The Longest Silence

by Debra Webb

  I’m so sorry, Daddy. I really screwed up.

  I have to find a way out of here. I can do this. I’m smart. Just focus, Jo. The walls feel smooth and cold like the floor. I walk around and around the black space. It’s completely black. Not even a hint of light. Strange.

  There is no one or nothing else in the room or whatever it is. Only me. Me. Not the same me who stupidly flirted with an older guy I didn’t even know but a bruised and damaged me.

  Joanna Guthrie, you are in deep trouble.

  My family will be so disappointed.

  I made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  That’s when I start to scream for help.

  16

  2:00 p.m.

  Cops were everywhere.

  LeDoux had told Jo to stay in the car. She had for a while, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. Digging her sunglasses from her bag to shield as much of her face as possible, she walked the length of the car to stretch her legs. Impatience and frustration had her nerves jumping. She needed to walk off the tension.

  Stay close to the car, Jo. Too many reporters way too close for her comfort. If they thought there was a story—and clearly they did—they’d be going long for any shot they could get. She knew the drill. Though she had never worked a live crime scene, her research assistant had told her plenty of war stories.

  Uniformed cops moved from door to door canvassing the neighbors. Apartment 216 was blocked off as best as possible considering the residents of the one occupied apartment beyond it needed to be able to come and go via the same stairs and corridor. A uniformed officer was posted on either side of the door to the victim’s apartment. A strategically placed patrol car and two more officers prevented anyone other than residents from entering the parking lot.

  While Jo studied the fray the coroner’s van turned in from the street running parallel to the building. She leaned against the car and watched the coroner and his assistant hop out of the van. They pulled the gurney from the van, placed a medical case and body bag atop it and headed for the stairs. Neither was wearing a white lab coat or scrubs or even uniforms for that matter. The two men, one midfifties and black, the other early twenties and white, were dressed in everyday clothes. Wash-and-wear trousers, dark in color, and polos. She couldn’t say for sure but a small logo might have been embroidered on the left front panel of their shirts where a pocket would have been.

  A forensic unit as well as two suits, no doubt feds or maybe GBI, had joined the party. The chief, Ed Buckley, from Georgia College security, had arrived. Jo had seen his picture on the website. She figured the two other guys with him were from Milledgeville PD. So far none had questioned her or really even noticed her for that matter.

  Suited Jo. She had what she wanted.

  Miles Conway was dead.

  She had wished him dead a million times. She’d learned his identity and kept tabs on him via the internet all these years the same way she had Madelyn Houser until she seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. Now Jo knew why. She had become Hailey Martin.

  The one issue with Conway’s death was the unfortunate detail that Jo didn’t get the name she needed.

  There was still Madelyn. She wasn’t innocent in this. She knew things. Jo had seen it in her eyes when she realized Jo recognized her from back in the day.

  Oh yes, she was as guilty as sin.

  Jo should have come back here and done this ten years ago or even five like she wanted. For the first few years after their escape, release—whatever it had been—she hadn’t wanted to think about it much less talk about it. Neither she nor Ellen then had been mentally capable of breaking their silence. Jo had hidden from life, burrowed deep into nowhere. Eventually though, the guilt had started to gnaw at her. How could she let the people who did this over and over get away with it?

  So she’d started with what she had: a cute guy who was a couple or three years older than her. His name had been Miles, but she hadn’t known his last name. The redhead named Madelyn she’d run into once at a club—with Miles—but mostly she’d seen her at Professor Blume’s office. After repeatedly coming up with nothing, Jo had pushed aside the whole idea of finding the truth. Maybe she and Ellen were the only ones—maybe the whole thing had been one really bad drug trip. Maybe it never even happened.

  Then, five years ago, after a decade of making excellent connections in the cyber world, she was able to do the kind of research that had in the past been available only to law enforcement. Jo started to dig again. Their abductions had been cleanly executed. Their treatment during captivity had been organized, structured. Maybe for some sort of bizarre experiment or simply a new type of reality show to sell to exclusive clients on the internet. Who knew? But Jo damned well intended to find out.

  But she’d waited too long. She had tracked down four other sets of abductions very similar to hers and Ellen’s. Time and persistence had been required, but the other victims—at least the ones who were still alive—had eventually confided in Jo.

  All those victims—she closed her eyes and dropped her head. Maybe if she and Ellen had told the truth eighteen years ago the others would still be alive—maybe no one else would have had to go through that hell. But Jo had been weak. Ellen had begged her to let sleeping dogs lie. She had gotten married and had a child with another on the way. She insisted resurrecting what happened would tear her life apart all over again. Jo shouldn’t have listened. She should have followed her instincts. She’d let Ellen dissuade her.

  Yeah, that’s right. Blame your dead friend.

  Friend. Had she and Ellen ever really been friends?

  No. Not in the true definition of the word. They had been forced to share the same space and endure the same hell for two weeks. Before that, they hadn’t known each other at all. But that status had changed quickly. They had watched each other suffer, come apart at the seams, and then rise up from the ashes and fight back.

  All except for the other girl—the one who didn’t survive.

  Jo pushed away the memories.

  The bottom line was she should have done this a long time ago. That was on her and no one else. Conway, Houser—or whoever she was—should have been stopped eighteen years ago.

  The abductions appeared to have stopped four years after Jo and Ellen were taken. She supposed it was possible the bastards had only changed their MO. If that was the case, why take Tiffany Durand and Vickie Parton using the old MO? So far, every step was exactly the same, including Conway and Houser’s involvement. Didn’t make sense.

  Whether it made sense or not, she had to find them before it was too late.

  Two young women just disappear one day. All their worldly possessions are left behind. No one has a clue where they went and no one really saw a thing. No ransom demands. No notes left behind. No real prior problems or clues that would have indicated trouble. Just gone. Vanished.

  The police were just as stumped today as they had been eighteen years ago. But Jo had some idea where they might be. She’d already been scouting the area. She should tell LeDoux. Could she really trust him with the whole truth?

  The coroner and his assistant descended the stairs drawing Jo back to the here and now. The body of Miles Conway had been tucked into a body bag and laid out on a gurney between the two men. No one deserved to be murdered more than the bastard now shoved into a bag like yesterday’s trash.

  The rear doors of the coroner’s van were opened and the gurney was pushed inside. When the doors closed and the men in the embroidered polo shirts had loaded up, they rolled back out onto the street, squeezing past the blockade of spectators. The piece of shit in the body bag would endure one final atrocity before being planted or burned.

  Every inch of Miles Conway’s naked body would be photographed. Next came the X-rays to see if all was as it should be inside. Fluid samples would be drawn from his eyes and his body. His penis would be
thoroughly examined as would every orifice of his body. Then the real fun would begin. The typical Y-incision would be cut into his torso. Shears would peel the skin and muscle back to uncover the rib cage. A bone saw would aid in removing the ribs and sternum so that the organs could be examined, weighed and tissue samples taken. The top of the skull would be sawed off next, allowing the brain to be removed and examined. Once the testing was complete, all the organs would be bagged up and stuffed back inside. By the time he landed in a coffin he would look more like the lead character in a Frankenstein movie than the ladies’ man he’d passed himself off as in life.

  “See you in hell, you bastard.”

  LeDoux and two of the suits descended the steps. All three looked pissed. At the bottom of the stairs LeDoux broke away from the other two and moved toward his car. Jo climbed into the passenger seat and waited. He dropped behind the wheel, started the car and drove away.

  Jo kept her head down until they’d passed the flock of reporters. Then she asked, “What happened?”

  “Murder weapon wasn’t found. Coroner said it was likely a broad blade knife, like a butcher knife. Estimated time of death between two and six this morning.”

  Uneasiness stiffened her spine. “Are you in trouble for going into the apartment?”

  “Not yet. But it’s coming. I’ve already been warned to stay clear.”

  She moistened her lips. “Did they ask about me?”

  He glanced at her. “I told them my girlfriend waited in the car.”

  She dredged up a smile. “Girlfriend, eh?”

  “No one questioned it so I guess it worked.”

  “Maybe.” The air in the car suddenly seemed to vanish. She was too close to this, to him. She wasn’t supposed to get this close. Too late now.

  “Miles Conway is the man who drugged you and passed you off to whoever held you, is that what happened?”

  “What makes you think he passed us off to anyone?” She believed that to be the case, but she had no proof.

  “Because he was still here doing the same thing.” LeDoux slowed for a turn. “Like a drug dealer who hasn’t gotten caught.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. You’re the profiler.” Jo couldn’t be sure. She would bet money he was the one who raped her and Ellen, but did he hang around after that? Just another question without an answer.

  “You’re certain about Martin?”

  “As certain as I can be.” She stared out the window at the passing houses and trees. “I saw her with Conway. They seemed like a couple or intimates of some sort.”

  And she’d been stupid enough to think he wanted her. He’d flirted, teased and charmed her until she’d come to what he called his favorite place. Only she’d been nervous so she’d gone early. He’d been there already, too. With Madelyn.

  Jo had been devastated, ashamed. She’d wanted to go home but he’d begged her to stay. She’d surrendered to his vast charm.

  The biggest mistake of her life.

  17

  Doe Run Road

  6:00 p.m.

  “She’s not home.”

  Tony ignored Joanna’s statement. He would keep looking for Martin or Houser or whatever the hell her name was until he was ready to call it a night. He pounded on the door again. The dog, Brutus, sat directly on the other side staring at them. Wouldn’t he bark if his master wasn’t home? Then again he hadn’t barked the last two times Tony dropped by. What kind of guard dog didn’t bark?

  What if Martin was already dead the same way Conway had been?

  “I’m going in.”

  Joanna stepped back, arms folded over her chest. “Breaking and entering will get you arrested and it would be a waste of time. She. Is. Not. Home.”

  Irritation burrowed deep into the back of his neck. He rubbed at the tension. “You don’t know that.”

  “She has a security system. I saw it blink when we were here last time. Her car isn’t here.”

  “Her car could be in the garage.” Tony turned on the woman staring at him then. “Why are you so fucking calm?” He shrugged. “I mean how often do you see a dead man with blood all over the place? Aren’t you the slightest bit upset?”

  Maybe that was why he was so worked up. Her reaction to the scene had been bugging the shit out of him since they found Conway’s body. She’d seemed surprised when they discovered the bastard sprawled naked in a pool of his own blood. Surprised but not shaken and she’d recovered in record time. Tony might have fucked up his personal life and his career, but he did read people accurately more often than not.

  Doubt poked at him. He ignored it. Joanna Guthrie was hiding something besides her tragic story from eighteen years ago and that scrapbook she’d been keeping for years.

  “What time did you leave my room this morning?”

  Her jaw dropped. “Seriously? We’re going to have that conversation right now? Here, on another person of interest’s porch?”

  “You’re so certain she’s not home, what difference does it make?”

  He had her there. She glared right back at him, her stance defiant, but he saw the way her throat worked as she struggled for a comeback.

  He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  With a final glance at the statue-still dog, he headed back to the car. He waited until she was seated on the passenger side and he slid behind the wheel. Dusk had eaten up the last of the daylight as he rolled away from Martin’s home.

  Goddamn it! He needed a break here.

  Right now, the woman in the passenger seat was the only one he had. “What time did you go for breakfast?”

  She exhaled a big breath. “It was before seven. I didn’t exactly check the time before I walked out the door.”

  “So you left before seven and you went where? Exactly?”

  “I drove to the McDonald’s over on South Wayne Street. It shouldn’t have taken long, but traffic was backed up at the Hancock intersection. There was something wrong with the traffic light.” She shoved the sun visor up. “I had to wait forever. Once I could make that turn, it took me maybe five minutes to get to Mickey D’s. I probably waited another ten or fifteen minutes in the drive-through line. Then I drove straight back to the inn. I didn’t go via Macon and kill anyone if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Tony wished he hadn’t drunk so much last night. Maybe he would have roused when she left the room, and then he wouldn’t have to wonder. It was in his nature to be suspicious.

  Do you really believe she did what you saw in Conway’s apartment?

  If she had driven all the way to Macon, had sex with and murdered Conway, and then drove back those thirty miles that would have taken at least two hours. The scenario was unreasonable.

  She’d left Tony a note, which confirmed she hadn’t expected to come back. Maybe the note was just in case she didn’t make it back before he woke up.

  “Are you still weighing the idea?” she demanded. She shook her head and stared out the window. “Remember, I’m the one who shared who I really am with you. You. No one else. Why would I do that if I planned to commit murder? Why would I even connect with you? I would have stayed anonymous. You wouldn’t have even known I was here.”

  He stopped for a traffic light. Stared directly at her. “To tell the truth, I don’t care if you killed him. My single goal is finding my niece and Vickie Parton alive. The rest—your tragic story included—doesn’t matter to me at all.”

  “Wow.” She looked away. “Thanks. Of all the cops and feds involved in this case I’m really glad I picked you out of the herd.”

  The idea that he felt guilty for saying what he’d just said made him even angrier. His phone vibrated and he fished it from his pocket. A local number. He was grateful it wasn’t Angie. She’d called him twice already. He wanted a better handle on how Conway’s murder connected to Tiffany’s disappearance—if it did at
all—before he spoke to her.

  “LeDoux.”

  “We need to talk, Mr. LeDoux.”

  Phelps. “I’m headed your way now, Chief.”

  Joanna didn’t say another word during the thirty minutes that followed the call from the chief. She was pissed and maybe he didn’t blame her. He’d basically accused her of murder and told her he didn’t give a shit about her painful past. But he’d needed to know if she was telling the truth. Pushing her into a corner—hitting her where he suspected it hurt most—was the only way to get an organic reaction.

  Was she lying to him? Frankly, the jury was still out on that.

  Once they arrived at the Milledgeville Public Safety office he added insult to injury when he ordered her to wait in the lobby outside the chief’s office and not to move. He’d even gone so far as to inform the officer who’d let him into the building not to allow her to leave. Now she was really pissed. Fire sparked in her eyes but to her credit she didn’t say a word.

  Tony kept his cool and let the chief kick off the conversation. After all, he was the one who demanded the meeting. Before getting around to whatever it was he really had to say, Phelps brought him up to speed on the investigation so far; that much Tony appreciated.

  The Macon Police Department was all too willing to turn Conway’s murder over to Milledgeville. Phelps as well as Chief Buckley from campus security had sent lieutenants representing their departments to the crime scene. The two had introduced themselves to Tony. If he’d been smart he would have left after that, but old habits died hard. He was accustomed to taking his time and absorbing the scene as well as all the activities involved. He wanted to hear what the neighbors had to say about the vic, et cetera. Hanging around had ensured he was still there when the Bureau and the GBI had shown. The two agents who’d paid him a visit that morning had put him through the paces, and then issued another warning.