Even when I can’t get my dope, they come into my dreams. I hate them. I hope it’s true that someday they’ll boil in the Lake of Fire.
I guess for that to be true, there would have to be a God who actually practices justice. But that’s pretty scary, because then he’d have to practice it on me.
Maybe I do believe in him, after all.
My mother used to preach to Lance and me that alcohol and drugs are gateways for Satan to get a foothold in your life. She doesn’t know how right she is. I feel like I have demons hanging off of me, strangling me, mumbling in my ear.
I don’t know why I keep doing what they say. But I can’t seem to stop myself anymore.
Barbara stopped reading as the horror of Emily’s condition slammed into her heart. Dissolving into tears, she rushed into the bathroom and grabbed a folded towel. Closing the door, she pressed her face into it to muffle her sobs. She had to be strong for Lance. It would do him no good to see her falling apart.
nineteen
When Barbara had pulled herself together, she decided it was time for action. She and Lance went back to the airport and asked all the fast-food workers in the nonsecure areas if they’d seen Emily last night. No one had.
Then they rode the MARTA train to some of its main stops during rush hour and handed out five hundred posters of Emily, enlisting strangers to pass stacks of them around their offices. Wielding a hammer, they nailed them to posts everywhere they went. When they ran out, she called Kinko’s to put in another order.
Weariness weighed on them both as they returned to the hotel room around eight o’clock that night. Lance flopped down on his bed and turned the television on, while Barbara began to sift through the interview requests on Lance’s phone. As Lance changed channels, he found Emily’s picture.
“Mom, look.”
She held her breath as they reported Emily’s part in the situation, then showed a clip of the press conference. Barbara couldn’t watch herself. She looked awful.
Then they cut back to the anchor, who happened to be a lawyer. She pontificated on whether Emily had committed the murder.
“It’s amazing that there aren’t witnesses, Kirk. I’ve parked at the Atlanta airport many times myself, and it’s not that private. People coming and going, security people driving around in golf carts, cameras everywhere … ”
“Not necessarily, Mary. There are times when it’s pretty quiet. But she was killed in her car, so if someone got in and waited for her, they could have killed her without being seen.”
“Or the girl with her, this Emily Covington, could have done it. I don’t know, Kirk. To me, the simplest explanation is usually the most likely.”
“But her mother’s plea was very moving — that Emily is just a kid who was headed off to get help. She could have simply walked away without killing her escort. It isn’t like interventionists take their charges at gunpoint.”
“This is true,” Mary said. “But maybe she felt trapped.”
Lance turned the TV off and flung the remote onto the bed. “Why do they get to do this? Just sit on TV and accuse somebody of something they didn’t do? They don’t get to decide if Emily’s a killer or not.”
That pain behind Barbara’s eye returned. “Why don’t they care that she’s missing? If she weren’t an addict, they’d have reporters searching for her, and people would be praying and volunteering to help. But because she has problems, they’re content to call her a murderer. That’s a more interesting story.” She went to the window, looked back toward the airport. “What if she’s dead?”
“She’s not, Mom.”
Unable to stand it anymore, she curled her hands into fists and let out a yell that shook the walls. “Why didn’t I give Emily her phone? Some money? Anything? She’s out there with nothing. If she did run, or if someone has her and she gets away, what can she do?”
“She’ll do what you said in the press conference, Mom. She’ll get to a phone. She’s not stupid. She’s been lying to you for years and doing a pretty good job of it. She doesn’t have a job, but she’s been smart enough to figure out how to pay for her drugs. She’s smart. She’ll figure out how to reach us.”
“But she’s never been in this much trouble, completely out of her element, with no one to turn to!”
Lance shook his head. “Then maybe it’s good that the police think she did it. Maybe they’ll find her sooner. At least then she’ll be safe.”
“She won’t be safe in prison!” Barbara started to cry, unable to rein her hysteria back in. “All I’ve wanted is to keep the two of you safe. When I sent her off to rehab, that was the reason. I didn’t want her to wind up dead or in jail. And right now, those might be the only two options.” She threw up her hands. “How did I let this happen?”
“Mom, somebody will find her.”
“Dead!”
“No, not dead.”
Suddenly, she heard a chime on her phone, the sound she got when someone texted her. She dove for the phone, almost dropped it. Inside the small text box, it said:
mom help me
Her heart almost shot out of her chest. “Oh, dear God, it’s Emily!”
Lance snatched the phone and read it. “Whose number is this?”
“I don’t know. We’ve got to call it.” She took the phone back, returned the call to the number on the text. It rang once. She heard it connect, then cut off as someone hung up. She tried again, but this time it just rang.
“Don’t leave a message,” Lance whispered. “It might be the killer’s phone.”
She didn’t know what to do. She lowered the phone and studied the number. It had a Georgia area code. “I’m calling the police. Here, write the number down.”
Lance took the phone, and she dug through her purse for the card Detective Harlan had given her. Unable to find it, she decided to call 911.
“911, may I help you?”
“Yes … this is Barbara Covington. Emily, my missing daughter, just contacted me. It’s the Patricia Massey case. I need to talk to Detective Harlan … ”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, this number is only for emergencies.”
She screamed into the phone, “This is an emergency! My daughter needs help!”
“Okay, give me an address and I’ll send someone.”
“I don’t have one. She texted me. I only have a phone number.”
“I’ll transfer you to the police department. You need to talk to the detectives on the case.”
She waited on hold for what seemed forever. No wonder people died.
Her frantic call was finally routed to a detective named Andy Joiner, who said he was Detective Harlan’s partner. Now maybe she’d get some help. “This is Barbara Covington, Emily’s mother. I just got a text from my daughter that said, ‘Mom, help me,’ and I called the number back and someone hung up, and now it’s only ringing … ”
“Hey! Slow down.”
She tried to steady her voice. “You have to tell me whose number this is now. I have to go help my daughter.”
“Okay, give it to me.”
She read out the number. “Can you find out who it belongs to now? I need a name. An address.”
“Ma’am, we’ll take care of it.”
“No! Just look it up on your database. You can do it in two seconds!”
“Ma’am, I appreciate your calling with this information, and I know you’re upset, but I can’t give you the name.”
Was he serious? “Where is Detective Harlan? I want to speak to him.”
“He’s out investigating this case.”
Where was his number? She had it in her purse somewhere.
“What’s his number? I need to call him.”
“He’s probably conducting an interview. I’ll have him call you.” He hung up. She let out another frustrated wail.
“Mom, chill. Sometimes you can Google a number and get the name and address.”
“Okay, let’s try.” She grabbed the laptop and almost dropped it. She turn
ed it on and waited as it booted up.
She went to Google, and Lance showed her how to put in the phone number. A link came up for a name search. She clicked on it and entered the number again.
It told her that the name and address were available, but she’d have to pay a fee for that information. Quickly, she entered her credit card number.
It processed the fee, and she waited, fidgeting, as it searched the database. Please, God …
Finally, the results came up.
This is an unlisted cellular phone number from Georgia. We are unable to locate the name of the owner or the address.
“It’s a scam,” Lance said.
She let out a long breath and fell back on the bed.
“What do we do now?” Lance asked, almost in tears.
She got back up and grabbed her purse. “We’re going to the police station and camp out at Detective Joiner’s desk until they go get Emily.”
twenty
Barbara couldn’t imagine how anyone in Atlanta’s Police Department got anything done. It was a madhouse tonight.
Big-shot Detective Andy Joiner was even worse than Kent Harlan. At least the older detective had made eye contact when he spoke to them. Joiner was rude and abrupt. He treated Barbara like her presence was an annoyance. All he had to do was give her the name and address of the person who owned the phone Emily had called from, and she would be on her way. But Joiner wasn’t cooperating, and Barbara wasn’t leaving without it.
“Ma’am, I told you, we’re working the case as hard as we can. I didn’t get the information I’d hoped for from that phone number.”
“Why not? It’s a working number! She just texted me an hour ago.”
“The information that’s coming up on the database is bogus.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that address doesn’t exist. It’s one of those pay-as-you-go phones you can buy in a convenience store. The owner lied about the address. Look, it’s a lead, and it’s something I can work with. But if I have to sit here and keep explaining things to you, then I can’t get on it.”
“Give me the address,” she said. “I’ll go there myself.”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Then a name. If I had a name … ”
“Lady, you’re in the way. Don’t you get it?”
She slammed her hand on his desk. “My daughter needs help!”
“Mrs. Covington, I’m warning you — ”
She wanted to turn his desk over. “Do you have children?”
“Yes, I do.” He gestured to the family picture at the corner of his desk.
It faced away from her, so she turned the frame around and saw three happy faces.
“Funny, I have a family portrait just like this one. Same smiles and everything.”
He didn’t answer.
She wiped her eyes. “Imagine that you dropped dead, and your wife struggled to raise the kids alone. And this one,” she pointed to the girl, “medicated away her grief with drugs. And just when you thought you were finally getting her some real help, she gets in a situation like Emily’s. The person taking her for help gets murdered. She texts her mother for help … ”
“I get the picture,” he said. “You’ve done the right thing. You brought it to us. We’ll take care of it.”
“How? Will you go there and get her?”
“We don’t know where there is.”
“But you know who owns that phone! Doesn’t it have a GPS system or something?”
“No GPS. Not all phones have it.”
“All right, you leave me no choice.” She got to her feet. Lance, who sat in a chair at the empty desk behind the detective’s, threw a questioning look up at her. “Come on, Lance. I feel a whole new speech coming on. Maybe we can call another press conference and give them this phone number. They’d know who owns it within minutes.”
Now she had Andy’s attention. “Ma’am, that’s a real bad idea.”
She swung back around. “Then give me a good one.” She leaned over his desk, her eyes on fire.
She heard footsteps behind her. Detective Joiner looked up and said, “Thank God.”
She turned around and saw Detective Harlan.
“Mrs. Covington?”
“She’s all yours,” Andy said. “Get her off my back before I have to arrest her. I haven’t slept in two days, and I don’t need this.”
“Arrest me?” Barbara cried. “Oh, that’ll look good to the press. A terrified mother goes to the police with the phone number of someone who kidnapped her daughter and murdered another woman, and they arrest her?”
“Hold on, now,” Kent said. “Detective Joiner called me. You heard from Emily?”
Using her name was a good sign. Maybe that meant he hadn’t tried and convicted Emily in his mind, relegating her to a case number. “Yes. She sent me this text.” She showed him her phone.
Andy touched Kent’s shoulder. “Kent, can I have a word with you?”
“Sure.” He glanced at Barbara. “Excuse me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Barbara wiped her eyes again and nodded. “Please hurry.” She couldn’t sit, so she paced the floor, arms crossed, and watched the two detectives discussing the text.
“Mom.” Lance’s voice was soft.
She glanced at him, rocking back and forth in his chair. “What?”
“Check this out.” He nodded to Andy’s computer.
She glanced back. The two detectives were deep in conversation. She walked around Andy’s desk and saw the display. It had a name and an address.
Ethan Horne, 52
2412 Alamega Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Her heart stopped. The name and address of the killer?
“Give me my phone,” Lance said.
“What? Why?”
“Camera,” he whispered. “Watch out, they’re looking.”
She pulled Lance’s phone out of her purse and gave it to him. She stepped away from the desk again, resuming her pacing. Lance looked like he was doing what teens do — texting. But hopefully he was using the camera to get a clear picture of the screen so they could find out more about the owner of that phone.
Emily was probably with him, whoever he was. They were wasting time. Barbara’s chest felt as if a two-ton anvil rested on it.
The men finished talking, and Barbara glanced at Lance. He nodded. He’d gotten the picture of the computer screen. Even if it was a bogus address, it might lead her to the area where Emily was. The closer she could get, the better her chances of finding her daughter.
Barbara grabbed her purse and stepped toward the two detectives. “Look, I’ve been here long enough, and I’m clearly not getting anywhere. Call me the minute you figure out who this is. Thank you for your time.”
Kent looked surprised. “I’d like to talk to you a little more.”
She hesitated then. She could talk to him, get stalled even longer, or she could go find her daughter. The burning in her stomach told her that Emily’s time was running out.
“I’m sorry, I’m feeling a little sick. I need to go back to the hotel and lie down.”
Kent frowned. “Mrs. Covington, I hope you don’t plan to go do something stupid.”
She tried to look indignant. “If I knew what to do, I would have done it. I’m getting out of your way so you can work. Apparently, my being here is a roadblock.”
“All right. I’ll call you in a little while, and you can fill me in on anything you’ve learned since we last spoke.”
“Just please hurry, okay? Too much time has already passed since Emily texted.”
She gestured for Lance to come and led him to the elevator. On their way out, she looked at the image on the phone. “I can’t read it. The print’s too small.”
“We can upload it to your computer and enlarge it,” Lance said.
Thankful Lance was with her, Barbara drove quickly back to the hotel, determined to find that address and get her Emily
back.
twenty-one
So what changed in the last two minutes?” Kent’s fatigue cut deep lines into his face. “I came in and she was all frantic, and now she can’t get out of here fast enough.”
“I don’t know. Lady’s crazy.”
“Her daughter’s missing. You’d be crazy too.”
“What I would or wouldn’t be in these circumstances has no bearing on the probability that her daughter murdered Trish Massey.”
“Whatever her daughter did, her mother believes she’s innocent.”
“Too bad. It’s not my job to babysit a hysterical mother. Now, back to what I was saying. Kid calls from a phone activated by Ethan Horne. The address he used to activate is bogus. He doesn’t come up in the system at all. No social security number, no job … ”
Kent tried to focus, but the face of the crying mother kept dragging his mind from its work. He followed Andy back to his desk and saw that Ethan Horne was already up on his display.
Suddenly, he remembered the kid sitting a few feet behind the desk, texting.
“Now I see. Real smart, Andy, leaving him up on the display so they could see it.”
“They didn’t see it.”
“The kid was sitting back there texting. He could have had a camera phone, or could have just read the address and written it down.”
“I don’t think that happened.”
“Of course it did. That’s why they ran out so quick.”
Andy looked at the screen and the proximity of the chair where Lance had sat. “Okay, so they saw it. It won’t do any good. The address doesn’t exist. The numbers on Alamega Street only go up to 400, and this is 2412 Alamega.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s going to go there looking for him, and it’s a horrible part of town.”
“Well, she’ll find out pretty fast that she’s on a wild goose chase.”
He studied the profile to see if there were any hints of who really owned the phone. It was an Atlanta area code.
He decided to try giving the person a call. Using his cell phone, which blocked his name on the caller ID, he dialed, waited, as it rang again and again. There was no voicemail. Finally, he hung up and called the phone company, asked if they could tell him where the phone had pinged at the times of his call, and the text sent from the phone a while ago. They said they would call him back with that information. He gave them Andy’s name and number. Then, hanging up, he told Andy he was going home to change clothes. He hadn’t showered in over twenty hours.
Intervention Page 10
