Two Girls Down

by Louisa Luna

  He remembered the billboard for the Sherwood Forest subdivision—jacuzzis, wine cellars, outdoor grill islands. He heard Junior’s voice saying, “Lawyer got the jury to agree that the wine cellar didn’t count as immediate.”

  “Wine cellar,” he said, starting the car. “Or basement, garage.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Vega. “What about the other two?”

  “I don’t know. Where are you?”

  “Rockland, I think.”

  “Follow 54 west—you’ll see the signs to their subdivision. Meet me at the entrance.”

  He started to drive, started to speed.

  “Do you want to call Traynor?” Vega said, strangely tentative. “To get some backup?”

  Cap recognized this was a rare kind of attention from her, that this was her being gracious.

  “No,” said Cap, immediate and certain. “We call Traynor, the Feds, Junior, we risk the media circus.”

  “Cap?” she said, almost whispering. “What if we’re off?”

  Cap held the wheel tight, imagined he was gripping the wiry starfish that were Vega’s hands.

  “Let’s find out,” he said. “If we’re crazy, then we say sorry and leave and get some sleep and talk to Ashley Cahill’s father in the morning. But Vega?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re not,” he said softly into the air.

  He thought he could hear her catch her breath before she hung up.

  Cap tapped Erica McKenna’s number and apologized for the hour when she picked up.

  “It’s fine, Mr. Caplan. We’re still on the road,” she said, sounding only a little resentful since it was he who put her on the road so late to begin with.

  “Right. Look, I have just one more question, and then I’ll let you go, I promise. I know this is reaching back and sounds pretty random. Was there a piano player in Sydney’s ballet class, do you happen to remember?”

  Erica paused. Cap heard the white static of the road.

  “Piano player,” she repeated. “Usually they used an old CD player, except you know, now that I think about it, they did have someone for recitals and the rehearsals leading up to them. Do you remember that, Toby?”

  Cap couldn’t hear Toby’s muffled response.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” she answered her husband. “It was a woman, real thin and pretty. Looked like she could be a dancer herself.”

  “The name,” said Cap, trying not to rush the natural momentum of Erica’s memory. “Do you remember her name?”

  “God, what was it?” said Erica, reflective. “I know this sounds weird, but I keep thinking of some kind of oil. Like grapeseed, linseed, something like that.”

  “Linsom,” said Cap, running his hand hard down the back of his neck. “Was it Linsom?”

  “Yeah, that’s it!” said Erica, pleased. “Miss Linsom. And her first name was an ‘L’ too, right? Like Lily Linsom or something?”

  “Lindsay,” said Cap, his foot coming off the brake. “Lindsay Linsom.”

  Erica said a few more things and asked a few more questions, but Cap couldn’t really hear her. He said thank you and that he would call her back tomorrow with any news. Then tapped the red button.

  He sped up even more, to fifty-five, sixty. He didn’t know what they would do when they got to the Linsoms’. His heart rate climbed, and he thought of the Chutes and Ladders game, one bad move and you slide back down to the start.

  He knew that somewhere close by Alice Vega had cried with his voice right in her ear. And he knew as soon as he saw her face he would know what to do.

  19

  Vega pressed her sleeve against one eye while she kept the other on the road. She was still crying and didn’t know why anymore; she’d stopped beating the shit out of herself trying to find out because it took too much time. So she drove with blurry eyes and damp sleeves on the streets buckled from the old coal mine where she saw an old mattress on the sidewalk, and then to the neighborhood where there were nail salons and a cheese shop, and then to an undeveloped stretch of land where there was a green-and-brown field that didn’t appear to belong to anyone, no houses there, and then she came to the Sherwood Forest subdivision, the monument sign marking the entrance made of staggered bricks, or more likely foam core boards cut to look like staggered bricks, and there was Cap under a tree, leaning against his car.

  He waved two fingers at her, and she U-turned and parked next to him. She wiped her eyes one more time and got out.

  “Hey,” said Cap. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” said Vega. “What do you want to do?”

  Cap looked toward the houses in the cul-de-sac.

  “Walk.”

  He started to walk, and Vega didn’t move. She grabbed the cuff of his jacket sleeve, and he stopped and looked at her, surprised. He didn’t pull away.

  “Stacy Gibbons reminded me of my mother,” she said. “It made me upset.”

  Cap listened, nodded.

  She also nodded, agreeing with herself. She let go of his sleeve and patted the skin under her eyes.

  “You have more than ten rounds in that piece-of-shit antique under your belt?”

  Cap smiled.

  “Twenty.”

  They began to walk, and it began to snow. Not the real stuff that people had to dig out with shovels but little twirling flurries—Snow Lite. It was spinning around them and landed on Vega’s hands and face, but she didn’t feel it, exactly. That is to say, she knew it was supposed to be cold, but she didn’t feel the cold when it hit her skin. Maybe because it dissolved so quickly, and maybe because she was just a little bit outside of her body just then. And she didn’t look at Cap but saw him peripherally, and he was with her. They were, both of them, ready and not ready. She felt like she had already done what they were about to do, one hundred times. Had she? She had to think about it. She had to focus. This was the house. They were right in front of it. All they had to do was go up the narrow path to the door.

  “What should we do?” she asked Cap.

  He didn’t turn to face her. He blinked against the snow. He nodded his head.

  “Ring the doorbell,” he said.

  She looked at his profile, chin out, nearing something like pride or courage, as if he knew exactly what they were about to find. Vega knew he didn’t know a thing, no more than she did, but she realized his being proud or brave, even if it was a trick, was enough for her.

  And that thought hadn’t even rounded itself out in her mind before he started up the path to the Linsom house, the lawn still cut even if not yet green, terra-cotta pots lining the walkway with fresh soil and care tags stuck inside, ready to produce flowers for the season. She followed, running a bit behind him. Sensor lights came on at their feet as they stepped, ending with the one above the leaded glass door.

  Cap pressed the bell. Vega held her breath; glittery flecks crowded her eyes. When no one came, Cap pressed it again. They waited, looked at each other. Then a figure, hazy behind the glass of the door, approached. Cap and Vega stood up straighter.

  Lindsay Linsom opened the door. She wore a black silk bathrobe and loosely fitting black pajama pants underneath.

  “Mr. Caplan, Miss Vega,” she said, unsurprised. “You’d like to come in.”

  It was an odd way to open, thought Vega. Telling them what they’d like, and it being the exact truth.

  “Yes, Mrs. Linsom,” said Cap. “We would.”

  She held her arm out, presenting the living room, and Cap and Vega walked in. Vega glanced around quickly—everything appeared to be the same as it had been the other day—the white couches, carpets, the glass deer centerpiece, the upright piano with the table clock on top, ticking away.

  “You didn’t wake me,” she said, as if they’d asked her. “I don’t sleep anymore, to be truthful. Just rest my eyes now and then.”

  She sat on one of the couches.

  “Would you like to sit?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Cap. “Were you expecting us, ma’a
m?”

  “Expecting someone,” she said. “You or police, or the FBI. Someone. I thought it might be you. I guessed, actually,” she said, holding a finger to her lips, pleased with herself. “I kept telling Press we didn’t have to worry about you, but I had a feeling about it. I get feelings about things, and I’ve learned to trust them.”

  She looked up at them, taking them in, nodding to herself, like they were dresses on a pair of mannequins.

  “And why…were you expecting us?” said Cap.

  Vega’s neck tightened; she bent her arm like a wing so she’d be able to pull the Springfield more quickly.

  “You found Bailey this morning,” said Mrs. Linsom. “I knew it wouldn’t be long. That’s what happens, unfortunately, when too many people are involved. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.”

  Vega made herself breathe now, in and out through the nose. She knew there was something very wrong here, in this house, with this woman. Even someone who had resigned herself to being caught would not be as relaxed, confident. When Mrs. Linsom looked at Cap, Vega peered out of the corner of her eye, trying to see around the room as best she could without turning her head.

  “Mrs. Linsom,” said Cap, keeping it quiet and civil. “You seem to want to tell us something. Why don’t you get that off your chest.”

  “That’s kind of you to offer,” she said, sincere. “There’s a lot to say, though, and none of us has a lot of time.”

  What does that mean? thought Vega. Why don’t we have time?

  “So,” she said, rubbing one palm against the other like she was sanding something. “I knew the girls kept those notebooks in that tree. I’d watched them from the window in the kitchen a dozen times.”

  Vega imagined Kylie and Cole in the backyard, writing in pink and purple pens. She looked over Kylie’s shoulder, saw her circling Evan Marsh’s name, his real name.

  “I’d taken out the page before you came. That’s really how it all started,” said Mrs. Linsom. “Kylie had written Evan’s name down.”

  She seemed lost in a dream, and then she looked at Cap and Vega and must have seen their bewilderment.

  “She wasn’t what we were looking for, you understand?” she said. “She’s…heartier than Cole, bigger. A mature girl, like a teenager.”

  “Ma’am?” said Cap. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to back up for us. We’re not sure what you mean.”

  “I know what she means,” said Vega. “Kylie didn’t look enough like Cole. Ashley Cahill, Sydney McKenna—they both did. Blond, slight, petite. Young for their ages.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. She nodded to Vega, like she was proud of her. “Yes, that’s right. But the opportunity presented itself with Evan Marsh. It felt fated to me—that was the feeling I had. A boy she had met by coincidence happened to have a tragic story and was desperate for money. Although not so rare in this town.”

  “So you tracked him down,” said Vega.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Linsom. “Not difficult. I found him at the supermarket.”

  Vega saw them, by the loading dock where she’d talked to Marsh. They go for a walk. Evan looks at her like she’s crazy.

  “He wasn’t interested at first…then he thought about it. He wasn’t stupid.”

  Vega thought of his face changing, softening as he considered the money, the possibility of finding his brother.

  “He had a need too, you understand. Also, of course, a conscience.”

  She shook her head, disappointed.

  “That was really my mistake. I should have known.”

  “Did you kill him, ma’am?” said Cap.

  “No,” she said, shifting where she sat, smoothing her robe underneath her. “Evan called and said he needed to talk to us. I could tell from his voice, he wanted to go to the police. So Press went to see him.”

  “So your husband killed him?” said Cap.

  Mrs. Linsom appeared taken aback by the question.

  “Yes, Mr. Caplan, he did. He has two guns.”

  Why is she telling us that? thought Vega.

  “None of this was planned,” she said, her eyes on some distant point. “Well, that’s not entirely true. It was planned; I only mean that when we started we didn’t plan on all this damage.”

  “Do you mean death?” said Cap, sounding just a little bit impatient. “Is that what you mean when you say ‘damage’?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Death…damage.”

  “So why don’t you tell us where Kylie is, ma’am, and then we can talk about what you did and didn’t plan on?” said Cap.

  Vega heard anxiety in his voice. Mrs. Linsom focused on him and smiled rather kindly.

  “Of course. First, though, Mr. Caplan, you should really speak to my husband. He’s not as levelheaded as I am. Maybe you can reach him. Man-to-man. Father-to-father.”

  Vega thought there must be a window open or a busted air conditioner unit blasting cold air on her neck. She felt she was about to discover the source of a recurring wound, that thing that you did over and over again without realizing you were hurting yourself in the same spot.

  Mrs. Linsom tilted her head, reminded Vega of a raccoon about to hiss, guarding the garbage cans. There’s no question these belong to me.

  “I had a feeling about both of you after you left the other day,” she said. “You’re both famous. You have a lovely daughter, Mr. Caplan.”

  Vega didn’t move, didn’t want to call attention to the bluff. She knew he was too smart to flinch, but she could see his posture change, head up, shoulders back, hands near the belt, ready to pull the gun.

  “She said such sweet things about you on Facebook,” Mrs. Linsom said, without a single note of sarcasm. “It’s like she’s your friend, but she respects you also. It’s extraordinary. People write parenting books on how to do that using positive discipline—I’ve read them all.”

  Vega felt a trickle of liquid on her brow. She wanted badly to touch it, to see if the cut had started bleeding again. Don’t do it, she told herself. This is not your body.

  “They put everything online, teenagers,” Mrs. Linsom said, shaking her head. “I’m not planning on letting Cole have her own social media accounts unless I create all her passwords so I can monitor what she posts. It’s just not safe.”

  She shook her head again, eyes momentarily fearful.

  “Where’s your husband, Mrs. Linsom?” said Vega.

  Vega put one hand on the grip of the Springfield, no longer attempting to hide it, pushing back the flap of her jacket so Mrs. Linsom could see it.

  Mrs. Linsom saw it but seemed just a little concerned, her light eyebrows barely creased.

  “You know, he’s not always like that, how he was when you met him the other day. Only when he’s under a lot of stress and not able to relieve it.”

  “Where is he right now?” said Vega again, placing her hand on the grip.

  “He went to find you, Mr. Caplan,” said Mrs. Linsom. “To talk man-to-man. Father to father. He’s been at your adorable house on Pixley Road for a couple of hours now.”

  Vega drew the Springfield, pointed it at Mrs. Linsom’s left eye as Cap stumbled back two or three steps, losing his balance.

  “Pick up your phone, call your husband,” said Vega, steady. “You can tell him I will shoot you in the head if he touches her. If he has already touched her, I’ll shoot you anyway. The only way you won’t end up getting shot is if he hasn’t touched her yet. So you’d best hope for that.”

  Vega angled her chin in Cap’s direction.

  “Caplan, move. Go.”

  She didn’t turn but watched the shape of him run from the room, heard the door slam, his steps on the path outside.

  Mrs. Linsom kept her eyes on Vega, not the gun, which was rare. People tended to stare at the barrel when it was pointed at them. Mrs. Linsom seemed mostly indifferent toward it.

  “You can’t shoot me,” she said plainly. “You want to know what’s happened to Kylie, don’t you? You can’t kn
ow that if I’m dead.”

  Vega took three steps closer, keeping the Springfield aimed at her eye socket. Now Mrs. Linsom watched the gun.

  “Not real concerned about it,” said Vega. “Call your husband.”

  Mrs. Linsom blinked slowly and brought her gaze back up to Vega’s.

  “Even if I called, Press wouldn’t pick up right now,” she said.

  Focus, said Perry in her head. If Nell’s dead she’s already dead. She’s not the body you’re supposed to bring home. One thing and then another.

  “So tell me where Kylie is, and we can get this over with,” said Vega, very quiet.

  Mrs. Linsom rolled her shoulders back.

  “It’s not as if I can run away from you, Miss Vega; you don’t have to keep the gun on me.”

  “I’d prefer to,” said Vega.

  She was so close she could see the light glint off the small diamond studs in Mrs. Linsom’s ears.

  “Well, then,” she said, lifting her chin, looking just above the gun, like she was peering over a hedge. “Like I said, none of this was planned. The first time was an accident, really. I’d been married to Press for five years before he told me. I remember the day too—it was when we got home from the twenty-week sonogram, when we found out Cole was a girl.”

  She looked drunk with the joy of the memory, smiling broadly. Then, suddenly, the smile evaporated, and she continued.

  “When we got home, he told me that sometimes he had these feelings, urges he was ashamed of. And he was afraid that eventually he might not be able to control them, now that he knew we were having a girl.”

  Vega started to feel the sweat between her fingers, on her palms. She didn’t move, didn’t want to give the impression the gun could slip.

  “I told him he was the strongest man I’d ever met, and together, he and I could beat this,” said Mrs. Linsom, looking proud and weathered by her suffering. “Then, when Cole was five—we lived in Hershey then—one night Press came to me and broke down. Said he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t think he could fight it anymore. He wept in my lap. Can you imagine?” she said to Vega. “Can you imagine what it took for him to admit that? A man like that?” she said, awe in her voice.