his shoulder to bring you back to his car.”
Kahn looked confused.
“Roped and tied you in the back seat of a black car. Drove for a long time.”
Kahn nodded.
“Which means your captor wasn’t holding you hostage at a site within jogging distance.”
Kahn raised a juice glass to her lips. “I never said the house was near the woods.”
Hernandez was exasperated. “There’s only apartments, condos, and hotels in close proximity to Central Park, unless this house was actually an apartment or condo!”
Kahn glared at her. “My thoughts might be hazy, but I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference between a condo and a single-family dwelling.”
“Mrs. Kahn, we’re going around in circles, here.”
“That’s because you’re making me crazy with all your questions!”
“Probably how people felt when you interviewed them for your newspaper articles,” the detective observed wryly.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were a reporter, right?”
“Now you have gone bonkers. I worked as a flight attendant for American Airlines.”
The detective put her head in her arms.
Kahn’s eyes widened. “Did I make you sad?”
Hernandez stood and started for the door. “I’ll be back at noon with another visitor.”
Shana Kahn excitedly slammed her juice glass down. “Frog-woman and her polliwogs?”
Hernandez raised her head skyward, then left the room.
Chapter 59
Alan
May 2001
Alan retreated to the backyard, slamming the door on his wife’s ranting and raving. He paced the weed-strewn lawn, his thoughts incongruous with the joyous bird tweets echoing from the fern tree branches. Never in his wildest nightmares would he have imagined his loving wife, the mother of his son, being diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. The symptoms were as nasty as those experienced by eighty-year-old nursing home patients.
It had been nine months since Deborah had begun confusing time and place. She repeatedly asked the whereabouts of her blankie. She’d been fired from her teaching job for allowing a preschooler to consume a bite of watermelon, even though his file specifically listed the fruit under allergic.
Even more stressful was her difficulty in performing routine tasks. She’d spread margarine across her forehead instead of on toast. Pull her socks up her arms and run outside naked; the latter being the straw that broke Daniel’s back. Their son spent marginal time at home, which was a shame, since high school graduation was in twelve days.
Alan and Deborah had planned for their son to graduate from Princeton University, majoring in engineering. He’d been fortunate to have received a full-boat scholarship for all four years, which had really eased their pocketbook.
But life hadn’t turned out as they’d planned. Deborah’s two-year life expectancy, coupled with his own precarious hold on his engineering job, necessitated Daniel stepping in to help care for his mom.
With a heavy heart, Alan had broached the subject to his son at breakfast that morning. The resultant blow-up was not unexpected.
“Are you really asking me to take a hiatus from college—again?” screamed Daniel.
Alan had successfully managed to conceal information about their babies. Neither he nor Deb had wanted Daniel to view himself as a consolation prize. As he listened to his son carry on like an idiot, he seriously regretted their decision.
“We’re talking about your mother, for God’s sake! The woman who’s been there for you, through all your mishegoss! Six months of your life. That’s all I’m asking. Then I can retire early, receive my pension and not have to pawn your mother off on hourly workers.”
“I repeat, Dad. I am not living in this house, and watching Mom deteriorate!”
“You know this isn’t your fault, right? Mom has a disease.”
“You’re right. It’s not my fault. That’s why I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“Language, Daniel! She needs you!”
Duffel bag in hand, Daniel held the screen door ajar. “Don’t you get it, dad?” he lamented. “I love her too much to watch her disappear. She doesn’t recognize me most of the time, as it is.”
“I know it’s difficult for you, just as it is for me.”
Daniel swiped at his wet cheeks. “I’m going to be late for my flight. Take care. The vroom of the gas pedal from the Camaro, followed by silence.
Watching his son’s car pull away from the house, Alan felt empty, like a gas pump that had exhaled its last drop of gas.
With a deep sigh, Alan viewed their house with tired eyes. The place was in total disarray since Alan had to watch his wife as soon as he came in the door after work. Dirty clothes overflowed the hamper. Cracker crumbs dotted the living room carpet like stars in the galaxy. The pantry was bare for lack of time to shop for foods that would keep his wife’s bowels working without causing triggering her
Crohn’s Disease; a condition she’d recently developed. To make matters worse, Alan was up half the night making sure Deborah didn’t turn on the kitchen stove or jump out the window.
“You need to buy child safety locks, like you did when Daniel was small,” his mother-in-law urged, as she did every day he came home to relieve her of her post.
But Alan had hesitated to act; he was in a state of denial, just as he’d been twenty years before when his three infants had chosen immortality with God over mortal life with him and Deborah. Her disease was just a bad dream, he tried to convince himself. Soon he’d have the love of his life back the way she’d been: Warm, vibrant, in charge.
The truth was, he’d become accustomed to Deborah scheduling his life, just as his mother had done for him and his father until her death. He cringed to think he would fade into a shadow of a man, as had his father.
The screen door swung open. Alan looked up in surprise to see his son burst into the kitchen. “What are you doing back?”
“I have a question.”
Chapter 60
Becca
Becca laid the black and white striped journal on the hospital bed. “For you, Mommy.”
Mom picked up the journal. “Really?”
“Unless you’d prefer I give it to Rach.”
Mom clutched the journal to her chest. “This means so much, Bec. I’ve missed being able to confide my thoughts and feelings on paper, especially about my kidnapping.”
Becca felt a twinge of jealousy. “I’m always here for you.”
“I appreciate that, Darling, but my memories are too muddled to share out loud.”
“Dad says you gave Detective Hernandez a lot of information about your captor.”
Mom flipped through the empty pages. “I feel like there’s a lot more I’ve suppressed. That’s pretty common among trauma victims.”
That she acknowledged her trauma was a positive. “Some things are too painful to revisit. That’s why I let my students choose whether or not to re-enact traumatic events in their lives.”
“I hope you have a therapist waiting in the wings!”
“Knew I forgot something!”
“Do you realize the liability you face if one of your students has a panic attack or later commits suicide?”
“The college has liability insurance.”
“You obviously don’t remember the college professor I interviewed who was sued because he gave an ‘A’ student an ‘F’ on her final exam. The girl had a nervous breakdown.”
“Spoiler alert. My students use body language to portray positive emotions, too.”
“That’s a relief!”
“Your memory seems to be right on point, though.”
“It’s my short-term memory that’s dangling in la-la land.”
“There’s trauma you’re unwilling to dredge up, Mommy. Trauma that can enable Detective Hernandez to bring your captor to justice.”
“You’ve been watching too much Law & Order SUV.”
Becca laughed at her mother’s comic substitution for SVU. But she refused to be distracted. “Were you sexually abused by Rod?”
“Hello! He cleaned my nude body when I was sitting in shit, then covered me with a kitchen towel. He was definitely gay.”
Becca looked down at her hands. “Or you were too old to turn him on.”
“Thanks for sharing!”
“You were held hostage for two days. What did you guys talk about?”
“Food, water, power, control. Unshackling me from the kitchen radiator. Cleaning up my poo and pee.”
Definitely TMI, thought Becca. “We also talked about Facebook. He spied on your posts, as well as Rachel’s.”
Becca’s face felt hot. “Rach and I never friended a guy with that name.”
“But people can lurk on Facebook, right? Read your posts without you even knowing?”
It looked like she’d underestimated her Mom’s social media prowess. “We changed our settings to ‘private.’”
“Not soon enough!”
“He had to have a motive.”
Becca noted her mom had that staring through you expression going on; the expression she got when she was trying to summon up a memory. This time, she wondered if it was an authentic memory she was summoning.
“Rod thought I was friends with a college guy who raped his girlfriend. He wanted revenge.”
Becca heaved a sigh of relief. “Sounds like a definite connection.”
Mom glanced at the ceiling. “Another name has been pricking my brain, but it flits away before I can catch it. I feel like this is the real name of the person who kidnapped me.”
Becca’s heart began to pound. “Are you saying Rod Stewart is not your kidnapper?”
Mom shook her head. “It’s Rod’s body, but Rod is not his name.”
As Becca tried to process this latest development, her mom continued. “What if Rod didn’t really move to New York? What if he still lives in Chicago and flew here to kidnap me?”
“Why wouldn’t he just kidnap you in Chicago?”
“Maybe he knew from social media that I’d moved to North Carolina.”
“How are we going to find this guy? There’s gotta be hundreds of Chicago residents with the last name of ‘Stewart,” unless Stewart is his first name.”
Her mom turned her head away. “Stop! These ‘what ifs’ are giving me a headache.”
“You started it. If he’s lying about that, maybe he’s lying about being a medic.”
“Then he is a really good actor because he knew the correct medical procedures to follow for someone with sunstroke. He also knew the ER doctor needed to be told when I’d last consumed food and water, as well as what medication I’d recently taken.”
“You can find all that information on You Tube.”
“Let’s assume Stewart is Rod’s actual last name. Criminals prefer to change their first name; their surname keeps them connected to their personal universe.”
“Okay.”
“What career could he have if he’s adept at Facebook and You Tube?”
“That’s hard to say. Everybody and his mother knows how to use computers today.”
“Not me! I just watched a Sixty Minutes segment about Facebook privacy.”
“Yeah, well that’s you. People in their 80s and 90s are all over social media.”
“I’m not old enough to know that, yet.”
“What does that even mean?”
Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t go off on a tangent.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
“If he is working with computers, what facet would he be in?”
“The way he planned everything out so carefully, I’d guess something high level,
like surveillance.”
“Maybe he’s one of those brains behind home security cameras that allow you to see who’s at your front door, even though you’re at work.”
“Well aren’t you becoming tech savvy,” Becca teased.
“Thanks to all the TV commercials I’ve been forced to watch on hospital TV,” Mom says wryly.
Then it hit her. “Maybe Stewart does computer surveillance.”
Her mom stared at her. This time her expression is clear and bright. “I remember him telling me that!”
Becca rejoiced at this driblet of memory. “Let’s call Detective Hernandez.”
Mom scowled. “She doesn’t believe a word I say.”
“Maybe she can take our information over the phone.”
“And maybe unicorns don’t fly.”
“They don’t. They’re not real.”
“Ha, like frog women can’t talk!”
Becca glanced up to see if she was pranking her.
Her mother’s solemn expression convinced
her otherwise.
Chapter 61
Daniel
May 2002
Daniel made himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and went to his room to sulk. Today he should have graduated Princeton University with his class. Soon after, he would have begun a fantastic career in computer engineering making six figures to start.
And it was all because of HER.
He’d succeeded in convincing his dad to let him return to Princeton for fall semester, promising that if his mom’s health worsened, he would come back home the following semester.
Daniel had been hedging his bets. He knew that, when push came to shove, his father would never allow him to miss the last few months of his senior year, especially when he learned that his son had already been approached by two prospective employers. A fact he’d elected to keep to himself. A reminder that his future was way more than his mother’s hallucinations.
Yet, despite his protests, there was no way he would turn his back on his mother, the woman who had been there for him every step of his life. He owed her big time. He would be there for her after he got his degree.
That had been his plan.
Doomed from the start.
As Daniel bit into the gooey sandwich, his mind filled with memories of going off to college for the first time. Although his dad, in his quiet, measured way, did his best to make Daniel’s college transition a positive one, it had been bittersweet without his mom there to cheer him on. But her medical condition prohibited her from flying, let alone enduring the 12-hour drive from Chicago to New Jersey.
It took a while for Daniel to acclimate to living away from home. Before she’d developed Alzheimer’s, his mom had cooked for him, picked out his clothes, and most important, believed in him. When he repeatedly fucked up in high school, his mom had advocated for the school to put him on a 504 plan to resolve his behavior problems.
Intellectually, Daniel knew he was not to blame for his mother’s medical condition, nor the Crohn’s Disease that followed—his dad had repeatedly drummed that into his head. But deep down, he couldn’t help wondering if the stress he’d caused her had precipitated her plunge into a living hell.
Up Close And Gone Page 17
