by Aric Davis
“Thanks, buddy. Make me proud.” Phil hung up, and Van Endel depressed the button to make his end click off, then released it again. He grabbed the pager, then punched in the number.
“This is Dispatch,” said the female operator on the other end.
“Van Endel, returning a page. Whaddya got?”
“Possible 207, sixteen-year-old girl. A couple of uniforms on the scene already. They requested you.”
Van Endel gritted his teeth. That wasn’t good. Usually, a possible 207 on a kid that old took a few days to process. There had to be a part of the story he wasn’t getting yet. Van Endel took a pen and a tattered Moleskine from his nightstand. “Got an address for me?”
She rattled it off quickly. Once he had all the details—apartment on the north end, single mother named Samantha Peterson, missing girl named Molly Peterson—he thanked her and hung up the phone.
Van Endel briefly considered a shower to remove his whiskey-sweat, but decided on cologne instead. He dressed in a black suit that was as comfortable as his favorite pair of pajamas but still looked reasonably sharp, then ran a comb through his hair. Given what he’d thrown down before he’d dozed off (he preferred that to “passed out”), he knew he had no right to look as good as he did. He hoisted a smile at the mirror to see if he could carry it off. He supposed he could. And then, just that quick, thoughts of her, of Lex, took the smile off of his face. He left the mirror behind, threw on his shoulder holster, tucked his wallet into the rear right pocket of his pants, and shrugged on his jacket. It was going to be a long night, and probably a long day, but that was OK. This work was everything that he was.
There were two marked cars parked at the apartment complex, and Van Endel parked his Chevy Caprice behind them before getting out. He gave his notes a look for the address, then saw a uniform he recognized, Don Pratt, standing by a door across the lot. Van Endel opened the door and climbed from the car, then closed the door quietly, before rubbing his palms together and walking to the uni. Waking up was hard to do. “How’s it shaking, Donny?”
“Mrs. Peterson is inside losing her shit, Dick. Just so you know. And thanks for asking. I’ve been good. My kids are at summer camp all week, and I plan on fucking my wife every chance I get until they get back.”
“This must be throwing a monkey wrench in that plan,” said Van Endel, grinning. “We’ll get you back to it soon.”
“Hey, no sweat on my end,” said Don. “I had to work tonight either way, may as well be doing something. You talk to Phil?”
“Yeah, briefly. I didn’t get a progress report or anything, though. I just know that Sarah’s in a holding pattern. What’s your take on our missing kid?” He eyed the Petersons’ door.
“Kid’s gone,” said Don. “Aside from that, tough to tell you. Mom thinks they were at the drive-in, but Molly never came home. Sorry, missing girl’s name is Molly, not sure if you had that. In any case, Mrs. Peterson called it in, and we were here a little later. Once we figured out that Mrs. Peterson most likely was not full of shit, I put in for a detective. Hope you don’t have plans.”
“Only plan I had was sleeping one off,” said Van Endel. “I’m going to go talk to the missus, you call me once your week in paradise is over, we’ll hit the Shipwreck and get a beer.”
“That sounds great, Dick. I’ll keep you posted.”
On his way into the apartment building, Van Endel walked into the doorframe, hard, with his shoulder. Take a deep breath, you’re doing fine. Willing the booze away wasn’t going to happen, but he could at least ignore it. Feeling a bit more together now—the bump with the frame might have been a good thing—Van Endel saw another uniform at the top of the steps, this one a woman he didn’t recognize. He walked to her, showed her his badge, and she opened the door for him.
The apartment smelled like cigarettes and had amateurish paintings hanging on the walls. Van Endel stopped briefly to look at one—it was signed MP and was of a sunset—then stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Peterson was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, and talking to a uniform. But the talking stopped when they saw Van Endel.
“Mrs. Peterson?” he asked, and she nodded. Van Endel extended a hand that she shook with her own cold and clammy hand, her fingers small and thin. “May I have a seat?”
“Of course, and please, call me Sam.”
Van Endel sat and nodded to the uniform at the table, a vet named Walt Summers. Walt and Dick had been to a few of these over the last couple of years, late-night calls that never seemed to turn out how anyone wanted, and almost always found their end in the expansive lawns of Riverside Park.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Peterson, though I can’t help but imagine we could do so under better circumstances. I’m Detective Richard Van Endel, Dick for short. I want you to tell me everything that you can recall about your daughter’s plans this evening. I know you’ve probably already done this, but please humor me. I want your daughter home safe and in bed almost as badly as you do.”
“She went to the drive-in with her friends,” said Sam. “I was sort of on the fence about letting her go, but…Do you have kids, Detective?” Van Endel shook his head. “Well, Officer Summers here and I were just talking about how it’s all about balance with raising children, especially a free spirit like Molly. If you don’t let them do some of the stuff that you don’t want them to do, then they’re going to do all the stuff you don’t want them to, only it’ll be behind your back.”
He nodded. “Makes sense. What kind of stuff are we talking about, if I may ask?”
“Oh, nothing awful,” she said. “Boys. Molly likes to play the wild thing, but I know she’s not. Not really.” She smiled. “A parent’s greatest asset can be making your child forget that you’re not an authority figure, but a friend. You still are a parent, of course, but especially raising a girl alone, it’s good that she can tell me things I don’t want to hear. It’s how I know she’s OK. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” said Van Endel, who was wondering, and not for the first time, if he would ever have children. The chances seemed remote at this point. Nights like this, he was OK with it. “What time did she leave?”
“Just after seven. Her friend Jammi Walther drove them, they were meeting some other friends there.” She took a long drag from her cigarette, then continued. “Rebecca Benchley was in the car as well. Could have been someone else too, for all I know.
“Here’s the thing. Molly had a strict curfew, and she knew it. I don’t worry much about what she does when she’s out—she’s got common sense and tells me everything about her life—but the curfew is something she knows she has to respect. That was why I called. She’s never late, not ever. I didn’t want to be one of those crazy people calling her friends, but I finally snapped and called Jammi’s mom, since Jammi drove.”
“What did they have to say?”
“That Jammi saw Molly necking with some boy, and then they were just gone. There was a big scuffle between one of the other girls and a boy—Becca, I think—and then all the teenagers were clearing out of there. That was why I called. All the other kids were home on time, and they saw my daughter go off with some boy that no one knew, and no one could call me?”
“Sam, you need to relax,” said Van Endel, reaching across the table to take one of her forearms in his hand. “Molly has only been gone a few hours. You need to get some rest, take a Valium if you have some, and in the morning, call all of her friends. That is, if she doesn’t come home in between, of course.” He smiled thinly. “Kids, good kids even, do stupid, disrespectful things all the time. Hopefully this turns out to be nothing more than a family problem.”
“Then why are there so many police in my home, Detective?” Sam asked bitterly. “If everything is still OK, why is it so far past curfew and my daughter isn’t home? I read the papers. I know all about the bodies at Riverside—”
“Mrs. Peterson,” said Van Endel, interrupting her and raising a hand. “Those girls are not like
your daughter. They were all known prostitutes, and they were all taken miles from that drive-in. Molly was nowhere close to that area, and there’s no reason to be drawing that conclusion.” He took a card from his pocket with his name and contact information on it, and slid it across the table to her. “This phone number goes directly to my desk. Get some sleep—just read a book and relax if you can’t—and then call me in the morning, either way.” He stood. “I hope to hear in the morning that she’s home.”
“You won’t,” said Sam, as she lit another cigarette. “Like I said, she respects a curfew, and this isn’t how she is.”
8
When Tim woke Tuesday morning, he stripped off his pajamas and quickly dressed. Next, he brushed his teeth and headed off to the kitchen, not totally sure that the events of the night before had actually taken place. Everything sure seemed like a dream, but when he got to the kitchen, he knew it wasn’t. His dad was nowhere to be found, but his mom and Becca were sitting at the table. His mom looked angry now, instead of sad like before, and Becca looked miserable.
Ignoring them, or at least trying to, Tim filled a bowl with Cheerios, topped them with milk, then grabbed a spoon and sat at the table. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Becca stood. “I’m going to my room.” She stomped off, looking tired, furious, and indignant all at the same time.
Tammy called after her, “We’re not done talking about this, young lady!”
A door slammed in the distance in answer. Tammy took a slow drink of coffee and then set the mug on the table before turning to look at her son.
“Your sister made some questionable choices,” she said. “As did some of her friends, and some boys made those bad decisions almost turn out a whole lot worse.”
“Tyler Cranston?”
“No,” Tammy said, frowning. “At least I don’t think so. Becca hasn’t told me exactly who it was, just that they met some older guys and things didn’t go as planned.”
“Dad said he wasn’t really going to kill anybody.”
“Good. I’m not sure your father has that in him. Which is a good thing, Tim. My brother—your uncle Mike—he thought he was a pretty rough guy, and he signed up for the army along with a bunch of other guys who thought they were too, and a whole lot of them came back in boxes.
“There’s nothing wrong with just being a regular guy like Dad. In fact, it’s a really good thing. There’s also nothing wrong with being a gentleman, unlike those guys your sister met. Do you know what I mean when I say that? If you want, I can get Dad and you two can talk a—”
The ringing phone cut her off, but as she moved to stand, it stopped. She waited for Becca to yell that it was for one of them, and when she didn’t Tammy opened her mouth to continue. Seeing an opening, Tim cut her off.
“I know what you mean,” said Tim, having no idea what she meant at all. “I don’t need to talk to Dad about it either. Besides, he’s probably really busy.”
Tammy turned, leaning back in her chair to look out of the blinds into the backyard. She had excellent timing: as she turned, Stan heaved a transfer shovel to the ground in disgust. “You may be on to something, Tim. Your father does seem to have his hands full.” A sad smile pulled at her lips, but then gave up. She looked at him. “But if you want to talk about this, we can. Just give your sister some space, and try and be nice without being obvious about it.
“Oh, and one more thing: this is a problem our family has, and it does not need to be blabbed all over the neighborhood. Becca has a reputation to think of. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mom.” Both of them turned as Becca came back into the room, and Tim forced an insincere smile onto his face.
Ignoring him, Becca said, “That was Molly’s mom. Molly never came home last night.”
“Is she still on the phone?” Tammy asked as she stood, walking quickly to the kitchen phone. “Did you tell her what happened?”
“No, Mom. I’m sure she’s fine.” Tammy, who was dialing before Becca could finish talking, stuck the phone to her ear and said, “Tim, find something to do outside.”
9
When Hooper had first seen her, he’d nearly crashed his car. Once he’d wrapped his head around what he’d just seen, he circled back to pull up in front of her. She approached the car with caution, not like the normal streetwalkers he was used to dealing with, who were so hard up for drugs that their nerves and good sense had been fried. She leaned in the car and said, “I’ve got a room a few blocks from here. You want to go party?” The way she said it was unsure and nervous, but it was also perfect, she was new to the streets. She also resembled Amy more than any girl he’d ever seen before; it was almost impossible that they could look so similar.
“Sounds good,” he said, and as she slid into the car next to him, he slipped the revolver from his pocket.
“I’m staying a couple blocks south at the—”
Hooper cut her off, raising the revolver as he spoke. “You’re going to shut up right now,” he said, the words coming out of some other him that always knew exactly what to say and do in these situations. “If you just sit back and relax, you’re going to be just fine. OK, sweetheart?”
She nodded, her eyes big and focused on the shiny handgun. She wants me. Hooper could tell she did, because even with the terror in her eyes he could see lust shining through.
“You’re new out here, aren’t you, Amy?” Hooper asked, and the girl nodded in response. “That’s good,” he said. “These streets are no place for a girl as pretty as you. You should be at home with your mom and dad, not out here. Did your dad get a little touchy-feely, make you want to take off? I get that. Happens all the time. But this is your lucky day. I’m going to take you away from all of this.”
“Please let me go,” said the girl. “My name’s not Amy, it’s Molly. You’ve got me confused with someone else. Just let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to be out here. I just want to go home.”
Hooper smiled. She’d be begging to be called Amy soon enough. He was nicer to Amy. “Where are you supposed to be instead, honey?”
“We were going to the drive-in. This was all supposed to be just a gag or something, just for fun. Just drop me off right here, OK? Just stop and let me out.”
Hooper raised the gun and pointed it at her. He hated doing it. God, she looks just like her. “Get your hand off of the car door. Now. Do it slowly, and put your hands in your lap like a good girl.” She did it as he watched, just like he’d told her to. They were almost to the park, just a few more blocks, and he was going to have her.
Out of nowhere, another thought occurred to him: What if, instead of using her and then disposing of her, he saved her? She was as close to Amy at sixteen as he was ever going to get, even if he found his real sister. Instead of turning left, Hooper turned right, sending them away from the park.
Hooper smiled at the silently crying girl, already becoming resigned to her fate, thanks to the pistol. If I’m going to do this, it has to be perfect. “You said you were going to the drive-in, right?” She ignored him, and Hooper asked again. “Amy, you said you were going to the drive-in, right?”
“Yes,” she said in a very small voice. “But now I just want to go home. Can you please just let me go home?”
Hooper smiled at her. Even with the makeup running down her face, she was beautiful. “Of course you can go home, Amy. In fact, that’s exactly where we’re headed. Now, your room isn’t quite like what it was when you left, but we should be able to get it fixed up soon enough, all right?”
“Just let me go!” she screamed, banging her hands on the dashboard. For a moment Hooper thought he might have to hit her with the gun just to make her behave. That would ruin it, though, mess up that pretty face. She just needed the proper training and everything would be fine.
“Amy, if I have to ask you to calm down again, I’m going to be forced to hurt you, and that’s the last thing I want to do.” Her screaming turned into bawling, and Hooper ran
his gun hand through her hair. Just like Amy.
Hooper parked the car in the garage. He had never planned to bring one of them here, and wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He got out of the car and walked around it, then opened her door, grabbed the girl by the arm, and yanked her out. She opened her mouth to scream, he knew she was going to, and he dropped the hand holding the pistol on top of her head. He caught her body before she could fall to the floor, and was surprised at how little she weighed. Hooper kicked the car door shut, then carried her into the house.
He walked through the kitchen with her and laid her down on the couch. He tucked the pistol into his pants and ran back to the garage. There was some nautical rope in his toolbox, he was almost positive. The rope was in the third drawer he checked, and Hooper grabbed it, along with a box cutter, and raced back in through the kitchen to the living room. He let out a deep breath. She was still on the couch. He sat down next to her and began using the rope to bind her hands and feet.
When he was done, she was stripped to her underwear, her ankles were bound, and her wrists were tied behind her back. Hooper had used additional rope to attach her ankles to her wrists to create a higher level of security. He checked his watch. It was only 11:00 p.m., so if he hurried, he had enough time to make everything else happen. He hoisted up the now-bound Amy and carried her down to the cellar, along with the rope and box cutter. Once there, he laid her back against a steel beam wrapped in cement, then tied her restraints to the pole using the rest of the rope. He gave it a good yank, and when he was sure that she wouldn’t be getting loose, he grabbed the box cutter and stood, giving her one long last look before climbing the steps and locking the basement door.
He needed to hurry to Meijer to get supplies, and then he needed to go back to Division Street to get another girl, someone who at the very least was a size similar to Amy. Everything was happening so fast, but Hooper knew it was as it was supposed to be. Amy was finally home. Now he just had to do everything right so she could stay there for a very long time.
