Intervention

by Terri Blackstock

  A frown pleated his forehead, and he slid his hands into his pockets and seemed to consider it for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Please? I’m afraid I’ll spill something on your daughter’s bed. I can see you’ve kept it nice. How long since she died?”

  He rubbed his mouth, cleared his throat. “Two years.”

  Recognizing the emotion in his eyes, she softened her voice. “How did it happen?”

  His reply came out raspy. “She was with some of her newfound drug addict friends on a pass from Road Back.”

  “A pass? They give passes?”

  He breathed a bitter laugh. “It’s a deadly practice, but what have they got to lose? They attract more addicts that way. If they’re court-ordered to go somewhere, they’ll choose the place with the most freedom. Trish Massey only cared about money. She didn’t really care about people getting better.”

  It didn’t sound like a bad place, Emily thought. Maybe if she got out of here, she’d really go there. “Did you ever do this with her? Lock her in a room and try to get her sober yourself?”

  “No, but I should have. She’d be alive today.” His voice hitched. “It’s my biggest regret in life.”

  Silence hung between them for a long moment, and she saw a sheen in his eyes. He was softening … weakening.

  “That must have been awful for you,” she said, working up some tears of her own. “I know a little about what it’s like to lose someone you love. I lost my dad when I was fourteen.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “So that’s what happened. I’ve been wondering if your mother was divorced, ever since I saw her on the news.”

  “You saw my mom?”

  “Yes. She was asking people to look for you.”

  Of course her mother was looking. She wondered if her mom had mentioned the text. No, if she had, he would have gone ballistic. “Was she really upset?”

  “She seemed like a strong lady.”

  She hoped her mother was strong enough to find her. “Well, you can imagine how she feels,” she whispered. “The way you felt when you lost your daughter. My mom feels just that way.” She looked down at her feet and almost whispered, “She probably thinks I’m dead too.”

  There was a long moment of silence. She tried to wedge herself through it. “It was hard for her to bury Dad. It was hard for all of us.” She dabbed her eyes. “I really miss him. I thought I’d be over it by now, but you don’t get over death, do you? Not when it’s someone you love.”

  “No, you don’t.” He stood there for a moment, looking down at her with soft eyes. “Tell you what. Come on out here, and you can sit at the table.”

  Her heart jolted, but she tried to look even weaker than she was. Slowly, she got up and pulled on her shoes. She reached out to steady herself on the dresser as she crossed the room.

  He probably thought she was too weak to run, but as she went to the table, her blurred gaze went to the windows, the door. The porch light was on. Maybe it would give her enough light to see her way to the road.

  “You’re breathing hard,” he noted as he took her food from her tray and set it in front of her. “Do you feel congested?”

  She nodded and took a bite of the chicken pot pie. Strength. She would need it to get away.

  “When you go off painkillers, it often makes the phlegm in your chest thicker. Flu-like symptoms are normal. The Xanax withdrawal makes it a little dicier, though. That causes some neurological symptoms. You may feel like your skin is crawling.”

  His textbook knowledge didn’t come close.

  “But you’ll be all right. I won’t let you die.”

  She took another bite, trying to steady herself.

  He ate, then set his fork down. “Sara and I used to eat together, right here, like this. She loved chicken pot pie — the frozen kind. My wife tried making one from scratch, but Sara said it just wasn’t the same. Do you like it?”

  She tasted nothing, but she nodded. “It’s good.”

  “I know you don’t feel much like eating, but it’ll make you feel better if you do.”

  She took another bite and glanced at the door. It had a simple dead bolt.

  “I don’t want you to think of me as some horrible person who’s holding you against your will. I want you to think of me as someone who has your best interests at heart. Like your father would.”

  She almost choked.

  “You haven’t been drinking enough,” he noted. “I don’t want you to get dehydrated.”

  Her grasp was so weak that she didn’t know if she could lift the glass. Shaking, she took it, drank some of the water. Maybe if she finished it off, sent him to the refrigerator for more, she’d have the chance to run.

  She chugged it, hoping her churning stomach wouldn’t rebel. When she emptied it, she set the glass down. “Could I have more? I didn’t know how thirsty I was.”

  “Of course.” Looking pleased, he got up and went around the counter into the kitchen.

  Emily sprang up and shot across the room.

  “Emily!”

  She hit the door, threw back the dead bolt and pulled it open. Cool, fresh air blasted her face.

  “Stop!”

  She took off toward the gravel driveway, framed with trees. She couldn’t see the street yet. She heard him yelling, running behind her. Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough. She gasped for breath. The driveway snaked down an incline. She heard cars passing below. Birds flapped out of a tree.

  “Help me!” she screamed. “Somebody, help me!”

  He tackled her before she could even see the street, knocking her into the gravel. Flesh scraped from her chin, her hands, her knees. He was strong, and she was so weak. Despite how hard she bit and kicked and twisted and squealed, he got one hand over her mouth and lifted her off the ground with his other arm.

  She was sweating when he got her inside. Her dirty, tangled hair stuck to her perspiring face.

  He was sweating too. “You whining, manipulating little junkie,” he said through his teeth. “I should have known.” He took her back into Sara’s room, pushed her onto the floor, and locked it.

  She got up and threw herself against it. “Let me out!” she screamed. She kicked it but didn’t even leave a mark.

  She couldn’t believe she had failed. Now what would she do?

  Why hadn’t they come? There was no excuse. Her mother had failed her … again.

  But worse, Emily had failed herself.

  The scrapes on her chin, her hands, and her knees stung, and she was so tired she wanted to collapse. But she couldn’t. She had to think. There had to be something she could use as a weapon. She went to the curtains, looked at the rod that held them. It was too flimsy … useless. She turned to the closet. There was a heavy metal rod holding Sara’s clothes.

  She took the clothes hangers off, dropped them in a pile on the floor. Was it possible to take the rod out? Her dad had once built her mom a new closet, and Emily had helped him with the rod. In the wooden casing, there was a slot where the rod could be inserted. She found it, lifted it out. It was heavy, long … just what she needed. The next time he came in, she’d be ready. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  She began to break things to make him come back. As she’d done in her own room the day of the intervention, she pulled drawers out of the nightstand, flung them against the wall, toppled the bed table, knocked Sara’s things off the dresser …

  Adrenaline strengthened her. He would come back to save his daughter’s things. He had to.

  She heard his footsteps bounding down the hallway, and she grabbed the rod and moved to the hinged side of the door so that she’d be behind it when it opened.

  The door cracked open, but he didn’t come right in. He looked toward the bed and saw she wasn’t there. Then, too cautiously, he stepped inside, looking toward the bathroom on the opposite side of the room.

  She came around the door and swung, but the rod was too long, and instead of hitting him, it punched th
rough the sheetrock. She reared back and tried again, but this time he caught it in his hand, and used it to hurl her back.

  Then he fell on top of her, held her down, and put a rag against her mouth. The same stuff he’d used in the car took her breath again.

  Again, her brain seemed to seep out through her nose, her consciousness fading away …

  When Emily woke up, she was no longer in Sara’s room. Instead, she was in this damp, concrete basement, a room with four cement walls and a fluorescent light overhead. She was lying on the cold floor. A small blanket lay wadded beside her, as though her kidnapper had tossed it there. She sat up and saw stairs that must lead into the house. Emily forced herself to her feet. Wobbling, she made her way to the stairs, pulled herself up each step. She tried to open the door at the top of them, but of course it was locked. She banged on it, kicked it, and screamed to be let out.

  Her voice reverberated against the walls, bouncing against the ceiling.

  Where was her mother? Hadn’t she gotten the text? If she was really looking for her, she would have taken it seriously, wouldn’t she? The police could trace the number, find out where this doctor lived. Why hadn’t they come?

  When she’d beaten her fists bloody, she went back down the stairs and looked around. There was a sink, a toilet, and a water heater in a small, concrete bathroom.

  There were no windows, so she couldn’t tell if it was day or night. How long had she been out? Maybe it was still daylight.

  She hunkered down on the floor, wrapped the blanket around her. Her head was killing her. She didn’t know what was in that rag that had knocked her out. Combined with her dope-sickness, it made her even weaker.

  Had she finally hit bottom? She and her friends used to laugh at that term. When they blew a vein or broke a needle, they’d say, “Okay, this is it. This is the bottom.” And they’d all crack up. Such comedians.

  She remembered the day Corie didn’t wake up. She’d OD’d after a three-day high. That day, they talked about Corie hitting bottom, and no one laughed. But soon they forgot.

  In treatment the first time, Emily’s counselors talked about “raising the bottom,” using logic and facts to convince the group of addicts to stop their descent. She and the others had gotten a weeping laugh out of that one. For days, they talked about raising their saggy bottoms, mocking the concept and the counselor.

  Now she was on a free fall, waiting to splat.

  Her brain screamed out for dope or company, anything to ease the pain. She lay there for hours, staring at the four gray walls, the ceiling, the stairs, the door … all the while hating God for the things that led her to this … the things he could have prevented.

  The only hero in her life was her dad, and God had taken him. He’d let him die a long, slow, miserable death. He’d snuffed out his life while they prayed. She’d sworn that day never to pray again.

  And despite all this, she was going to keep that promise.

  thirty-six

  Kent Harlan stared at the phone number that had clicked into place like a key puzzle piece — Greg Leigh’s number.

  The one from which Emily’s text had come.

  His heart pounded as he got the words out. “I don’t believe this.”

  Andy glanced over. “What?”

  “The phone number Emily texted from? You’ll never guess.”

  Andy looked at Kent’s computer screen. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “The phone belongs to our illustrious doctor.”

  Andy stared at him, mouth agape. “Un. Stinking. Believable.”

  “He had access to the drug injected into Trish Massey.”

  “Yeah, but so did Tredwell. Are you sure about this?”

  “Positive. It’s the same number, registered to the alias Ethan Horne. Leigh’s receptionist told me he’d been out of the office all week. That should have been a waving red flag to me. Of course he’s been out. He’s holding a hostage, lying low after a murder. He and Tredwell must have been working together. Tredwell in Trish’s car with the syringe, Leigh in the Infiniti.”

  Andy headed back to his desk. “All right, let’s get busy.”

  Kent turned back to his computer, adrenaline pumping. He pulled up everything he could find in his database about Dr. Greg Leigh. No arrests. He’d lived a squeaky clean life — not even a malpractice suit.

  Straying off the database, he pulled up the archives for the local newspaper and typed in Dr. Leigh’s name. Any wedding announcements, obituaries, or articles about his practice would come up.

  He waited as the search engine did its work. Finally, an article appeared:

  Local Girl Found Dead of Overdose

  Kent frowned and leaned in. Leigh’s daughter had been found dead of a drug overdose two years ago. Kent remembered the case. The girl, Sara, ended up OD’ing in an alley. At the time, she was on an afternoon pass from her rehab center.

  Which one?

  He went to the next match and found a picture of the girl. She was blonde, with homecoming queen potential, but she had that tired, worn-out, hungry look that so many addicts have. Too much makeup, not enough shampoo.

  The reporter had interviewed Leigh and his wife, Joan. “We did everything we knew to do for her,” Leigh said. “We sank a fortune into drug rehab, and what did they do? Let her out on a pass, way too soon. She bought drugs, of course, then overdosed. I blame the idiots running the rehab. I plan to file a lawsuit.”

  He printed out the article, ready to show it to Andy. But Andy was already crossing the room. “Guess where his daughter went to drug treatment?”

  Kent didn’t have to hear the words. “Road Back Recovery Center.”

  “You got it,” Andy said. “So our Dr. Leigh has a beef against Trish Massey. Lost a lawsuit he filed against Road Back a few months ago. Must have decided to get his revenge another way.”

  Kent went back to his computer, pulled up Leigh’s driver’s license again. He studied his picture. Then he ran through a list of the doctor’s connections.

  A home in Buckhead, an upper-class area of Atlanta.

  A medical practice here in town.

  His motor vehicle tag.

  He zoomed in on the model of car he owned.

  “Well, you don’t say.” He enlarged the registration for a black Infiniti. Yes, he felt it in his gut. Dr. Leigh was the man who’d given Emily the ride. The pieces were finally falling into place. “Andy, I think we’ve got our man. Leigh knows where Emily is.”

  “Probably. Dead or alive. His only motivation for abducting her would be to keep her from talking. So he’d have to kill her.”

  Kent’s stomach took a nosedive. He couldn’t stand the thought of telling Barbara that Emily was dead. “Maybe the fact that he’s a grieving father would keep him from hurting someone else’s child.”

  “What planet are you from? The guy could be a sicko. Maybe Leigh’s daughter was an addict because of him. And even if he wasn’t mental before her death, that could have pushed him over the edge. After he lost the suit, maybe he felt murder was the only justice Trish Massey was going to get.”

  Kent Harlan didn’t believe in prayer, but as he drove to Leigh’s address, he found himself pleading with the God he hadn’t spoken to in years. Emily had to be okay.

  When they got to Leigh’s house, they found no one but a housekeeper who said that Dr. Leigh had been out of town for the last few days. She didn’t know where he was.

  They would have to get a search warrant, which might prove tricky, because all of their evidence was circumstantial. The phone number was the strongest thing they had. It was the sum total of all of the parts that added up to murder, but judges weren’t big on granting warrants against prominent members of society, unless the evidence was unequivocal.

  No, their best bet would be to convince Leigh to volunteer to a search of his home. Or get him to come in and make a statement against Tredwell, and try to catch him in a lie.

  “Whatever we do, Andy, we can’t l
et this leak to the press. This is just between you and me right now, okay? Nobody else in the department.”

  Andy nodded. “Yeah, we sure don’t want to tip him off.”

  thirty-seven

  Dr. Leigh was surprisingly cooperative the next morning when Kent reached him. He told Kent he’d discovered that sample packs of drugs and a vial of Tubarine were indeed missing. He agreed to come in and sign the affidavit.

  It took Leigh two hours to get there, during which time Kent was able to convince the judge to give him a search warrant for Leigh’s home. While Kent interviewed Leigh, Andy would go to his house and try to find Emily.

  When he showed up, Dr. Leigh looked more like a doctor than a kidnapper or killer. He was about 5’10”, well-dressed, and he looked like the kind of guy Kent would trust with his health.

  Yet Leigh seemed a little nervous as Kent took him into the interview room. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “If I could just sign the affidavit … ”

  Kent closed the door and motioned to the metal folding chair. “Sure. Have a seat. We can talk a little while the form is being prepared.”

  Leigh sat down stiffly. “I’ve already told you all I know.”

  “Yeah, just a few more questions.” Kent took the chair across the small table from Leigh. It was a small room, not meant for comfort. But Kent struck a relaxed pose. They were just two pals talking. “Dr. Leigh, I appreciate your coming in,” he said. “You mind if I record our conversation?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I just want to get everything we say here on the record.”

  Leigh hesitated. “I thought we were just talking about the missing drugs.”

  “Sure, that’s pretty much it. I just need information about this guy Tredwell. He’s a heavy drug user, so I’m confused as to why you hired him to work in your office.”

  Leigh rubbed his chin. “As I told you, he was sober when he applied for the job, and his drug test was clean. I wanted to give him a break. A chance to start over and prove himself.”