After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  “Was the show set in the 1950s?” Trent asked.

  “Sixties or seventies. It was a little retro at the time and didn’t catch on.”

  Cassie’s face drained of color.

  “What?” Jenna asked.

  “This was found when I was at the hospital. I thought it was a bad dream, a nightmare, and that the nurse who visited me was a figment of my imagination.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Cassie explained about being visited by a nurse dressed in an old-fashioned uniform, that she had woken to find the woman in her retro costume in the room.

  “What?” An icy talon of fear slid down Jenna’s spine.

  “She must’ve dropped the earring.” Cassie swallowed tensely. “Somehow she knew that Allie was okay.”

  “When did this happen?” Jenna demanded.

  “The night before I left the hospital.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I thought it was all in my imagination. Except for that.” She indicated the bit of jewelry.

  Jenna was stunned. This was so bizarre! But maybe . . . could the nurse actually know where Allie was? Or was this some kind of cruel prank or, worse yet, something her daughter’s fragile mind had concocted?

  But there was the evidence of the earring . . .

  She handed it back to Cassie and tried to stay calm. What did it mean? What the hell did it mean? “I haven’t heard anything about your sister,” she admitted, moving the rocker slowly back and forth. “Shane’s talked to the Portland police but if they have any new information they haven’t shared it. I assume they don’t.” She rubbed her hands together, caught herself, and grabbed both arms of her chair. “Have you shown them this?” She motioned with a finger toward the bagged earring.

  “Not yet,” Trent interjected.

  “Detective Nash thinks I’m crazy or worse.” Something unreadable passed behind Cassie’s eyes.

  “What?” Jenna stopped rocking. Her trouble radar, now on alert, ratcheted up a couple of notches. “You know something?”

  “No.”

  “Cassie?” She could always tell when her children were lying to her and right now Cassie was hiding something. “What is it?”

  “Is Shane around?” Cassie asked. She’d turned deathly sober as she and Trent exchanged glances.

  “He’s on his way home. I texted him when you called and said you were coming by. But what is it?” Then her heart stilled. “Is it Allie?” she whispered, fear knotting her insides. “Oh, my God.”

  “No, no, no . . . I don’t know about Allie. I don’t. But . . .” She looked at Trent just as the sound of a truck reached their ears. The dog lifted his head, leaped from the couch, and began whining at the door.

  “We’ve got something we’d like to show him and you,” Trent explained. “I’ll go get it.” Following the spaniel, he was outside in an instant.

  “What?” Jenna asked, her pulse pounding. “What’s going on, Cassie? What’s he got to show me?”

  Cassie’s expression turned even more serious and her lips barely moved as she spoke. “A mask, Mom. A mask of Allie that was left in my bag. I think someone broke into my apartment and left it there, you know, to freak me out.” Cassie’s eyes held Jenna’s. “Mission accomplished.”

  “For the love of God, what’re you talking about?”

  Cassie climbed to her feet and stared out the window. Rotating her chair, Jenna watched the two men approaching the house, Shane and Trent, both head-bent against the rain, the dog running circles around them. Trent was carrying what appeared to be a legal-size zipper pouch. Their boots echoed on the porch before the door swung open and the dog streaked inside.

  For once, Jenna didn’t care about the dirty paw prints visible on the hardwood. “Show me,” she said, on her feet and walking toward the entry hall. Her gaze was fixed on the pouch Trent carried.

  “In here,” he said, heading into the dining room. Jenna’s heart was thudding, her pulse pounding in her brain. She barely heard Cassie’s footsteps behind her as they collected around the dining room table and Trent unzipped the black pouch to retrieve a clear plastic bag. Inside was a thick piece of paper, an obscene twisted picture of Allie from one of her movie roles. Her mangled face was life-size, the paper trimmed around her hairline, and her eyes had been cut out for viewing holes.

  “Oh, God.” Jenna’s hand flew to her mouth and she backed up a step, but she still stared at the horrid mask. She barely felt Shane’s arm around her shoulders as she sank against him. “What the hell is this?” she whispered, quivering inside. “Dear God, what?” She felt as if her soul was being shredded.

  “Some sick bastard left this for you?” Shane demanded of Cassie.

  Jenna felt rather than saw Cassie nod. She couldn’t drag her gaze from the table and its wretched display.

  Her stomach churned.

  Sweat tickled the back of her neck.

  Bile crawled up her throat and she knew in that instant that she was going to throw up.

  Beginning to retch she frantically stumbled away from her husband, from the dining room, from the marred visage of her youngest daughter. She ran half-blind to the powder room where she heaved over the toilet, hot tears filling her eyes, her stomach emptying again and again. For the love of all that was holy, where was Allie? Where was her baby? Why had the horrid mask been left at Cassie’s apartment?

  A new fear slithered through her: Would Cassie disappear as well? Was this a warning?

  For a few seconds she stood, bent over the toilet bowl. Until she was certain nothing else was coming up. Then, unsteadily, she flushed the toilet and stepped to the sink where she bent down again and rinsed her mouth with water from the tap. Her body’s shaking had stopped, she was no longer trembling, but the fear still gnawed at her as she splashed water over her face. A floorboard near the doorway creaked and she caught sight of Shane’s face in the reflection. A tall man, with an intimidating stature, he met her gaze. “We’ll get him,” he told her. “We’ll get the bastard.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle and she clung to the edge of the pedestal sink for support. “Promise?”

  Big arms surrounded her again, the scent of wet leather from his jacket over the smell of his aftershave and a deeper, earthier male scent. Familiar. Calming. Safe. The smells she associated with him that caused her heart to tick a little faster. Today they weren’t calming. Nothing was. Rain peppered the small window in the room, and she saw Shane holding her in the mirror’s reflection. Her face was thin and drawn, devoid of makeup. His eyebrows were pulled into a line of concern, his lips a thin, hard blade as he tried to soothe her.

  It was all she could do to not break down completely.

  “I want twenty-four-hour protection for Cassie,” she whispered. “And she should live here with us. We’ll get a bigger dog and have an alarm system installed and . . .” She let her voice trail off. Hadn’t she tried all those techniques ten years before? And still the monster had easily breached the walls of her fortress.

  “I’ll take care of things.”

  How? Jenna wondered, and knew his statement was little more than a platitude, just as Cassie promising to find Allie was only to ease her mother’s mind. Well, nothing could. At least no words were the bromide for her deep-seated worries. She blinked back the damned tears that had been threatening all morning, then set her jaw. She could not, would not collapse. Not now.

  She swallowed hard. Stiffened her spine.

  First things first: They had to find Allie. And she had to remain sane. Not fall apart.

  In the past few weeks, Jenna had been so desperate to locate her daughter, so unhinged at the thought of Allie being stalked by a crazed fan, being abducted or worse, that her mind had been playing tricks on her. Twice she’d thought she’d caught a glimpse of Allie, always at a distance, but when she’d tried to call out to the woman, reach her, she’d disappeared. It had happened once in the supermarket and another time when she’d seen �
�Allie” getting into a car. Each time the look-alike had appeared to stare straight at her, only to ignore her and leave.

  Had those sightings been tricks of her imagination?

  Wishful thinking?

  Or something deeper, a mental weakness that seemed to run in her family? Cassie’s mental state had been fragile for the past ten years, ever since the unthinkable had happened. Her grip on reality had faltered, and she claimed to have seen things that hadn’t existed. Sometimes Cassie swore she couldn’t remember hours of her life. So what about herself? Or Allie? Couldn’t they, too, be affected by the trauma they’d suffered? Couldn’t their mental states be weakened, allowing paranoia or worse to creep in and take hold?

  Don’t go there, she warned herself. Nothing good will come of it.

  She couldn’t have Shane thinking she was unraveling.

  “It’ll be okay,” Shane said now, kissing the top of her head.

  She muffled a little choking sound.

  Okay? Things would be okay?

  She hoped to hell he was right, but deep down she didn’t believe him for a second.

  CHAPTER 22

  The digital clock on her dash indicated it was after three when Cassie and Trent finally drove across the Marquam Bridge and wound their way to Mercy Hospital. Cassie had spent most of the day at Jenna’s house bringing her mother and stepfather up to speed on what had happened to her and where she was in her own amateur attempts at finding Allie.

  Jenna had been freaked, of course, and Cassie didn’t blame her. Over coffee and eventually lunch, Jenna, Cassie, Trent, and Shane had mapped out a loose game plan. While Trent and Cassie were visiting Mercy Hospital, Shane would call Detective Nash and later they would converge at the police station with the mask.

  Cassie wasn’t looking forward to the meeting with Detective Nash. Now, her car lugged down and she had to step on the accelerator to climb the steep hill to Mercy Hospital. Fir and maple trees lining the road shivered with the rain, the windshield wipers scraping water off the glass and the car’s heater working overtime to clear condensation from the windshield.

  “I hope you’re right about this,” Cassie said to Trent, who had called his ranch hand, Shorty Something-Or-Other, to take care of the place while Cassie and Trent drove into Portland. The street was rain-washed, asphalt shining, headlights reflecting off the pavement in the gloom of the deep cloud cover.

  As they rounded a final curve, the entrance to Mercy Hospital came into view. Cassie’s hands clenched over the wheel and though she fought it, she felt her pulse elevate a notch. She hadn’t left the hospital under the best of conditions and she expected nothing more than a frosty reception.

  Which she got at the front desk when she asked to see Steven Rinko.

  “Miss Kramer,” the woman seated importantly behind the counter said. “You of all people should know hospital policy. When you were a patient here, and you specifically asked for your privacy, we ensured it.” Her beady eyes, intense behind rimless glasses, drilled straight into Trent, who was standing next to Cassie, but Trent’s gaze had drifted to the reception area.

  Cassie said, “If you asked him, I’m certain Steven would want to talk to me.”

  “His family has asked for his privacy.” Staunch. Unmoving. A gleam of satisfaction in her eyes that she had this authority, the keys to the kingdom, as it were.

  “We can wait while someone contacts him,” Cassie said.

  The woman flashed a grim, unyielding smile. “I’ll contact his doctor and then we’ll see. Unfortunately Dr. Sherling is out of the hospital now, in clinic, I think, so you might be waiting a while and even then . . .” She lifted her slim, stiff shoulders. “. . . you might not be in luck.” Again the cold grin with no hint of teeth showing. “Why don’t you leave a message for Dr. Sherling and go out and go shopping or grab a bite? Portland’s known for its great restaurants, you know, farm fresh, organic and all that. Then call back. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Cassie’s temper started to boil. “Just tell Steven we’re here.”

  “I’m sorry.” She folded her hands, fingers neatly manicured. “Are we going to have a problem, Ms. Kramer?”

  Cassie’s temper went through the stratosphere. “No problem, Connie,” she gritted out, knowing the woman always went by Constance.

  The receptionist’s lips pulled into a knot of disapproval. “I can call security, if you’d like.”

  “What I’d like is to talk to Steven Rinko. Now tell him we’re here to see him and—” She felt Trent’s hand on her shoulder and stopped midsentence.

  “And?” Constance prompted, raising her plucked brows above the tops of her rimless glasses.

  “We’ll be back,” Trent replied calmly.

  Cassie was having none of it. “I want to see Steven.” She tried to shrug off Trent’s hand, but his grip tightened. He was folding? Just like that? After he’d come up with this wild theory and they’d driven over an hour to get here? He was ready to just walk out the door?

  “Let’s go.” He started pulling on her arm a little too hard.

  “Ouch!” She actually winced.

  “What?”

  She started to answer, then said, “Nothing.” She didn’t want to go into it about the cat scratches.

  “Come on.” He said the words through a taut smile, and his gaze, when she found it, drilled into hers as if he was sending her some unspoken message. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “I need to talk to—”

  “Rinko. I know. We will.” With an iron grip he ushered her to the front door and down the steps.

  “We came all this way—”

  “I know.” He marched her all the way to the car and she wanted to slap him, but obviously something was going on. “Get behind the wheel.”

  “For the love of God, Trent.” But when he opened the Honda’s door and released her, she slid inside and waited until he climbed into the passenger seat. “Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on? Or have you just decided to be a moronic brute all of a sudden?”

  “Start the engine.”

  With an effort Cassie fought her natural inclination to argue and switched on the ignition. The motor sparked to life as she said, “Happy now?” sarcastically.

  He didn’t answer, just rolled down his window. As soon as the glass lowered, from out of nowhere Steven Rinko’s head popped up, his face framed in the open space. He was crouched down beside the car, his body hidden from view of the hospital by the SUV.

  Cassie physically started before she recognized him, his hair wet, rain running down his face. She turned her gaze on Trent. “How did you know?”

  “He gave me the high sign in the reception area,” Trent said quickly, then turned to Rinko and said, “You sent a message to Cassie using Dr. Sherling’s phone, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” He said it as if it were common knowledge.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” Cassie asked, but Trent held up a hand, cutting her off.

  “The message was about a Hyundai Santa Fe? Right? The SUV?” Trent asked.

  A curt nod. “Most customers are satisfied, some complain about the fuel gauge and sun visors, but overall they like the vehicle.”

  Cassie tried not to be irritated with his review. “So this car—”

  “The 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe is an SUV.”

  “Yes.” She fought back her frustration and said more calmly, “I know. Why did you text the information to me? Is it because the car, er, SUV, wasn’t usually in the lot?” She knew he observed what vehicles parked near the hospital.

  “The nurse drove it.” Blond hair plastered to his head, he stared through the open window at her as if she were a complete idiot.

  “The nurse? The one who came into my room?” Cassie questioned. “With the white shoes and dress. And that blue cape. The one who lost the earring?”

  “She drove the 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe and parked it in the lot.” His gaze moved from Cassie’s face to Trent’s.
“I saw her leave in it.”

  He knew this? And didn’t say anything? Cassie couldn’t believe it. The car, idling, was beginning to warm, the windows fogging a little.

  Trent asked, “What color was it?”

  “Arctic white. Beige interior. Automatic transmission.” Without expression, Rinko repeated the information as if reading the data from an ad in the classified section. “V-6. Mag wheels.”

  “Did you notice anything else about it? The license plate?” Trent asked.

  Rinko nodded. “Oregon plates. Man on a bucking bronco.”

  “That image was part of the plate?” Trent asked.

  Rinko didn’t reply, just stared with that same faraway look that sometimes came over him. As far as Cassie knew, there was no image of a bronco rider on plates issued by the state. There had been different plates over the years, some decorative, but none Cassie remembered with images of a rodeo rider. Then again, it was possible that Rinko could be wrong. It could all be a figment of his imagination.

  “How about the number?” Trent asked. “On the plate?”

  Steven, who was getting soaked, shrugged. He was shivering in the cold, his lips turning blue, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Maybe the SUV had some identifying marks on it. Like a broken headlight, or damaged window, or some dents?” Cassie suggested, leaning over Trent. When Rinko didn’t respond, she added, “Maybe a bumper sticker?”

  “Kill Your Television.”

  “That was on the Hyundai?” Trent asked.

  Rinko’s eyebrows drew together in concentration. Rain dripped from the tip of his nose. “A map of Oregon with a green heart in the middle of it.”

  Cassie had seen that one, a white background, the black outline of the state’s shape surrounding a forest-green heart. Trent glanced at Cassie. “That should narrow it down,” he said.

  Cassie asked, “Has the nurse, the one with the car, been back?”

  He shook his head. “She only came to see you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He didn’t bother to answer. Of course. When Steven Rinko said anything, it was a fact. At least in his mind.