by Lisa Jackson
Jenna shivered and felt more alone than she had since moving to Falls Crossing. It was still pitch-dark outside, no glow of dawn illuminating the eastern sky.
Just the cold, dark morning.
CHAPTER 20
“So you know what they say about the plumber’s faucet always leaking,” BJ grumbled the next morning. She looked tired. Bags appeared beneath her eyes, her hair was unruly, and her shoulders slumped. An aura of allover weariness accompanied her. “I guess it works for cops, too. Their kids don’t obey the law. Or at least mine doesn’t.” Disgustedly, she flung herself into the side chair at Shane’s desk.
“Maybe it’s a good thing Megan got caught while she’s still underage.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that? You don’t think this is just the beginning?” BJ’s usually animated expression was flat and exasperated, the corners of her mouth pinched with worry. “You know, if I could send her off to military school, I would.”
“Don’t you think you’re jumping off the deep end?”
“Diving in it. Wallowing in it. Drowning in it.” BJ leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “Lord give me strength.”
“Megan will be fine.”
“When? When she’s twenty-five? Thirty? I’ll be dead by then. I’m tellin’ you, she’s killin’ me. Killin’ me.”
Carter laughed. “I don’t think she has a chance against you.”
“Goddamn, I hope you’re right.” BJ opened her eyes and straightened. “So did you interview the boys?”
“Yeah. Along with Sparks and another officer from the OSP.” He remembered the sullen faces of Josh Sykes, Ian Swaggert, Anthony Perez, and Cal Waters, all of whom had kept up the bravado for hours before being released to their parents this morning. Only when faced with their disappointed mothers or furious fathers did the kids show any signs of cracking. If they’d been scared by being locked up, they’d managed to hide it. “I’d be surprised if any of them had any connection to the dead woman. I think it was just a case of showing off—driving up to the scene where a murder victim had been found, kind of a truth-or-dare kind of thing.” He rotated a pencil between his fingers.
“I’d like to break their necks. Especially that little prick Swaggert’s.”
“Better not. Might be considered police brutality.”
“He deserves it. They all deserve it.” A muscle worked in her jaw and she blinked rapidly. “Little jerks. Sex, drugs, and alcohol…that’s all they care about.”
“There are laws protecting underage girls.”
“I know, I know. But anything that was done was consensual.”
“She’s only sixteen.”
“Yeah, and they’re what? Seventeen, eighteen? Not a brain between all of ’em.”
“Is Megan okay?”
“If you ask her, she’s fine. Her only problem is her…let’s see…let me get the lingo straight…her only problem is her ‘stupid, overbearing, nosy, old-fashioned, out-of-it cop of a mother’—that would be me—who won’t let her do what she wants.” BJ closed her eyes again and touched her fingertips to her forehead. “I haven’t told Jim yet. He’d tear the boys limb from limb, which, let me tell you, is a fantasy of mine right now.”
“How is it that he doesn’t know?”
“Slept right through everything. Can you believe it? He’s on one of those breathing machines because of his apnea and he’s been sleeping in the spare room where there isn’t a phone. Didn’t hear it ring, me yell, or Megan slam her door. He took off for work around six this morning just like normal, and I figured I’d spare him the bad news until tonight. Maybe by then I will have cooled off and possibly have a few more answers about what those kids were doing.” She let out a long breath that shifted her bangs and stared straight at Carter. “Then the you-know-what is gonna hit the fan. In a major way. Jim has this antiquated attitude that his precious little daughter would never drink or do any drugs and that she’ll be a virgin until she gets married, which will probably be sometime in her thirties if Daddy gets his way.” BJ straightened in the chair. “I think it’s time for a reality check. For all of us.” She stretched her arms in front of her until her knuckles cracked. “Okay, so enough about my perfect fairytale family. What else is new?”
“Nothing good,” Carter admitted and brought her up to speed. “I was called over to the Tanner place about a break-in after taking Cassie Kramer back to her mother. Someone had ripped off some tools in his back shed. There were tracks leading down the hill to the road. Then I dealt with the boys, and I’ve spent the rest of the morning talking to OSP. The Jane Doe remains unidentified, and so far there’s not a trace of anything on Sonja Hatchell. I’ve talked to Lester twice today already and a search party has been scouring the woods around his place as well as near the diner again. They’ve come up with nothing. I’ve double-checked with the hospitals and clinics. No one’s seen Sonja Hatchell.”
“What about her car?”
Shane shook his head. “Haven’t found it. No citations issued against it. No record of it showing up in any repair or body shop. When the weather clears, the State Police will send up helicopters to see if she somehow drove off the road and her car is stuck somewhere.” He met her worried gaze. “But if that’s the case, there’s not much chance she’s still alive.”
“It’s a bitch,” BJ said, her troubles with her daughter temporarily forgotten. “People just don’t vanish off the face of the earth—there are no aliens in UFOs plucking citizens out of Falls Crossing, no matter what Charley Perry says.”
“She could have been kidnapped, not by aliens, but there’s always the chance someone was waiting for her with a weapon and forced her to drive somewhere.”
“Then where was his vehicle?” BJ asked, her face puckering as she thought hard about the crime scene. “How did he get to the diner? Was he on foot? Or did he come back for a car he’d hidden nearby that no one saw?” BJ was thinking aloud, her eyes focused on a corner of his desk, though Carter knew she was someplace else, envisioning what had happened to Sonja Hatchell.
“If she was kidnapped, and we don’t know if that’s the case, it might not have happened at the diner,” Carter pointed out. “He could have forced her off the road somewhere—flagged her down or something—and forced his way into her car. Maybe she even let him in—it was late and that wasn’t smart, but she might have thought she was helping someone stranded in the storm.”
“Somewhere he’s got a car or van or truck.”
“Somewhere close to where she was taken. But it’s been several days—he could have come back for it.”
“How, by walking? In this cold? Or hitchhiking?”
“Or with an accomplice.”
“Jesus, more than one guy?”
“It’s possible,” Carter said. “Sparks is working on that theory, too. He’s even suggested that the State Police might talk to the press, see if they can help us. I agree with him.” It was a thought that had been with Carter for a while. Reporters were usually a pain in the ass, always hanging around, looking for a scoop, speculating on what had happened. But at other times they helped rather than hindered an investigation, either warning the citizens of danger or asking the populace for help.
Left to his own devices, Carter would rather keep the Fourth Estate out of any investigation, but maybe it was time to ask for help from the local television, radio, and newspapers in order to find Sonja Hatchell. The State Police had already asked the public to come forward with any information they might have concerning her disappearance, only to learn that the last people to have seen her were Lou and his nephew, who worked at the diner. She seemed to have disappeared the moment she stepped outside after her shift.
“So if Sonja was forced back into her car and taken at gunpoint, she would have had to drive somewhere. How far could she get in a storm like that?”
“Her car had four-wheel drive.”
“Doesn’t mean it can get far on icy roads, a lot of which had been closed.”
�
��You think this guy is a local?”
“Could be,” BJ said, “and I have this feeling—call it gut instinct or feminine intuition, that Sonja’s disappearance could be connected to the Jane Doe case.”
Carter stopped wiggling the pencil and looked BJ straight in the eye. “Let’s not call it feminine intuition, because I had the same hit. It’s far-fetched, there’s no link to the two women or cases.”
“Except that both incidences are odd. Out of place for around here.” BJ’s nostrils flared slightly, as if she’d picked up a bad smell. “It’s all too coincidental for me.”
“The OSP isn’t buying it. But I did talk to Sparks about a possible link. He’s a good guy, won’t just ignore it. He’ll chew on the idea awhile. In the meantime, all the law enforcement agencies have been alerted and a be-on-the-lookout-for bulletin has been issued for Sonja and her car in Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and California. Sonja’s picture’s already been on the news.” He drummed his fingers, was well aware of the time passing, the promise of even more bad weather, and the ever-slimming chances of finding Sonja alive.
“How’s Lester?” BJ asked as she stretched out of the chair.
“Holding together. Barely. But he has to. For the kids.”
“What a mess.” BJ walked to the window, looked out in the direction of Danby’s Furniture. “It’s the damned weather. It’s making everyone crazy.”
“Is that what it is? And here I was blaming the water.”
“Funny, Carter,” she mocked, but managed to scare up a grin as she left his office. “Real funny.”
“I thought so.” But he was lying. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t find anything funny these days. Nothing at all.
“…I’ll be sure to tell Robert you called,” his secretary promised.
“Do that.” Jenna hung up the phone. “Perfect.” Once again, during a crisis, the kids’ father was nowhere to be found. Once again, she’d handle things her way. Which would probably make things easier in the long run.
It was ten in the morning, and neither one of her girls was yet awake, but that was about to change. Jenna climbed the stairs quietly and passed Allie’s room before rapping lightly on Cassie’s door and pushing it open. The room was a mess. Even with the blinds drawn and the lights out, Jenna noticed that Cassie had peeled off last night’s clothes and left them in a heap at the end of the bed. CDs and books were scattered over the floor, jars of makeup, fingernail polish, creams, and perfume cluttering up the desk and bookcases. Plates and glasses, soda bottles and empty cartons took up floor, desk, night-table, and window-ledge space. The wastebasket was overflowing.
Either Cassie was an inveterate slob, or she was depressed.
Probably a little of both. Which Jenna understood.
Cassie had suffered through her parents’ separation and divorce. Moving to Oregon had been difficult for her. Nonetheless, there was no excuse for open rebellion and living like a pig.
“Cass, wake up,” she said softly and sat on a corner of the rumpled bed.
She was rewarded by a confused growl coming from under the comforter.
“We need to talk.”
“Now?” Cassie raised her head, opened a bleary eye, focused on the bedside table where her clock radio glowed red. Groaning, she grumbled, “Mom, I’m sooo tired.”
“I imagine. But you know what I say about ‘soaring with the eagles.’”
“Yeah, yeah…‘If you want to soar with the eagles at night, you have to rise with the sparrows the next morning.’ It’s a dumb saying.”
“Yeah, but words we’re going to live by. So come on downstairs before your sister wakes up.”
“But it’s sooo early.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll make breakfast.”
“Ugh.” She sighed loudly, as if she were the most persecuted teenager on earth.
Oh, save me, Jenna thought, but stood and said, “You’ve got five minutes.” She slid quickly out of the room and hurried down the stairs before her daughter could utter another syllable of protest. She wasn’t as angry as she’d been last night, but still wanted to shake some sense into Cassie. What had the kid been thinking? She wasn’t, Jenna. That’s the problem. Cassie’s just a kid. She was just out joyriding and raising a little hell with her friends. Something you did more than once.
Still, Cassie was on a course set straight for big trouble—life-altering, if not life-threatening, trouble—and it scared Jenna to death.
She was wiping up spilled coffee grounds when she heard her daughter’s muffled footsteps on the stairs.
“Okay, so I’m awake,” Cassie groused as she stepped barefoot onto the hardwood floor of the kitchen. She was wearing pajama bottoms that exposed her navel, a cropped-off flannel top, and a major pout. “Couldn’t this wait?”
“It’s waited too long already.”
“Great.” Yawning, she padded to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, and plopped down at the table. “So talk.”
“Can the attitude, Cass. I’m sick to the back teeth of it. Today I want you to clean your room, and I mean top to bottom, then I want you to call your dad and tell him everything about last night. I already tried to reach him, but he was ‘out.’ Maybe you’ll have better luck. Besides, I think you should be the one to tell him what you’ve been doing. Then, once all that’s accomplished, we’ll discuss your social life.”
“Meaning Josh.”
“Right now, I’m not too crazy about him.”
“You’ve never liked him,” Cassie charged, sipping from her cup.
“It’s not him—I’ve told you that—I don’t like what’s happening with you. What in the world were you doing sneaking out and going up to the Point?”
“It was no big deal.”
“Tell that to Sheriff Carter.”
Cassie leaned back in her chair. “He likes you, too, doesn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Mom, you’re not stupid. The guy is turned on by you. Isn’t it weird? All the male attention you get? Mr. Brennan. Mr. Settler. Now the cop. Geez, do you know how many of these local yokels are cruising the Internet, checking out your Web site and all the other ones dedicated to you? I bet even Hans rents your movies and…oh, shit…” She blinked quickly and swiped at her eyes, then sniffed loudly. “It was just so much easier in L.A.”
“Maybe it was,” Jenna allowed, “but you don’t need to use foul language, and we’re not talking about me or my Web site or the move. We’re talking about you, your attitude, and your lies to me. You’re going down the wrong path, Cassie, and I’m scared for you. Really scared. You could be making choices that will change your life forever.”
“I’m okay,” Cassie said, her eyes dry again, her chin jutted, lips folded over her teeth.
“Are you?” Jenna demanded, angry and worried and knowing she wasn’t getting through to her daughter.
“You know, Mom, maybe this isn’t all about me. You’ve been really uptight lately. But then you always are around Christmas.”
That much was true. Ever since the tragedy surrounding White Out, filmed during the holidays, Jenna had developed an aversion to anything remotely connected with Christmas.
Cassie leaned low in her chair, cradling her cup on her bare midriff. “Most families have fun around the holidays, you know? They have parties and Christmas trees, and go caroling and shopping and sledding.”
“Is that what you want to do? Carol and shop and sled?” Jenna asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee and noticing that her hands were trembling slightly. Get a grip. You can’t bring Jill back. It was just an accident, remember? But the niggling thought that what had happened in Colorado was more than a freak accident had always stayed with her, lingering at the edges of her mind, tinged with guilt that she’d survived while her baby sister had been killed.
“Maybe,” Cassie said indifferently.
Jenna couldn’t imagine her eldest daughter wearing a wool coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck as sh
e walked down the frozen streets of Falls Crossing and happily caroled the neighborhood with Silent Night or The First Noel. No—it just didn’t fit.
Cassie set her cup on the table. “Geez, I just want to have some fun. Is that so bad?”
Jenna stirred cream into her cup. “And sneaking out and going up to the site of a murder to get high is fun.”
“Yeah!” Cassie leaned back in her chair and folded her arms under her breasts, stretching the skin of her abdomen. Her belly-button ring winked in the kitchen lights. “It beats hanging out here and doing nothing.” She glanced longingly at the windows. “I’m so sick of this weather. I am gonna call Dad. He’ll let me come home for Christmas.”
Come home. Jenna’s heart twisted as she took a chair across the table from her daughter. Cassie had never thought of this house as her home, still considered Southern California as where she belonged. “Maybe that would be a good idea,” she said, hating the words. “In the meantime you can help me put up decorations around here. Now…let’s talk about sex and drugs and alcohol.”
Cassie groaned. “Do we have to?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jenna said, taking a warming sip of her coffee. “We have to.”
Carefully, he painted her face. Dipping his brush in the pallet, gently blending the flesh tones, he worked tirelessly. Music was playing, the score from Bystander reverberating from nearly twenty speakers that he’d wired throughout his own personal soundstage and workroom. He loved this music; it was his favorite, and as he looked up to the stage where mannequins were posed, he felt a sense of pride.
Most of the figures were dressed in perfect replicas of originals from his favorite Jenna Hughes movies. Some were still naked, waiting for the right costume, and all, so far, were faceless, no features distinguishable on their blank, bald heads. That part was changing.
He studied the stage where the women of his dreams stood motionless. Though not finished, he imagined them as perfect as they had been in Jenna’s films.
