Possession

by Rene Gutteridge

  Joan.

  22

  “Vance,” Joan said, her voice soaked with displeasure. “You’re looking terribly unkempt.” She stepped in, her high heel piercing the carpet. “What is the matter with you? Stand up. Get yourself together.”

  Vance rose to his feet. How was he going to tell Joan? Should he even tell her? He couldn’t. She would overreact. And she was never his biggest fan.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  Vance didn’t answer. He only blinked, trying to find a way to get Joan out of the house. He suddenly noticed a small stain of blood on the sleeve of his shirt.

  “I’ll have her call you, okay?”

  “You don’t look as if you’re feeling well.” A black eyebrow, drawn in with what looked like charcoal, rose slowly. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Joan, now is not a good time. I’ll have her call you.”

  In her daggerlike heels, Joan stood an inch taller than Vance. But even when she wasn’t taller, she still seemed to be able to look down her long nose at him. “She’s worried about you, you know.”

  Vance didn’t respond. He looked away, out the front door, praying this woman would leave.

  “Which means I’m worried about her. Which is why I came over. To see what I could do to help.”

  “Or to stick your nose in our business.” Vance cut his eyes sideways to her.

  “I’m not interfering. But she is my daughter. And I wish to help how I can. Are you broke? Is that it? I can loan you some money, to be paid back with low interest, of course.” She walked to his side, looked over her shoulder at him. “You were planning on getting a job once you got out here, right? It’s important for a man to have a job, Vance. Even if perhaps he doesn’t need the income.”

  Vance clenched his teeth. “We were going to run the deli together.”

  “Were?”

  “Joan. Please. Just leave, okay? I just want—” Vance stopped midsentence because the color drained right out of Joan’s face. And then she screamed.

  Vance realized she was staring at Karen.

  “Joan, calm down. Please, calm down!” Vance hurried to the front door and shut it. Joan’s screams continued, but not as loudly because he reached from behind her and covered her mouth. When he let go, she backed up, her ankles twisting unsteadily in her shoes. She stumbled over one of the lawn chairs.

  “Who . . . who is that . . . ?” Her eyes widened with every word.

  “I will tell you what’s going on, but I need you to calm down.”

  “Where is Linda?”

  “Please, just calm down.”

  Suddenly Joan was digging through her purse, backing clear up to the front door. She grabbed behind her for the doorknob while her other hand stayed in her purse, fishing frantically. All the while, she spun through expletives her composed self would never dare to utter.

  “Joan!”

  “You stay back! Stay back!” Black streams of tears fell down each cheek.

  “Joan, I didn’t do this! I didn’t kill this woman!”

  Joan finally found her cell phone and held it out in front of her like it was a can of Mace. “I’m calling the police!”

  “Please,” Vance begged, stepping toward her. “Please don’t do that. You’re going to put Lindy’s life in jeopardy. And Conner’s too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just put the phone down.”

  She didn’t, but she seemed to be listening.

  “Look, it’s very complicated. And I don’t have all the pieces put together. But my ex-partner, Erin Lester, has kidnapped Conner and Lindy. She’s the one who killed Karen.”

  Joan’s eyes darted to Karen. Her body froze except for her chest heaving up and down.

  “I came home and found Karen dead. Lindy and Conner are gone. And I have evidence that Erin’s involved. She called me and told me not to call the police.”

  “You need help, Vance. Lindy came and talked to me yesterday about you. She was worried. She felt something was wrong.”

  Lindy went and talked to her mother about him? She wasn’t even close to her mom.

  Another sound of the shotgun. The bullet whizzed by his ear. Wind brushed against his cheek. Glass shattered nearby. They were too exposed. Out in the open.

  Distantly Joan’s voice whispered in a long tunnel. He fell to the ground, pain searing through his skull.

  “Vance . . .” His name was called again and again.

  Come out of this. His own words sounded hollow. For Lindy. Conner. Get out.

  Even as he heard another sound of the sniper’s bullet cutting through the air, he opened his eyes.

  He was in his living room. His body was soaked in sweat, but he was back. Glass shattered again, and this time he ignored it. Sunlight glared through the house windows. He strained just to focus.

  He heard noises, loud, shouting. Frantic.

  Tune it out. Think.

  But the noises grew louder. He gazed to his right and saw Joan again. She towered over him, her face frozen in panic, the phone held tightly to her chest. The front door suddenly crashed open.

  Men scrambled in. They blurred, so he saw only streaks of gray, like strokes of paint on a canvas.

  “Get down! Get down!”

  He was knocked flat by a strong arm against his back. More yelling.

  Glass shattered.

  And he let himself slip away. Finally the cracking, splintering pain in his head melted into the darkness.

  * * *

  Lindy squeezed Conner’s hand, kept it in hers. The black mask that had been pulled over her head made it hard to breathe, but she could make out light and dark. And she could hear sound, that they were in a car, driving fairly fast. She had pinpointed where the sun was and knew they were traveling west.

  Beside her, Conner would cry in waves, quietly. His little body shuddered in spasms of fear as he tried to hold his sobs in.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she kept telling him.

  But she was unsure.

  Karen’s bloody body kept flashing through her mind. And the cold metal of the gun against her head.

  She knew who had her. But she didn’t know why.

  “Where are you taking us?” Her voice was muffled.

  “What did I tell you about talking?”

  After that, there was no sound but the zipping wind sheering off the car windows.

  Sweat bubbled across her face. The salt slid over her lips. A strong odor from the fabric that was against her face filled her nostrils.

  She’d almost hyperventilated earlier. She couldn’t get enough air, but Conner’s cries caused her to stop and breathe slowly. Use less air. She had to get them out of this.

  But first she needed to figure out why they were in this. Why would Erin do this to them? What was her motivation?

  She never saw Erin’s face. She’d pulled the mask over her before Lindy could get a glimpse. But she would recognize the voice anywhere. She’d heard it many times. At parties. Over the phone. And it always had a bitter aftertaste, like a store-brand diet soda. Every once in a while, it even made her skin crawl.

  Vance had never understood it, and she wasn’t sure she always explained it well back when the two were patrol partners. Somehow it always came out like she was blaming Vance, and she wasn’t. She had just always felt that Erin had ulterior motives and that she couldn’t be trusted as far as Lindy could spit.

  Conner put his head against his mother, and Lindy moved her shoulder lower to try to get him comfortable. She heard him whisper, “She was nice when I met her.”

  Erin’s warning not to talk still rang in her ears—and she’d already yelled at Conner twice when he started crying. Lindy could now barely hear him, and she sensed that it was by design. But she wondered what he meant. He’d met Erin when he was small, maybe two, but hadn’t seen her since then, that she knew of. Not in recent history, for sure. Except last night.
Did she talk to him then?

  “She came to the house,” he whispered again. Lindy tried to make out each word, tried to understand exactly what he was saying. She couldn’t ask any questions. That would give them away.

  He’d snuggled up against her chest, and she could feel his breath on her neck. It usually smelled like peanut butter. She thought she could feel his heartbeat.

  “She isn’t scary,” he continued, his voice barely audible above the car sounds. “Bad guys are usually scary.”

  Her hands were cuffed, but she wanted to stroke his cheek. Except she didn’t want to make any sudden movements, to attract attention to the backseat.

  “She said I was a good boy. A nice boy.”

  Then it hit her. He was talking about the day he’d been playing outside by himself.

  The muscles in her throat cramped as she tried to hold in the sob that wanted to escape. She had to hold it together. She couldn’t afford a breakdown right now, but then again, that had been the story of her life since motherhood.

  She listened for more, but he remained quiet, so she sat quietly too, imagining what she would do if Erin dragged them out of the car. She tried to pay attention to the sounds. She was fairly certain they were in a populated area.

  Erin had been in Redwood City the whole time.

  She had plotted this. She had a plan.

  Which meant Lindy had to come up with a better one.

  * * *

  The voices sounded like they were being shouted into the wind, dissolving into light whispers and then silence. They came in waves, until Vance was shaken awake with harsh shouts. A man stood over him, his face blistery red, his eyes bulging and angry.

  “Get on your knees!” His voice was staccato, emphasizing every word like a drill sergeant. A clawlike hand dug into Vance’s shoulder, yanking him to his knees. His head jerked back and his muscles seized across his shoulder blades.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Joan’s voice, piercing through the chaos. “He’s half-unconscious. I don’t think he’s going to make a run for it.”

  “Out of the way, ma’am,” came another voice.

  A scorching pain ripped through his shoulders as his arms were pulled back. Metal. Handcuffs.

  He was pulled to his feet. Dizziness swept through him. Nausea lurched against his stomach.

  A lot of men milled about. In uniforms. But through the sea of people, a solitary figure stood out. Joan.

  Poised once again, she watched him carefully, her scrutinizing eyes undeterred by his harsh stare.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Vance said, but there was a ringing in his ears and he was unable to tell how loudly he was speaking. Nobody seemed to acknowledge that he spoke. He was read his Miranda rights.

  Joan pulled a cigarette from the pocket of her pencil skirt and a lighter from her purse. She didn’t light up but dangled the cigarette from her thin fingers and snapped the lighter with her thumb.

  Two cops argued about who was going to take him to the jail. Vance kept his eyes locked on Joan’s. Behind him he could hear them talking about Karen. He heard the click of a digital camera, and its flash bounced off the glass of the windows.

  “I didn’t kill her. It was someone else. Please believe me.” Vance knew his voice was desperate. But that’s all he felt at the moment. Utter desperation. “Joan, listen to me. Erin Lester has her. She’s the one who killed Karen. You’re putting Lindy in even greater danger. You’ve got to believe me.”

  He was forced forward by unseen hands and marched outside, where the sun caused him to tear up and blink. Bright flashing lights from the patrol cars strobed out of unison. He made out the shadowy figures of crowds who’d gathered to gawk.

  He did what he’d seen a thousand bad guys do in his lifetime as a cop—ducked his head. Why? He wasn’t guilty.

  But it sure felt like it.

  A large hand grabbed the top of his head, pushed him toward the open door of the patrol car, guiding him in. A smaller man reached over and buckled him in. The handcuffs cut into the skin of his wrists.

  A flash went off. From the crowd. He looked away. The car smelled like urine.

  He looked out once toward the condo as the patrol car pulled from the curb. Joan stood in the window, her unlit cigarette stroking her cheek like a small wand. Joan Webster had no idea what she’d done.

  Vance couldn’t stop the tears. He watched out the window, stared at the looming redwood trees he’d come to adore. Just a few days ago he was worried about his couch and his microwave and awards that had been tucked away in boxes.

  He’d give it all up in a heartbeat just to see Lindy and Conner one more time.

  He rode silently to the police station, sorrow stripping away hope.

  23

  Vance sat with his back to the cold concrete wall. Cheap blue carpet, stained and smelling of mildew, stared him down. The chair was uncomfortable, with a break that kept threatening to pinch his leg again. He tried to maneuver, but there wasn’t a comfortable angle on plastic.

  The table was small, metal, sticky on the corner, and one end butted up against the concrete walls. The ceiling was stained with water marks, and a camera hung visibly near the door.

  Erin had told him not to call the police. But now here he was. Should he try to explain the truth? Or make something up? Was he putting Lindy in more jeopardy by exposing Erin? Or would the entire thing sound so absurd that they’d start firing up an electric chair somewhere?

  What would Lindy do? Lindy would tell the truth.

  And Conner would be praying his little heart out, with his hands clasped together so hard, they’d turn white at the knuckles.

  Red marks were still visible on his wrists. He stared at his hands. Somehow, though bigger and stronger, they seemed unable to match Conner’s childlike faith. He pictured his little boy’s hands clasped together, but his own just stayed in his lap.

  His whole life he’d been riddled with doubt.

  And guilt joined in for the last decade.

  What kind of prayer could he utter that would have any power in it?

  He needed a sign. He needed to know God was real because he couldn’t afford to put his hope in nothing.

  But what did he have to lose?

  The metal door to the room swung open. Two detectives walked in. The taller one had crew-cut sandy blond hair, streaked with gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache. His sideburns were long, rectangular, out of the wrong decade. He wore his tie loose, but his eyes had a stubborn stare to them. He introduced himself as Chuck Randall.

  The other said his name was Bob Grist. He looked more scholarly, like he might be happy to stare at a folder of clues and never leave his desk. He pushed too-small glasses up his face. Clenched his broad jaw. Smiled vaguely.

  They sat on the other side of the table but scooted their chairs away, both stretching out their legs.

  Vance automatically read the body signals. It’s what he did. What he became good at when he was a detective. And he knew they were reading his. So he sat still, didn’t make a move, only watched both of their faces and waited for them to begin.

  After a moment of awkward silence, Bob jumped in. “The woman in the closet. You know her?”

  “She was an attorney that my wife met when we first moved here from Maryland. She was helping us with a situation. . . . Our possessions were stolen by the moving company. Held for ransom, basically.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Chuck, who looked to be taking notes, though he probably wasn’t. Everything was being recorded, Vance was certain, by the camera’s big eye. “Well, Mr. Graegan, already we’ve caught you in a lie.”

  Fear prickled his skin. He hadn’t lied. Had he? His head started hurting.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman in the closet. The dead woman in the closet.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s not an attorney,” Bob said, his voice smooth and calm. “Her name is Karen Bedshaw, and she’s well-known around
here.”

  “For what?”

  “Mostly prostitution. More recently writing hot checks.”

  Vance’s eyelids drooped with exhaustion. He didn’t know what to make of it. Lindy had trusted this woman. Counted her as her first friend since moving to Redwood City.

  He could try to lie his way out of this, but if these two were worth anything, they’d know it.

  “You were a detective, correct? Back in Maryland?”

  Vance nodded.

  “So why’d you quit and move all the way across the country?”

  “We just wanted a fresh start,” Vance said. He definitely shouldn’t mention a fresh start to their marriage. He was pretty sure right now he was their prime suspect—not only in Karen’s murder, but in the disappearance of his wife and son. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, tried to gather his thoughts. The truth, he knew, was the only way to go, even though the truth sounded crazy. “Look,” he began, “this is a complicated mess.”

  “Then try to straighten it out for us.”

  “You know the old warehouse district off Duncan Street?”

  Bob nodded.

  “You’ll find a body there. The person who took my wife also killed this man and took all of our belongings. There’s an old mechanic’s shop with a chain-link fence around it. Behind there is a truck. It has all of our possessions in it. And a man named Joe.”

  Bob nodded at Chuck, who left the room, presumably to go check the details.

  “I found him when I was trying to locate my belongings.”

  “This person who took your wife and child. Who is he?”

  “Her name is Erin Lester.”

  “A female?” Bob might’ve actually written that down.

  “She’s my former partner back in Maryland.”

  “You two have an affair or something?”

  “No. But it was a complicated relationship.” Vance looked down. How to explain it? He sounded guiltier with each word. “She saved my life while we were on duty. And I guess I’ve never been able to pay her back enough.”

  “So she takes your wife and kid?”

  No. It was more complicated than that. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to go there.