And Then She Was Gone

by Noonan, Rosalind

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Rachel raked a hand through her hair and closed her eyes against the deluge of information. The three of them had been in and out of therapy since Lauren’s abduction, without great results. Or had that been the one thing holding their marriage together? Whatever. Right now, she just wanted to see Lauren.

  “So we’ll do therapy with her—relocation therapy.” She opened her eyes and leveled a beseeching look at Paula Winkler. “We just want to take our daughter home. How much longer?”

  The woman frowned down at her clipboard. “Rachel, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t see it happening today. The FBI and the folks from NCMEC need to see her, and then we’ll be heading over to the Westridge Hospital. I noticed a limp when we were walking to the car. She says it’s fine, but we’ll need to get X-rays. But that’s not the worst of it, and you’d better brace yourself.” The social worker drew in a tight breath, her gaze shifting from Dan and Rachel, who pressed back in her chair.

  Rachel knew what was coming.

  The fodder of her nightmares.

  “Lauren was raped. It started soon after the abduction. She bore a child when she was thirteen—she had a baby girl.”

  Rachel pressed a fist to her mouth to keep herself from crying out. Lauren had been a girl herself . . . a child bearing a child.

  Dan’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “So we’re grandparents? Where is the little girl?”

  “I’m sorry.” Paula paused to give each of them a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry, but you need to know. The child died shortly after her third birthday. It sounds like asthma or pneumonia. Lord knows, the baby wasn’t allowed any medical care or immunizations.”

  “He’s an animal.” Dan’s voice was eerily calm. “I hope he gets the death penalty. I’ll throw the switch myself if they let me.”

  “Well . . . ,” Paula cocked her head to one side, “that’s for the courts to decide.”

  Right now, Rachel didn’t have room in her thoughts for the man who had abducted her child. She had to stay focused on Lauren. “I won’t waste time or energy on that monster.”

  Paula nodded. “You’re right. You don’t want to waste time on things you can’t change. Lauren is still grieving for her little girl. She lost her in February, just after Valentine’s Day.”

  The barbs were so fast and furious, Rachel was numbing over. “What can we do to help her now?”

  “For starters, I think she should meet with you individually at first. This is all overwhelming for her, and that would help her to keep things focused and calm.”

  Rachel looked at Dan, and then nodded. “What else? How can we help her?”

  “I can bring her favorite ice cream or one of her sketchbooks from home,” Dan suggested.

  God love him! Rachel would have hugged him if she had the energy to move, but this new wave of news had drained her.

  “She says she’s not hungry, but that would be a wonderful gesture,” Paula said.

  Dan was already at the door. “The ice cream or the sketchbook?”

  “The sketchbook would definitely reach her. Your daughter is still an artist, and very talented. I saw some of her work in the cabin.”

  “Got it.” He disappeared with a wave. That was Dan: man of action, firefighter, doer, and hero. She envied his ability to shed regret and fear by taking action.

  Unlike his wife, who was left sitting here and wondering at the source of Paula’s prevarication. As a teacher, Rachel had plenty of experience couching things in euphemisms for the parents of her students. She could read between the lines of Paula’s hesitance. Why didn’t their daughter want to see them?

  Long tanned legs, thin, muscular arms, and a woman’s body—this woman couldn’t be her daughter. Dressed in a loose flowered shift, her golden hair coiled and pinned by two chopsticks, she looked like a model for some eclectic designer collection.

  But as Rachel crossed the room in three long strides, the young woman lifted her chin to face her, and recognition flashed through Rachel at the sight of Lauren’s exquisite amber eyes, Lauren’s thoughtful, pouty lips, Lauren’s squinty face, the expression that showed she was struggling to comprehend something.

  “Mommy?” the young woman croaked, peering at Rachel.

  Rachel nodded and the two hugged, but Rachel felt as if she were embracing a mannequin. Gently, she shifted away to examine her daughter once again. “Oh, honey! Look at you, so grown up.” Rachel’s throat was thick with emotion. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  Lauren’s golden eyes brimmed over with confusion. “I had my own daughter, too. I was a mother but . . . but my little girl died,” Lauren said, her heartbreak palpable.

  “I’ll bet you miss her.”

  Lauren nodded, leaning away from Rachel’s scrutiny.

  Give her some space and stop gushing. As Rachel took a seat across from her daughter, she sensed fear in those golden eyes. Everyone used to say that Lauren had Dan’s eyes and Rachel’s sumptuous mouth, but now . . . now these features had melded into a beautiful young woman who was a world apart. A beautiful, wary young woman.

  Rachel tried not to crowd Lauren, but she couldn’t help scanning her daughter from head to toe, making sure she was really there. Safe and sound, at last. “Words can’t describe how happy I am at this moment.”

  Lauren squinted up at Rachel, then turned to Paula. “This is awkward.” Her tone was pleading.

  Like a splash in the face, reminders of Lauren’s social awkwardness hit Rachel. A few teachers had noticed red flags, and there’d been talk of testing her for Asperger’s, but Rachel and Dan had declined at the time.

  Oh, Lauren, Lauren, baby, honey . . . you don’t have to feel awkward around me.

  “Sometimes reunions are awkward.” Paula’s intervention lightened the strain in the air. “It’s not easy to communicate with people we haven’t seen for years. And a lot has happened. I know you both have so much to say, but it’ll take a while to get to that comfortable place where the words flow. Give it time.”

  Rachel felt Paula warding her off, and the unfairness of it bruised her. She had given six years, and so had Lauren. Why did they have to sit back and be patient?

  There was a knock on the door, and Hank poked his head in. “Two agents from the FBI are here. Are you ready for them?”

  Again, Lauren turned to Paula, who rose with her clipboard. “Bring ’em on.”

  “Is it all right if I stay?” Rachel directed the question more at Paula, obviously the one in charge here. “I may be able to help.”

  Paula cocked her head. “I think that’s a good idea. Okay with you, Lauren?”

  The girl shrugged, her eyes averted from Rachel. “Whatever.”

  The word was a dagger in her heart, but Rachel remained in her chair and folded her hands studiously. This was a start. Baby steps, but steps in the right direction.

  Chapter 11

  The officer moved the bright orange barricade aside, and Hank Todd pulled his Jeep forward, gravel crackling under the tires as he rolled toward the farm. It was strange to see Green Spring Farm vacant of the usual patrons—farm workers and golden agers, children and their moms, folks working a small parcel of growing space in the community garden run by Vera Hawkins. Today the buildings had been taken over by police cars and black sedans, the vehicles of cops and federal agents.

  “Looks like it was a nice place,” said Hapburg.

  “It was a nice place.” But not anymore. Hank wondered how the community would respond to a young kidnap victim being held behind their revered green space. Some folks would want to take a match to these buildings and plow over every field. Personally, Hank didn’t blame the land.

  “I’ve been through the compound out back. A real hellhole. What’s the story on this farm?” As chief of the Portland-Salem region of the bureau, Mark Hapburg was the highest ranking official on the case. The boss. Mark and the federal prosecutor, whoever that ended up being, would call most of the shots on this case, and that
suited Hank just fine.

  “The farm is owned by an elderly woman, Vera Hawkins, who inherited it from family. The Hawkins family has been here for three generations now. Vera can’t get out to the fields anymore, in a wheelchair now, but she’s still involved in the family business. Most of the land is leased. There’s a group of cooperative farmers who farm most of the acres. They use one of the barns; the other is leased to the city for meetings, workshops, summer camps, stuff like that. The old farmhouse is rented by a garden club and flower society. They’ve got an arboretum set up on the grounds, open to the public. All the flowers are labeled and tagged. It’s nice.”

  The community garden stood atop the rise, many of the small lots dotted with scarecrows dressed in stuffed clothing. The place was downright creepy after dark; every Halloween, the Mirror Lake cops had to station a patrol car up here to ward off the ghoulish thrill seekers.

  “So who are we interviewing?” Hapburg asked.

  “Vera Hawkins herself.” He steered to the end of the lane, an unobtrusive ranch house where Vera had moved when managing the big farmhouse got to be too much for a woman with her health issues. “She’s the aunt of Kevin Hawkins. She’s been refusing to talk to my cops.”

  “Was she aiding and abetting?”

  “Don’t know. As I said, she’s not talking.” Hank parked near the one-car garage and cut the engine. His hand was on the door handle when Hapburg stopped him.

  “One more thing before we go in.”

  Hank turned to the man in the dark suit. Although they’d exchanged hundreds of e-mails, he’d met him only a handful of times over the past few years—not enough contact to be able to read him.

  “The thing is, Hank, you know the lay of the land here. You’ve been working with the family all these years. I’ve got the resources to back you up, but you’ve got the experience and the know-how here. Stay on the case with me. Be my manager.”

  “I could do that.” Hank rubbed his chin, studying Hapburg. “This doesn’t sound like the complaints folks have about the FBI coming in and taking over their cases, elbowing them out.”

  “Would you believe that it’s a kinder, gentler bureau?”

  “No.”

  Hapburg snorted. “Okay, I’ll be equally blunt. I’ve got a shitload of leave accumulated, and the wife has booked a six-week vacation in Europe. She’s threatened divorce if I cancel again, and though that has its appeal, I’m leaning toward the trip.”

  It was Hank’s turn to scoff. “This is about the Eiffel Tower?”

  Hapburg winced. “Don’t bust my chops. You manage and I’ll give you all the backup you need. I’ve got a female agent coming in today to guard the victim. Bija Wilson. Do you know her? She’s one of the best. Our forensic team is already processing the scene, and they’ll stay on it until they get to the bottom of that trash heap Sanford and Sons accumulated. Honestly, I can bring in someone else from the bureau, but keeping you as the lead on the case, that just feels right.”

  “I’ll do it.” Hank lifted a hand to stop the pitch. “I wanted to stay on it anyway.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “What, and miss you blowing smoke up my ass?”

  Both men were grinning as they followed the flagstone path up to the side door of the simple, cedar-sided ranch house. The female officer at the door told them Vera was inside, alone and annoyed that the cops had overrun her farm and her home.

  “That sounds like what I know of Vera.” He knocked on the door, waited a minute, then pushed it open.

  He recognized the redheaded woman in the wheelchair that blocked the path from the door. Vera Hawkins stared up at them with a hard-bitten scowl. “What’s going on? You go barging into someone’s home without being invited?”

  “I knocked. I knew you were disabled, so I didn’t want to make you come to the door.” Hank introduced himself and Hapburg. “How are you doing, Vera?”

  “That’s a stupid question. You shut down my farm and the place is crawling with cops. It’s not a good day.” It was hard to guess at Vera Hawkins’s age; her penny-bright hair was definitely out of a bottle, and though her face wasn’t aged in terms of wrinkles, there was a dryness around her eyes and mouth that hinted at many years over rugged terrain. He figured sixty or seventy.

  “I’m sorry about your business, ma’am,” Hapburg said, not sounding at all apologetic, “but we’ve got to preserve the crime scene. You had a kidnap victim living on your property, and we can’t have people wandering back to the compound.”

  “Nobody ever goes back there. That section is overgrown, covered with blackberry brambles. No one even knows that cabin is there.”

  “But you did.” The FBI agent lowered his chin, his dead eyes homing in on Vera.

  “Did you ever meet Lauren O’Neil, the kidnap victim?”

  “Never met her.”

  “Because if you knew about the kidnapping on your property, that would be aiding and abetting.” Hapburg was cheerful, as if he were explaining arithmetic to a child. “Under federal law, you’d be facing the same punishment as the kidnapper.”

  Vera turned to Hank. “Does your friend have a hearing problem? I said I never. Met. Her.”

  “But you knew about the compound?” Hapburg persisted.

  Hank tried to keep his body neutral, not keen on the way the FBI boss was turning this interview into an interrogation. Hank found that you usually got more bees with honey than with law-enforcement vitriol.

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Hamburg. Around these parts, a farmer knows her land. I knew about the compound. That cabin was built as a foreman’s quarters back in the 1940s when this place was a horse ranch. I had no use for it until Kevin came along, looking for a place to bunk and a job. That was some time ago. Seven . . . eight years ago. He’d been tossed out on his ear by his father. My brother never did have patience.”

  “Did you know your nephew had a history of sexual assault? That he was found guilty of three rapes?”

  She cocked one brow. “Boys get into trouble. By the time Kev came to me, he was in his twenties, more settled. He was polite and grateful for a place to live.”

  “You said you gave him a job,” Hank said quietly. “Is he still on your payroll?”

  She waved the question off. “Not for years. Kevin wasn’t cut out to be a farmer.”

  “What did you think he was doing for money?” Hapburg asked. “Aside from robbing discount stores?”

  “I didn’t give it any thought. He wasn’t coming around here with his hand out, so it was no bother to me.”

  “Did you charge him rent?” Hank asked.

  “It wasn’t like I was going to get another renter back there. There’s no kitchen, and the plumbing is raw. Not even a hot water heater.”

  “There is now. Apparently your nephew installed one. I guess he could be handy when the spirit moved him.”

  The grooves around her mouth deepened as she scowled. “Well, good for him, fixing up the place.”

  Hank brought up photos of the compound on his phone and showed them to Vera. “He also installed a wood-burning stove, and there was a small fridge and a hot plate. But the cabin wasn’t really fixed up.” He scrolled over to some exterior photos. “There were mounds of neglected trash, a leaking roof, and, well, general disrepair.”

  “And what the hell is this?” Vera pointed to a wall decorated with one of Lauren’s murals.

  “That’s a painting Lauren O’Neil did to liven the place up. She’s quite an artist,” Hank said, though Vera’s mouth remained crimped.

  “Just about every wall and beam is covered with art,” Hapburg added. “I guess that’s what happens when an artist has a lot time on her hands. Six years.” His eyes narrowed. “So what have you been doing for the past six years? You mean to say your nephew never brought her around.”

  “Never. I didn’t know the O’Neil girl was back there until I heard it from that cop outside the door.” Her beady eyes flicked from Hapburg to Ha
nk. “I can’t get back there anymore in this chair. And once I knew my nephew was bunking in the place, I gave up trying.”

  “Really. I thought that a farmer knew her land,” Hapburg mimicked. “Around these parts.”

  Vera Hawkins swiveled the chair away from the man and wheeled herself down the hall. “We’re done,” she called without looking back. “Close the door behind you.”

  As the two men headed to the Jeep, Hapburg glanced back. “I don’t think she likes us.”

  “It’s you she doesn’t like.” Hank clapped Hapburg on the shoulder. “Good thing you’re going to Europe.” Although the FBI agent laughed, it wasn’t really a joke. Hank figured he might get more out of Vera Hawkins when things cooled down. He just needed a chance to play good cop.

  Chapter 12

  Sis was scared by the men—the cops and agents and doctors—but the women weren’t so bad. Especially Paula. She said she was a social worker, but she was also an artist, and Lauren figured that meant she understood more about the way Sis’s brain worked than most people.

  Paula was practical, too. She understood that Sis was too riled up to eat, but she got her water bottles and reminded her to stay hydrated. She sent the dad to get her a yummy chocolate milkshake that went down easy. And at the police station and the hospital, she always helped Sis find the ladies’ room and let her go whenever she wanted. That was a relief, after Kevin’s stinginess with bathroom time. With the way things were set up in the compound, she’d rarely had privacy, and on occasion she had been forced to dig her own latrine when the plumbing wasn’t working.

  At the hospital, when the doctor announced that Sis needed a cast on her left leg, Paula made sure that Lauren got to shower first, and she pressured the doctor to give Sis a waterproof cast in orange. Sis got to pick the color, and she thought it was festive, a way to celebrate her “recovery,” which was what all the agents and cops were calling it.