Chasing the dead

by Joe Schreiber

  "I'll put her on soon, I promise. Before that we need to establish a few ground rules. You've got a long way to go in the next twelve hours. It will make everything much easier and that way there won't be any misunderstandings between us later on." The man is speaking a bit quicker now, out of excitement, she senses. "First, it's important that you don't call the police. Not that I don't trust you, Susan, but you should know that I have tapped your phone and I'm scanning your cell, so if you make any calls to anyone, I'll know. Now I'm going to hang up and wait, and if you've followed rule number one, then in ten minutes I'll call back and we'll go from there. Are you with me so far?"

  "Wait-"

  "I'll take that as a yes," he says, and hangs up on her, gone, just like that. She stands there with the phone buzzing in her hand and then it leaps upon her, the fullness of it, with all its weight. She has never been one to absorb things gradually. When the unexpected happens she would always rather grapple with it immediately and to hell with denial, anger, and all those other stages of acceptance.

  The room begins to tilt and she feels her knees buckle as she sinks to the floor still clutching the phone, realizing she's not breathing yet unable to will herself to inhale. From somewhere deep in her chest she hears the low, slow whine of her lungs pleading for air. Instead she begins slowly and deliberately to bring order to the available facts. She forces herself to think rationally. She hears Marilyn's voice on the phone from an hour earlier:

  This loser in a van is just riding my tail.

  The realization kicks the door wide open to a blizzard of images. The man who was following her forcing the Jeep off the road, dragging Marilyn from behind the wheel, putting a gun to her head, and forcing her out of the car. Climbing into the Jeep with Veda still strapped into her car seat, Veda facing backward, her round, mostly bald head cocked in confusion and alarm at her nanny's screams and cries for help, the faceless one putting the vehicle in gear and driving off into the night. The man and Sue's daughter somewhere out on the freeway now, somewhere in the black expanse of a New England winterThe phone rings again and Sue almost screams.

  7:28P.M.

  She drops it, picks it up again, and hits the talk button: "Yes."

  "Hey, Susie-Q. You sound stressed, babe, you okay?" It's a different man's voice, smoother, familiar, and through her panic Sue realizes that it's Brad from the office. "Listen, just a couple quick questions about the bank meeting tomorrow morning-"

  "I can't talk right now."

  "What's wrong?" He's dropped the hipster affectation for a more genuine concern, but Sue's already hanging up on him, still crouched down so that her kitchen and dining room sprawl high above her. She assumes the world looks like this to Veda all the time. The ceiling just goes up and up. She has another vivid flash of her daughter in her car seat, scared and crying inconsolably, and feels her jaw yawn wide to let out an aching scream that comes out more like a sob.

  Through all the crazy shifts she's worked at Commonwealth Emergency Response and the death and bloodshed she's witnessed in those early days, only once has Sue experienced anything of this intensity, a hot summer afternoon that she scarcely remembers except on the most subconscious level. Yet in some terribly practical way that experience has inoculated her against certain dangerous extremes-the very real possibility of losing herself to hysteria, for example. Even now she has found that she does not get hysterical, and in a moment her breathing has restored itself to a shallow but steady rhythm.

  The phone rings again. She goes flopping across the floor as if struck by a cattle prod but this time she does not scream.

  "Hello."

  "Who was that, Susan?" the voice asks.

  "Brad. He works at my office. I didn't tell him anything."

  "I know," the voice says. "I told you I would be listening. You were a very good girl. It was an unexpected test, but you passed with flying colors. I believe you're ready to move to the next level. What do you think?"

  "Please, just let me talk to her." It is so deadly quiet on his end, with only his voice relayed to her through the shallow acoustics of a wireless line, the closest thing she can imagine to hearing voices in your own head. "Just for a second. May I, please?"

  "Absolutely," he says. "Didn't I promise I'd let you do that? I always keep my promises, Susan." And there's a rustle of fabric or skin against the mouthpiece, then a silence, followed by soft, intent breathing that she recognizes instantly as her daughter's.

  And just like that Sue Young's hard-won composure disappears.

  She just melts.

  "Veda, honey?" she says. "It's Mommy, baby. Sweetie, can you hear me?Veda…? " She feels the tears swell up behind her eyes, pressure mounting in her chest like a balloon expanding between her lungs and ribs, filling her with all the horror and fear in the world until it's leaking out her eyes and nose and mouth. "Veda, it's going to be all right, honey, Mommy promises, everything's going to be okay, okay?"

  Veda makes one of her sounds, a repeating two-syllable noise coiled in puzzlement-dukka-dukka?-and that does it. The fear and grief just take over. Sue breaks down. Tears stream down and the screams start backing up in her throat and somehow she manages to hold her breath for one more second because she wants to hear if Veda says anything else. But there is nothing else coming, just another rustling sound and the voice coming back on, sounding deeply pleased with itself.

  "She's very good with strangers," he observes, almost mildly.

  Sue forces herself to stop crying, bites her lip, balls her left hand into a fist, and mashes it to her mouth. "Anything," she says finally. She can taste blood mixed with tears and her lip aches faintly from biting it. Her chest, her face, her throat all ache. "Anything you want. Just please, don't hurt her."

  "I told you, we'll get to that. You passed the first test, Susan, but I just need to be absolutely sure that I can trust you not to call the police."

  "I won't. I swear."

  No answer.

  "You want money," she says. "I can give you however much you want. Just name your price."

  "You're not listening to me."Abruptly the voice has taken a nasty turn. "I'm assuming that you're smart, Susan, but right now you're losing IQ points by the second. Now, if you want to see your daughter alive, then shut up and listen." He doesn't wait for any acknowledgment beyond her silence. "All right. Are you ready to listen and do what I tell you?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. You're going to go outside and get in your car. I'm giving you ten seconds to get out there. Are you ready?"

  "Yes."

  "Go."

  He hangs up and she drops the cordless, pivots, and bolts out of the kitchen and down the hall in her stocking feet, jumping out the front door and down the driveway. The darkness and cold against her skin don't even register. The door latch on the Expedition catches the first time and she jerks it again, jumps behind the wheel, and grabs the car phone, which is already ringing. Like the radio it is designed to carry a residual charge allowing for its use even when the motor isn't running.

  "I'm here," she says.

  "Start the engine."

  Sue gropes instinctively for the ignition and finds nothing but air. The keys aren't there. Of course they aren't. She brought them into the house with her and dropped them on the counter right before taking off her shoes. She feels a cramp of dread and improbable embarrassment. "I didn't bring my keys."

  "Susan, shame on you. You used to drive an ambulance for a living, how could you forget yourkeys?"

  "How do you know that?"

  He ignores her. "I guess you don't have to be rich for very long before you start forgetting all the practicalities of daily living, isn't that right?"

  She doesn't answer. What's she supposed to say?

  "That's all right, Susan. I'll give you another chance. I'm a big believer in second chances. What about you? Doyou believe in second chances?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Right now I just need you to sit here like a good girl. Can you
do that for me?"

  "Yes," she says, and for the first time, sitting out in the darkness of the Expedition, which is still warm and smells like the steamed lobsters she left out here by accident, she thinks that the voice on the phone is familiar somehow, from a long time ago. She does not know where or when-her mind will not grant her access to that information-but the familiarity nags just the same, and she thinks again about the idea of voices in her head.

  "I'm holding a knife in my right hand," the voice says casually. "It's a hunting knife, one of my favorites. I've had it for many years, but it's still fairly new and in excellent shape. It's stainless steel with a nine-inch blade. It's terribly sharp."

  Sue hears herself trying not to make a sound. She makes one anyway, an awful-sounding groan. If he hears this on his end, he doesn't comment.

  "Now I'm going to make another promise. In exactly twelve hours, I'm going to plant this knife in little Veda's throat. The police will never find her body and you will never see her again, but for the rest of your life you will know exactly how she died, and her blood will be on your hands. And how will you know that?"

  Sue waits, not getting it. Then she understands. "Because," she says, "because you always keep your promises?"

  "That's right, Susan! You remembered that! That's very good!" She can almost hear the grin in his voice. "There's hope for you yet, I think. Now, as I said, the only way that this isn't going to happen is if you do exactly what I tell you. The choice is yours, but I'm going to suggest that you don't waste any more time bargaining with me or offering me money. And I especially don't want to hear any more pointless questions. I'll give you all the information you need. That means all you have to do is listen to what I tell you and do what I want. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," she says. "Yes, yes."

  "Good. You're going to go back into the house and get your jacket and boots. Get a pair of gloves, a flashlight, and a shovel-the one from the garden shed, not the snow shovel. Are you getting all this, Susan?"

  "How do you know about…?" She stops, catching herself. Then it hits her. Has he actually been inside her house?

  "Get the nylon rope from the hook in the garage, and the canvas folded up in the shed. Take all of it and put it in the back of the Expedition. I'm going to call again in three minutes. If you're not back behind the wheel in time with everything you need, you'll miss my call and you'll never hear from me or little Veda again. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

  "That's not enough time."

  "What did I say about bargaining? You're not listening to me, Susan. These terms aren't negotiable. The only decision you have to make is whether you want to see Veda again."

  "All right," she says softly.

  "Good. And Susan?"

  "Yes?"

  "This time, don't forget the car keys."

  And he's gone.

  7:40P.M.

  She springs out of the Expedition and hits the ground running. In her mind she is already poring over the list of items he named, organizing them according to where they are in the house. She is good at this, in a sense it is what she has always done best-track, prioritize, multitask, always with one eye on the clock.

  In the first sixty seconds she has her coat, gloves, boots, keys, and the flashlight all tucked into her pockets. She swings through the garage for the rope and sprints across the yard through the darkness to the garden shed, the one that Phillip built for them their first summer here in Concord, two years ago. It turned out to be their only summer together, but the tools he bought for her are all still here, many of them unused, each hanging neatly on its nail.

  She takes down the shovel, turns, and aims the flashlight down in the corner but the sheet of canvas she keeps there to cover the flower beds is gone. There is a clean rectangle of cement where it normally lies, where she knows-flat-outknows- that it should be. But it is not there. And it is not there, of course, because the man on the phone took it when he came out here and inventoried her belongings, some hours or days or even weeks ago. Intuitively Sue senses this is because he wants her to know that he's been here, that he does not want to leave any doubt about it.

  Time, she thinks, and runs back as fast as she can, bypassing the house entirely this time, which is a mistake. It is quite dark now, and the only light source in the backyard is the faint yellowish illumination bleeding from the kitchen window, just above the sink. When she rounds the side of the house she trips on something and goes flying, landing hard on the palms of her hands, hearing her own breath go out of her with a muffledguff. She hears her keys jingling somewhere beside her. She gropes the cold blades of grass in front of her in search of the flashlight, but that's gone too and for a moment she's skating wildly toward the edge of panic. She can hear the phone chirping inside the Expedition down in the driveway. It sounds hugely, massively, dreamily far away.

  It hasn't been three minutes yet. It hasn't even been close.

  Standing up, Sue spins around and catches the gleam of the flashlight in the grass and switches it on, splashing it over the yard in search of the keys. The phone is still ringing in the Expedition: the third ring dwindling away, a silence, and the fourth ring starting. She can see the flashlight beam trembling as her whole body shakes harder in the cadence of some accelerated pounding within. Her heart is a lunatic banging on a metal can. It is like swimming to the surface with her lungs bursting for air, kicking furiously, but the surface just keeps pulling farther away from her no matter how hard she struggles for it. Finally with an audible curse Sue gives up looking for the lost keys, wrenches herself forward, running for the Expedition, and diving inside to snatch the phone from the passenger seat where she'd abandoned it. She doesn't even have enough air in her lungs to speak, just gasps, trying not to pass out.

  "You made it," he says, as if expecting nothing less.

  "I don't," she says, and swallows dryly, "have my keys. I'm sorry. I tripped. I don't know where they went, I couldn't…"

  Her voice trails off and the silence that follows it is endless, fathomless. When the voice speaks again there is a hollow darkness within it that chills her to her very soul.

  "That's too bad, Susan. I guess we can't play after all."

  "Wait."

  "I gave you clear instructions. All you've done is disappoint me."

  "Please-"

  "Listen closely now, because you're about to hear me slit your baby's throat."

  "No!"

  "Too late, Susan."

  "Stop it!" She jerks straight upright in the front seat, both hands clutching helplessly at the phone as if she could somehow reach through and rescue Veda, and her coat flap catches on her left sleeve. As the edge of the coat flips up, its outer pocket tips sideways and her keys spill out along with her gloves, bouncing off her knee and falling to the floor.

  You put them in your pocket. That's where they were the whole time, stuffed between your gloves where you couldn't hear them jingling.

  "Wait!" she shouts, ramming her hand down below her feet, fingers probing, encountering the little metal ridges hooked to the reassuring weight of the clicker, right there in her palm. "I have them! They were in my pocket! I have them!"

  She slips the key into the ignition, the dashboard brightening obediently in front of her.

  "Hello?" she says. "Are you there? Can you hear me?"

  She listens. For an eternity, nothing. Then:

  "Do you have everything else?" he asks.

  She thinks of the canvas tarp, and the shovel for that matter, which ended up somewhere in the side yard when she fell on her face. But there is no margin for error, she judges, not now, perhaps not ever again. "Yes," she lies smoothly.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  There is a pause long enough that she has to wrestle to control her trembling for fear that he can hear it in her respiration. Despite the cold she can feel a droplet of sweat leaking from her right armpit down her ribs. "All right, then." He sounds convinced, or wants her to thi
nk that he is. Either way it is no longer of any consequence. "Start the car and head east toward Route 2. Get off on 23 and look for the sign for Everett Road. When you get there you're going to head north. I'll call you again when you get there. And remember, Susan."

  "What?"

  "You have a job to do. I'll be watching you. If you make any unauthorized stops to ask for help or use a pay phone, I will cut your little girl up and send you the pieces. Do you believe me?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. We'll be in touch."

  "When will you-"

  Click.He's gone.

  7:58P.M.

  For the first few minutes, she just drives. She does not permit herself to think. Not about Marilyn, not about the voice, and most of all, not about Veda. Not yet.

  Traffic is still heavy on Route 2 but at least it's moving. People are getting back to their homes, settling in for the evening, switching on the TV, perhaps pouring themselves a glass of wine. For those unfortunate enough to be on the road, the first few white flakes are starting to sift down, bouncing off her windshield as she heads north. Eventually she gets off on Everett Road, two lanes of nothing much at all.

  Her mind drifts slightly. It is not advisable, this drifting, but there it is.

  She cannot help but think what it would be like if Phillip were here.

  The temptation to try to call him, to grab the phone and punch in the West Coast number he left on her machine a year or so ago, six months after stepping permanently out of her life, is far stronger than any urge to call the police. Sue does not have much faith in the police. She doesn't exactly have a whole lot of faith in Phillip, either-what can you say about a man who abandons his wife and one-month-old daughter, even if he leaves them with a yacht, anArchitectural Digest home, and full ownership of the third largest real estate office in Boston?

  Abandoned is abandoned, as her friend Natalie is fond of saying, and scum is scum. Of course Natalie always sounds a little envious when she says this, like she wouldn't mind finding out firsthand what it's like being abandoned with a big house and millions of dollars to spend, but Sue is not even remotely deluded about the emotional fallout of Phillip's disappearance. She knows that Veda will grow up without a father, nothing more than a tall, narrow-shouldered shadow with graying hair leaning over her bassinet on the videotape that Sue has no intention of ever allowing her daughter to watch.