The Missing Comatose Woman

by Sarah Ettritch

  For some reason, Emily’s mouth turned up at the corners, but her eyes remained dull. “No. Do your parents know you’re gay? Your grandmother does.”

  “Yeah, they know,” Casey said, aware that Emily was changing the subject. “They were like, okay, but are you going to university?” When Emily chuckled, Casey decided not to pry any further about her reason for moving out. “I’ll ask you why you moved out when we know each other better.”

  Emily’s gaze lingered on Casey’s face. “You do that.”

  Her breath caught in her throat at the vulnerability and gratitude in Emily’s eyes. She reached for her Coke and gulped some down, her gaze still on Emily.

  *****

  The man who’d taken Jackie from the hospital was a friend, not a foe, Casey concluded as she sat on her bed, stroking Mid. After all, if someone had wanted to harm Jackie, why remove her from the hospital? And if someone wanted to kill her, why do it in a way that drew the police’s attention? Well, there wouldn’t be a body to autopsy; no body, no homicide case. That was why it was a missing person case.

  Jackie had been in a coma, with no signs of coming out of it. Maybe the murderer was afraid of what she’d say if she regained consciousness. Wait, maybe the coma was the result of a murder attempt! Maybe whatever had caused Jackie’s cramps was supposed to have killed her. Maybe Steve Rose was a foe, and when Jackie had survived and ended up in a coma, he’d moved on to Plan B.

  Casey didn’t believe it. There was the power of attorney, and the fact that Steve Rose had gone through the trouble of kidnapping a comatose Jackie. Could the cops be right about the power of attorney being genuine? What if Jackie had given it to Steve? What if she’d suspected that something bad might happen to her, and she hadn’t wanted to involve Ellen? Maybe Steve had worried that someone might kill Jackie as she lay in the hospital bed.

  Who was Steve to Jackie, and where had he taken her? Why didn’t Ellen know him?

  The email address of the man who’d met Street was Casey’s only potential route to Steve. If she was right and he was on Jackie’s side, then sending an email wasn’t a risky proposition. But it would probably bounce, and then what? She’d call Ellen, go back to Jackie’s house, and search every single room from top to bottom. If only she could get into Jackie’s office at work. Mike had said he wanted to help… Casey shook her head. She’d try the email first.

  She gave Mid one final pat, sprang off the bed, and waved to Gran as she left the apartment. Ten minutes later, she sat at a computer at a local Internet café and created a new email address at one of the free email sites, calling herself cc58972. She opened a blank email, typed in the subject Important information about Jackie Rose, and wrote a single line as the body of the email: I know you have Jackie Rose.

  Casey stared at the blinking cursor at the end of the line, then moved the pointer to the Send button. One click…and the email would bounce. Not wanting to lose her nerve, she clicked. Shit, there it went. She waited a few seconds, then refreshed the Inbox. Nothing. Her heart thumped. She refreshed the Inbox again. Still empty. The email hadn’t bounced—yet. Feeling as if she were being watched, she signed off and left the café. She’d return tomorrow to check for a bounce email—or a reply.

  Chapter Ten

  Her anticipation rising, Casey locked her bike and hurried into the Internet café. The same guy was at the cash and smirked at her. Let him think she was here to chat with some stud or hang out on an online dating site; what did she care?

  She could hardly contain herself as she signed into her new email account. One new email! But it was probably a bounce message—no! She stared at the screen in disbelief. “John Smith” had replied earlier that morning. The email said: Who are you? That was it. Who are you?

  Casey leaned back in her chair and pondered what to say, then typed Someone who won’t stop looking for Jackie Rose until she finds her, and she’s closing in. She pressed the Send button, then surfed the Net while she waited. If she were him, she’d be checking her email every five minutes. Too bad they couldn’t chat; it would speed things up. She’d have to settle for hanging around here between replies. If she was right, they’d soon be emailing back and forth in real time, anyway.

  She wasn’t surprised when the reply arrived twenty minutes later. We should talk. What’s your phone number? No way. Did he think she was stupid? She replied: Let’s meet instead. Somewhere public.

  Five minutes later: You’re getting yourself mixed up in something you don’t understand. Take my advice and walk away.

  And do what? Inform Ellen that she’d exhausted all leads and her mother was gone for good? Tell Diane that her first case was a bust? Watch her parents exchange knowing looks when she told them she hadn’t solved her case? Tell Emily she’d do better with the next one, honest? If Emily no longer wanted to see her, Casey wanted it to be because they weren’t a good match, not because Emily thought she was a loser.

  Whoever was emailing her knew where Jackie was, or at least had information that would lead to her or explain her disappearance. Casey couldn’t turn her back on that. Ellen had hired her to find Jackie, and Casey wouldn’t give up until she had. She replied: I’m going to find Jackie. I know you took her. I know you’re a friend. I’m closing in. If she wasn’t emailing Steve Rose, or he wasn’t on Jackie’s side, she’d lose him, but it was a gamble she had to take. Better to find out now that she had lousy deductive skills and instincts, and would suck at this PI thing.

  She didn’t have to wait long for a reply: Can you meet me at Redfield Park at four today? I’ll wait for you at the entrance to the flower gardens. What do you look like?

  No, on both counts! For all she knew, the flower gardens could be deserted at that time of day. I’ll meet you at four, but not at Redfield Park. Meet me at Dixon Mall, near the sandwich bar in the ground level food court. That place was always bustling. What do you look like?

  His reply: I’ll meet you at Dixon Mall, but you go first on the descriptions. Give me something. I don’t know if you’re a friend.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be afraid to meet her. Had he taken Jackie to protect her? Casey didn’t feel comfortable describing herself first, but she needed this meeting. Female. Brown hair. Slim. I’ll be wearing jeans and a hoodie.

  When she received his reply, she swore loudly, drawing looks. See you at four. Shit! Now he had the advantage—if she went. Casey stared at the screen and went through the motion of pondering what to do, because she knew in the pit of her stomach that she’d be at Dixon Mall at four. Nothing would happen to her in the middle of a crowded food court, but she felt compelled to let someone know, and she didn’t want to worry Gran. She left the café and pulled out her phone.

  “Hi,” Emily said brightly.

  Casey smiled. “This isn’t a bad time, is it?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Do you want to get together tomorrow night?” she blurted, surprising herself.

  “Sure. Did you have something particular in mind?”

  Since she’d given the matter zero thought… “No, I just thought it would be nice to see you.”

  “Well, I’d like to see you, too. Why don’t I pick you up around seven and we’ll decide where to go from there?”

  “Sounds good.” Casey hesitated. “I emailed the guy whose emails you checked out. He replied. I’m meeting him later.”

  The levity left Emily’s voice. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m meeting him in a busy public place.”

  “Still.”

  “He’s my only lead to my missing person, and I’m positive he’s on her side.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  Silence, then, “What time are you meeting him?”

  “Four.”

  “Take someone with you. I’d go, but I’m teaching a class.”

  “Taking someone will only scare him away.”

  Another long pause, then, “N
othing I say is going to dissuade you, is it?”

  “No.”

  “I want you to call me after you’ve met with him. If I don’t hear from you by six, I’ll call the police.”

  What? “Emily, that’s not necessary. He’s not going to do me in. Seriously.”

  “Maybe I just want to hear from you again today.”

  God, even though she suspected Emily was bullshitting—or maybe half-bullshitting—how could she protest against that? “I’ll text you.”

  “No, call me. That’s the only way I’ll know for sure that you’re all right.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll call you.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “If you get my voicemail, leave a message. I turn off my phone when I’m teaching.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where are you meeting him? I’m only asking so we’ll know where to start if you disappear.”

  “I won’t! I’m meeting him at Dixon Mall. The place will be packed at that time.”

  “That’s true, I suppose,” Emily said, still sounding worried. “Be careful, okay? I’m already looking forward to tomorrow night.”

  “Me too,” Casey said, hearing the strain in Emily’s voice and appreciating her effort to hide her concern. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, infusing her voice with confidence.

  “Talk to you later,” Emily echoed. They said good-bye and hung up.

  Casey slipped her phone into her pocket and unlocked her bike. For someone who wanted to take things slow, Emily sometimes came across as a serious girlfriend. Since Casey was also unsure about what she wanted, Emily’s uncertainty didn’t annoy her. Hell, zooming full speed ahead with relationships had gotten her nowhere. Of course her crushes had never lived up to her expectations; they’d dumped her, rather than she dumping them, because she’d been too busy convincing herself that their obvious incompatibilities didn’t exist. Who wanted to admit after five minutes of dating someone that she’d wasted months of her life being infatuated with them? Gran was right, she’d made lousy choices. Instead of choosing girlfriends based on physical attraction and the fantasy life she’d built for them, she should be more analytical.

  She felt in her bones that a relationship with Emily had potential. Emily was easy on the eyes. Casey enjoyed seeing her. Best of all, she felt comfortable with her. So yeah, she was willing to take it slow and see what, if anything, developed. Maybe behaving all grown-up with Emily would turn out to be the wisest thing she’d ever done, or maybe she’d end up crying into her coffee—and looking for a new coffee shop to buy her coffee from.

  But first she had to survive her meeting with the mystery man. With a sigh, she mounted her bike and rode home to bite her fingernails.

  *****

  Casey strode into the food court and surreptitiously looked over at the sandwich bar. Several people were in line, and two guys stood near the counter, likely discussing what to order. Not far from the men, a woman in a jean jacket with her hands in her pockets rocked on her heels. She was probably waiting for someone. A light bulb went on. A woman? Casey had expected Steve Rose. She glanced at her watch: 3:58. The woman might not be her contact.

  There was one way to find out. Casey strolled over to the sandwich bar and scanned the menu hanging behind the counter. She made a show of checking her watch, looked the menu over again, glanced around, and peered at her watch a second time. When she looked up, the woman in the jean jacket had moved closer to her. Their eyes met.

  The woman stepped toward her. “CC58972?” she whispered.

  What? Oh, right. “Yes.” She studied the woman, who couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds and stood maybe five feet tall. Casey’s tension drained away. She could take her.

  “Let’s move away from the counter. Too crowded,” the woman said, motioning for Casey to follow her.

  “What’s your name?” Casey asked, falling into step with her.

  “No names,” the woman said tersely.

  “Where’s Jackie Rose?”

  “Not here.” They left the food court and joined the throng of shoppers marching from one store to the next. The click of heels on tile echoed in Casey’s ears. “I don’t want…anyone…we’re saying,” the woman said.

  “What?”

  She grasped Casey’s arm and leaned into her. “I said, I don’t want to risk anyone overhearing our conversation,” she shouted, turning heads, which demonstrated her point. “There’s a McDonalds just around the corner. Let’s go there.”

  Casey pulled her arm away. “Okay.” The McDonalds would be crowded too, but they wouldn’t have to yell at each other.

  They exited through the revolving doors, and the woman pivoted right, then turned a corner, Casey trailing after her. An alley. A van—her brain instantly sounded the alarm, but too late. “Hey!” she yelled as two men leapt from the back of the van and grabbed her arms; she struggled futilely as they dragged her into the van, kicking at them and trying to yank her arms free, but the men were strong, and held her tightly.

  “Sit down,” one barked as they both applied downward pressure. She landed on her rear end with a thud. No cushy seats in the back of this van, just a hard metal floor. No windows, either.

  The woman climbed into the van and slammed the door shut. Casey squinted as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. “Don’t bother,” the woman said when she noticed Casey’s narrowed eyes. She lifted the hood draped over the back of the passenger seat and approached Casey. “Do what we say and you won’t be hurt.”

  Casey wanted to kick her, but she sat still and tried not to hyperventilate as the woman slipped the hood over her head, plunging her into darkness. “On your knees. Hands behind your back,” one of the men growled. She complied, and felt the handcuffs snap into place.

  You know, maybe this PI thing wasn’t for her. She could be showing someone to the aisle with the latest must-have gadget right now. Not the most exciting way to spend one’s time, but she could do without the excitement of kneeling in the back of a van, blind and handcuffed, with a bunch of strangers who’d probably kill her. Shit!

  The van moved. Someone slipped Casey’s wallet from her pocket. “Casey Cook,” the woman murmured a moment later. Then, “And you’re a private investigator. Interesting.”

  Casey seethed when someone manhandled her again and removed her phone and notebook from their hiding places. “Who are you?” she asked, not wanting to come across as a complete pushover.

  Nobody answered.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Maybe we should have gagged her,” one of the men said.

  “At least she’s not screaming or weeping,” the woman said. “I hate it when they weep.”

  Cripes, how many people had she kidnapped?

  “The screamers I just whack across the mouth,” the woman continued. “That usually shuts them up. Doesn’t work with the weepers. The wailing gets worse. Sometimes a whack turns a screamer into a weeper, but it’s a risk I have to take.”

  “Did you have any trouble?” the other man said.

  “No. She sized me up and concluded I wasn’t a threat. Works every time.”

  Casey kicked herself. How could she have been so stupid? Note to self: if I get out of this alive, don’t fall for the oldest trick in the book again.

  “At least she’s finally shut up.”

  “Yeah,” the woman agreed. “If I couldn’t see her heart leaping from her chest, I’d check to make sure the hood isn’t suffocating her.”

  Okay, so she was terrified, but this was the first time she’d been kidnapped. They could cut her some slack. Time to tune them out and worry about her predicament. Where were they taking her? Would she have a chance to plead for her life, or were they driving her out of the city to make her dig her own grave?

  She’d been so sure that Steve Rose was a friend, unless…maybe the person who’d contacted Street wasn’t Steve Rose or associated with him. No, that didn’t make sense. Why would someon
e else make sure Ellen wouldn’t be around when Steve took Jackie from the hospital? They had to be in cahoots with each other, and maybe Casey had gotten it all wrong and Steve had removed Jackie from the hospital to kill her. Maybe her instincts sucked and she should give up on her fantasy of being a crack PI before she got hurt—assuming she survived this experience. Given the choice of dying, or having to face everyone and say, “Yes, you were all right, the PI thing was a dumb idea,” she’d suck it up and take the second option.

  She yelped when the van hit a pothole and launched her a couple of inches into the air, and winced when she landed on her bum with a thud. Those around her chuckled.

  “Don’t worry, not long now,” the woman said.

  Casey’s spirits lifted. They weren’t driving out to a wooded area. But then again, plenty of people were murdered in cities.

  Around five minutes later, the van hung a right and stopped. The back door opened, then shut. Someone coughed. The van lurched forward, then rolled to a halt. The engine died. The back door opened again. “Stand up,” the woman said as someone grasped one of Casey’s arms and hauled her to her feet. Another hand went to her head to keep her from hitting the roof of the van. “Walk forward a couple of steps.” Casey did so. “Step off the van.” Casey slid her right foot forward until it hit thin air, then stepped down, onto concrete.

  It was quiet. She could tell they weren’t outside. Garage? When the one holding her arm guided her through a door and onto carpet, her guess was confirmed. “We’re going downstairs,” the woman murmured. “Take it slow.”

  The basement didn’t sound good, but they weren’t pushing her down the stairs and the woman sounded as if she didn’t want Casey to hurt herself. A good sign, or grasping at straws? Casey carefully descended the stairs. As soon as her feet left the last step, she was yanked to her left and pushed down into a chair. Her cuffed hands prevented her from sitting up straight.

  Silence, then footsteps approached. “I was expecting someone more…formidable,” a man said.

  Someone snorted. “This is Casey Cook, private investigator,” the woman said.