And Now She's Gone

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Izzy mentioned Kevin a few times.”

  Mrs. Tompkins flicked her hand. “Now, I like Isabel, but she’s something of a tease.” She piled envelopes on top of the sideboard. “Isabel would smile at him—I seen her do it—but then, she’d tell him No, I don’t wanna go to this or No, I don’t wanna go to that. He’d send her flowers, but she’d bring them to me, tell me that it was sweet of him to do but that she didn’t wanna send him the wrong message. But then, the next day, she’d go back to smiling at him and then turning him down. He just wanted to take her to dinner.”

  “Could it be Kevin’s mistake?” Gray asked. “That her smiling was just being polite?”

  The old woman glared at Gray.

  What was the thought? On dates, a man worried about the woman rejecting him and the woman worried about the man killing her?

  Gray had been polite to men who’d thought that her smile meant “blow job.” Men had thrown bottles at her for not responding to their catcalls, or they had dumped Special K into her vodka tonics when she had responded No, thanks and had turned the other way. Men told her all the time to smile, and when she didn’t smile, they called her a bitch.

  “Sometimes, men don’t understand,” Gray said now, those words making her gag. “Unfortunately, they get in trouble for simply not understanding.”

  The old woman’s eyes shifted to the muted television. “This one girl dropped the charges against Kevin, but only if he gave her some money. He met her up in Washington. He ain’t mean her no harm. It was all a misunderstanding.

  “See … he was in her apartment—and what kind of girl lives alone anyway? Anyway, he was in her apartment and she says that he was trying to steal some of her … personal items. But Kevin told me that he’d stayed there overnight before and that he’d left some of his clothes, and so he was only looking for them.”

  Gray’s mind screamed, Your son’s a liar! He’s a stalker! A panty thief! “I can see where there’d be a misunderstanding.”

  “All she wanted was his money.”

  “How much did he have to pay her?”

  “Around six thousand—oh.” Mrs. Tompkins swiveled to the foyer. “It’s over there.” She returned to the doorway and pulled from the doorknob a grocery bag filled with mail. “While you’re here, let me give you…” She handed the bag of mail to Gray. “You can go through and sort it all out. I’ve been collecting her mail since she left.”

  “I’ll do that today. Izzy texted me this morning. She got held up and won’t be back until Sunday or so. It’s her birthday today and some friends of ours surprised her with a quick trip.”

  Frowning, Mrs. Tompkins plopped down in a chair. “Oh no. Kevin’s gonna hate hearing that. He’s been looking forward to seeing her.” A pause, then: “You happen to be going over near Fox Hills Mall today?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Could you take him his lunch? I forgot to give it to him. He works at the recruitment center, the one over by the food court? I’d drive over, but my hip…” She winced and rubbed her left side. “I shouldn’t be driving.”

  “Anything to make it easier for you. You’ve been so helpful. Oh … Somehow, Morris came up in my last conversation with Izzy. She just started crying her eyes out. I never found out how he died. Did I hear that he was poisoned?”

  Mrs. Tompkins sighed. “I feel just awful about that. We was having rodent problems, and I told Kevin to put out some poison to kill ’em, and somehow Morris got into it and…” She clutched the front of her housecoat. “I told Isabel that I was sorry. Gave her money for it. Two thousand dollars, even though Morris wasn’t no purebred, just an old orange cat. But I felt just awful about it.”

  So … Ian O’Donnell didn’t kill the cat after all. But Isabel had told Tea that he had. Why? To make him sound worse than what he was?

  “You know what else I’m supposed to give you?” Mrs. Tompkins shuffled back to the kitchen, plucked an envelope from beneath a refrigerator magnet. “A friend—I’m guessing that’s you—was supposed to pick this up way back in June. It got here but ain’t nobody asked me for it. I didn’t wanna put it in that bag with the other mail. Looks like it got a check inside.”

  Gray studied the envelope—JCI Insurance Services—then said, “I’ll be sure that she gets it. She probably called JCI looking for it.”

  “Must be nice, not having to worry about money coming in. Just make sure she gets it.”

  “Oh. I’ll be sure. I’ll let her know.” And that’s when I’ll meet her for sure.

  Money always pulled people from deep, dark spaces.

  22

  Beatrice Tompkins reminded Gray of Mom Naomi, the ancient senior citizen who’d fostered little Natalie only to keep food in the apartment. Natalie’s two-month-long presence in that stuffy, overheated unit meant milk, bread, and grits. The orphan got a toilet that worked, and the old woman got round steak and orange juice. Over warmed Hostess fruit pies, the orphan would listen to the old woman read from the book of Daniel. He’d overcome adversity, walked through fire, went from prisoner to the second in command. Naomi had prophesied that, one day, Natalie would be Daniel. “From victim to victor,” Naomi had said. “Just you wait.”

  Gray stuck Isabel’s house key into the lock.

  Am I a victor now? Sneaking into people’s houses?

  The condo still smelled of bleach and bananas. The only sound was the steady and smooth hum of the refrigerator. She slipped on the latex gloves and then held her breath as she flipped the light switch.

  Empty couch.

  No Isabel.

  At the small dining room table, Gray opened the grocery bag from Mrs. Tompkins and sorted through Isabel’s mail.

  Gas and light bills addressed to Ian O’Donnell, thirty days past due.

  July Vogue to Isabel Lincoln.

  Coach sale postcard to Elyse Miller.

  Offer from T-Mobile to Rebekah Lawrence.

  Mail Boxes Etc. promo card to Elyse Miller.

  Honda Financing bill to Ian O’Donnell.

  There was a greeting card, but its envelope didn’t have a postmark. Her address had been written in green ink by a familiar hand—Kevin Tompkins’s hand. Unlike the notes he’d written and tossed, the soldier hadn’t been able to snatch back this card in time.

  Mail check complete, Gray crept over to the bottom of the staircase.

  It was dark up there.

  Gray swallowed—she wasn’t supposed to be here. Isabel hadn’t given her permission. Neither had Ian. She glanced at the front door and thought about slipping on the security chain. But then if someone did try to come in but was blocked from entering, they would know for sure that someone was there.

  She climbed the stairs and was trembling by the time she reached the second story. She crept past the guest room and reached the master bedroom. Before entering, she listened …

  Her booming heart …

  The quiet hum of a healthy fridge …

  She hustled over to the closet and reached in the corner, beneath the darkness and the dresses and winter coats. Her hand hit hard steel and she pulled the object to the light.

  A metal lockbox.

  She found the tiny key beneath the bundles of lingerie.

  Outside, a door slammed.

  Gray’s breath caught in her chest and she froze.

  Footsteps tapped against the pavement.

  Hinges on the entry gate squealed.

  Bam! The gate.

  Footsteps echoed through the breezeway.

  A door slammed close.

  But it wasn’t Isabel Lincoln’s door.

  Gray stuck the key into the lock.

  Click.

  There was a Social Security card ending in 6303, for Isabel Lincoln. There was also a birth certificate and pictures showing a bruise beneath Isabel’s left arm, a purpling lump on her forehead, another bruise beneath her black eye, and a cut on the inside of her lower lip.

  Gray groaned. Who’d done this, Ian or Kevin?

&nb
sp; Both. Maybe Ian had beaten Isabel. Maybe Kevin had rescued Isabel. But once she rejected Kevin, he had killed her. Maybe.

  Gray scanned the birth certificate. Christopher and Hope Walters Lincoln listed as parents. She took pictures of the birth certificate. She took pictures of the Social Security card and those snapshots of Isabel’s injuries.

  Searching in the bottom of the lockbox, Gray’s knuckles brushed against soft plastic.

  It was a sandwich baggie filled with …

  Fluffy tufts of brown hair and fingernail clippings.

  She peered back into the box. There was another bag, also filled with hair and fingernails.

  “If I took this…” she asked aloud. What would I do with it? No clue. But she’d let her imagination roam as free as a buffalo. Something good, that’s what her mind would find.

  Gray put the lockbox back into the closet and the key back into the drawer. She stopped again in the bathroom. Yes, that was a black ring around the bathtub drain. She opened the medicine cabinet—orange vials of oxycodone, Demerol, ibuprofen, tubes of masks and creams and a bottle of Tylenol PM with the childproof wrapper still intact. Unopened.

  Tea had said that, in her suicide attempt, Isabel had taken all the Tylenol PM.

  Either Isabel had tried to overdose on a different bottle or …

  “It didn’t happen,” Gray said. Just like Ian O’Donnell had said.

  She crept back to the hallway, then slunk back to the staircase.

  What was that?

  She cocked her head to listen.

  Scratching … somewhere … above her?

  Eyes on the ceiling, she took one step down, then another, then paused.

  No, the scratching was … in the wall?

  Rodents. Mrs. Tompkins had mentioned using rat poison. That’s how Morris had died.

  Gray returned to the breakfast counter and to that blank notepad. She flipped through it and came to a page toward the back.

  BZE 11:55 12:30 12:55 AA

  10:25 DEL UA 6:00

  Flights? Was “AA” American? “DEL” Delta? “UA” United?

  But what’s BZE? And when had these notes been made? And why had Isabel kept hair and nail clippings in a baggie?

  Gray didn’t know, but she did know the reasons behind the pictures of Isabel’s injuries. Part of a victim’s safety plan, pictures of abuse played a crucial role in a plea to a judge for a new name without a public hearing. “He’d kill me if he found me,” with receipts. The judge, seeing the bruises in color, would be compelled to keep the victim’s new identity a secret.

  “I need to leave,” she whispered.

  Mrs. Tompkins was probably looking out her peephole to see if Gray had left to take Kevin his lunch.

  And now Gray was also peeping out the peephole.

  The breezeway was empty.

  She hurried back to the Camry and threw herself into the front seat. She glanced in the rearview and side mirrors. Don Lorenzo Drive looked abandoned.

  She plucked her phone from her bag to search the internet.

  What is “BZE”?

  The search icon circled. There were barely two bars of reception here. Finally …

  BZE … Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport. Belize City.

  23

  Isabel was supposed to fly to Belize?

  But the young woman must have abandoned her original, ordered plan to leave Los Angeles. That’s why she hadn’t taken those pictures or her birth certificate. No time. Harried and frightened, she’d thrown clothes into a suitcase, her heart banging in her throat as she rushed to the black truck and raced away, pulse still banging around her body as the plane taxied down the runway and landed, hours later, in Belize City.

  Maybe.

  But as Gray pulled into a parking space at the mall, a part of her kept shaking her head.

  Why didn’t she believe this story?

  Because Kevin Tompkins may have killed Isabel and could be posing as Isabel right now.

  The Armed Forces Career Center was steps away from Panda Express. From broccoli beef lover to proud marine in less than twenty yards.

  After her mother’s funeral, Gray had flirted with the idea of joining the air force—Victor had been an airman before joining the Bureau. She’d visited a recruiting center like this one and had sat across from a stern-looking white man with Charlton Heston’s jaw. He had pontificated about patriotism, commitment, and courage, and he’d thought she’d do best in the army, that it would be easier for her because, you know, test scores and education. But then she’d shown him her history degree from Fresno State, and then her high scores on the Armed Forces Qualification Test. She was qualified to join whatever-the-hell service branch she wanted. Which was, ultimately, none—her feeling of being lost and alone had become her “normal” again.

  What would her life have been like had she joined? Would she have a flyboy husband named Jake? A son, Zach, and a daughter, Faye? Stars on her shoulders? Ribbons on her chest?

  Inside the recruitment center, there were no future soldiers standing in front of monitors that showed a video of hard men jumping out of big planes.

  Kevin Tompkins, dressed now in fatigues, spotted Gray standing in the doorway, and his eyes widened in surprise.

  Gray smiled. “Isabel’s friend Maya, remember? Your mom asked me to bring you this.” She held up his lunch bag.

  He shook his head. “Oh, no.” He took the bag from her. “Thank you.”

  She pointed at one of the computer screens. “The test is digital now?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “I got an eighty-eight on the AFQT.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And I changed my mind.”

  He waited for more.

  She shrugged. “The end.”

  Gray followed Kevin as he strolled back to his work space behind a short cubicle wall. “I’m sorry she forced you to come here.”

  “No problem.” There was a bottle of Coke on his desk, a bag of barbecue potato chips, and an unlocked cell phone. “I was headed here anyway. How long has she been living there?”

  Kevin said, “Since ‘ninety-two. She and my dad had a house farther up the hill, but when he died, she decided to sell and get something smaller. With me being sent all over the world, I wanted her to be around people. The Gardners kept her company, but then they moved to Arizona and rented out their condo. Isabel arrived, and … She was heaven sent.”

  Was?

  Gray said, “I’m grabbing lunch at Wokcano. Wanna join me? You can pretend to eat your mom’s lunch and save it for tomorrow.”

  He sat in his chair. “Thanks, but no.”

  “Okay, no garlic.” She settled into his guest chair.

  “Can’t.”

  “Uncle Sam won’t let you leave?”

  He laced his fingers across his belly. “I can close for lunch, if I want.”

  “So, come with me. Share a wonton.”

  “I don’t wanna send the wrong message…”

  “That … what?”

  “I’m … involved.”

  Gray cocked her head. “It’s lunch, not sex. Not that there’s anything wrong with sex.” The idea of it—sex with Kevin Tompkins—screeched out of her like a distressed peacock. But then she did what women do and found the sultriest smile in her bag of tricks.

  His eyes remained flat and uninterested. “I’m involved with Isabel.”

  “Huh?” For real: Huh? Nothing Gray had seen or heard indicated that Isabel was interested in this man.

  “We’re on the D.L., since she’s with the doctor. Officially.” He searched Gray’s eyes, then added, “I hope you understand,” since he’d found not one mote of understanding there.

  She nodded. “Have you talked to Izzy lately?”

  “It’s been a few days.”

  She squinted at him.

  He sensed her skepticism. “We’ve texted back and forth, I mean.”

  “It’s a special d
ay today,” she said, remembering the missing woman’s birthday.

  “It is.” The soldier tossed her a smile—he had no clue.

  On the desk, his cell phone chirped. He swiped at the screen as the front door opened.

  Young men were filling the center.

  Kevin stood from his chair. He said, “Excuse me,” to Gray, then shouted, “I see future soldiers.” He marched over to the small group, leaving his phone right there on the desk.

  She grabbed the phone before it could fall asleep. As Kevin Tompkins talked to the young men about military benefits, Gray swiped through his digital photo album.

  A far-off shot of a bedroom window and a woman wearing pink panties and a purple bra.

  And another shot—the young woman now wore yoga pants and was bending over to retrieve something out of her yellow VW Beetle.

  Gray kept swiping as Kevin Tompkins extolled the virtues of being servicemen. And then she found them.

  Pictures of Isabel Lincoln, in various stages of undress, standing in her window or on her patio, or at her car, or in a parking lot. There were also photos of an erect penis and Kevin’s blurred face in the background.

  Out front, Kevin Tompkins said, “You gentlemen interested?”

  Two young men shouted, “Sir, yes sir!”

  And as he set the future recruits at computer stations, Gray found that woman’s smile again and forced herself to walk to the exit and wave at Kevin Tompkins. “See ya later.”

  Kevin smiled back at her. “Thanks again.”

  Gray wandered back to her car. From stalking to kidnapping to murder—easy jumps. Her phone buzzed. She clenched, prayed the next text hadn’t come from Sean.

  Or Kevin. Or Ian …

  She exhaled. It was a message from Isabel.

  Miss Sykes?

  I’m here.

  Who do you work for?

  Rader Consulting. The sun had sucked all the cool air from the Camry, and now sweat trickled down Gray’s spine. Were you and Kevin Tompkins involved?

  Over by the white Subaru, gulls fought over a discarded hamburger bun. Over by the blue Chrysler LeBaron, a mother struggled to collapse a baby stroller. Down on Gray’s phone screen, ellipses bubbled … bubbled …