The Night She Disappeared

by Kevin O'Brien

  The estimated travel time was eighteen minutes. Anna figured she’d make it there in a little over ten.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Russ repeatedly rang the bell bracketed to the wall. He held the piece of the baseboard, which he’d finally pried off the wall a half hour before. It was about the size of a baseball bat, perfect for what he had in mind.

  He gave the bell one last ring, then ran into the bathroom and yelled under the vent: “Hey! I need some help here! She’s sick! She’s seriously ill!”

  Hurrying back into the bedroom, Russ pulled on the bell cord again.

  Laid out on the bed, Taylor let out a shriek.

  Finally, amid all the noise, Russ heard the screen door slam. He cued Taylor, and she started moaning and clutching her stomach. He continued to clang the bell until he heard the RV door open.

  “What the fuck is going on in there?” the guy yelled.

  Russ stopped and listened to the man’s footsteps on the other side of the RV’s bedroom door.

  Standing under the bell, Russ stayed turned slightly toward the wall. He kept the baseboard piece close to his leg to hide it. He was pretty certain Bud was staring through the peephole by now.

  “Are you out there?” Russ called, giving the cord another pull. “I need help! She’s sick. She has abdominal pain. She’s thrown up three times! I think it’s her appendix.”

  There was no answer.

  Taylor kept groaning.

  “Are you there, for Christ’s sake?” Russ yelled. He clanged the bell again. “I’m telling you, she’s sick!”

  “Well, don’t come crying to me,” he heard their captor mutter. “You’re the goddamn doctor.”

  “I can’t do anything for her here,” Russ argued, clutching the concealed piece of wood even tighter. “She’ll die if we don’t get her to a hospital! Take a look at her yourself. Feel her forehead. She’s burning up! Fever’s one of the signs.”

  Taylor stayed curled up on the bed, wailing in agony. She was acting her little heart out. She’d been so apprehensive earlier—she must have gone to the bathroom four or five times. But she’d risen to the occasion, and was now quite convincing as the victim of an appendicitis attack.

  “Shit,” the man outside grumbled. “Okay, stay where you are and keep ringing the goddamn bell. If you try anything, I’ll shoot her in the head. That’ll shut her up. Do we understand each other?”

  “I understand!” Russ answered. “Hurry, please!” He clanged the bell and kept the baseboard slat close to his leg with his other hand.

  The bolts on the door unlocked, and the door slowly opened.

  The man was wearing his ski mask again, and he brandished the gun. He remained in the doorway. “What the fuck do you expect me to do?”

  “She’ll die if she stays here,” Russ said. “You need to get her to a hospital.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can. You—you could blindfold her, load her into the car, and drop her off in front of the closest hospital’s urgent care facility. Then you can drive away. You have to do something! She can’t stay here. She’ll die.”

  Bud chuckled behind his mask.

  “It’s not funny!” Russ yelled. “Feel her forehead.”

  Taylor was doubled up on the bed, whimpering.

  The man stepped inside the room and cautiously approached the side of the bed. He kept the gun pointed at Russ.

  Russ didn’t move. He still had one hand on the bell cord while the other clutched the concealed piece of wood.

  The man bent slightly as he reached toward Taylor with his free hand.

  She suddenly sat up and bit down on the hand holding the gun.

  He howled in pain.

  Russ hauled back and swung the makeshift club. But in a split second, the man twisted around, dragging Taylor with him. The baseboard slat hit him in the shoulder and then snapped in two. One piece flew across the room. The gun landed on the shag carpet.

  Taylor fiercely clung to the guy. “Go!” she yelled at Russ. “Run!”

  For a second, Russ glanced toward the open bedroom door. He had a clear shot at escaping, but he couldn’t leave her. Frantic, he looked down for the gun on the shag carpet, but he didn’t see it. He went to grab the man, who was still struggling with Taylor.

  Suddenly, Bud shoved Taylor toward him. She let out a shriek as she plowed into Russ. He fell to the floor—with his back against the wall and Taylor on top of him.

  Bud quickly readjusted his ski mask and swiped the gun from the floor.

  Russ tried to disentangle himself from Taylor.

  “Tell her to move into the corner,” their captor said, catching his breath. He stood over them with the gun poised. “Tell her that in your dummy sign-talk or I’ll blow her head off. You, I need. But her, I don’t give a shit about.”

  Bud took a few steps back toward the door to clear the way for her.

  Still pinned to the floor, Russ slid out from beneath Taylor. He moved her into the corner of the room so that he was between her and their captor. Hugging her knees and panting to get a breath, she remained in the corner.

  Russ glanced up at the man.

  “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your back,” he commanded from behind the ski mask.

  Russ glared at him, but did what he said.

  “You stupid shit,” the man muttered. Then he slammed the butt of the gun against Russ’s head.

  “Don’t!” Taylor screamed.

  It was the last thing Russ heard as he collapsed onto the floor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Saturday, July 25—9:12 P.M.

  An old apartment complex from the ’60s with ten individual cabins, 1720 East Thomas had an unkempt courtyard. The units had beige aluminum siding that was ugly and peeling. Though it was getting dark, only one unit had an outside light on.

  It had taken Anna twenty minutes to get there, and half of that time had been spent looking for a parking spot. She’d finally found one two blocks away. Walking back to the apartment complex, Anna didn’t see anyone sitting in a car nor on foot scoping out the place. She’d figured Sally’s private investigator was still on his way.

  Anna found Apartment F in the corner of the U-shaped compound. The drapes in the front window were half-closed, and a light was on. But Anna didn’t see any sign of activity inside. She crept around outside the unit, checking the rest of the windows. On the west side of the apartment, no lights were on. The neighbors in Apartment E didn’t seem to be home, either. The narrow sidewalk between the units was strewn with junk: stacks of empty flowerpots, a rake, an old bicycle missing a tire, and a section of chain-link fence leaning against the gas meter to Bianca’s apartment. Around back, there was a garbage can and a tall recycling bin. The unit didn’t have a backyard, just a small patch of crabgrass with hardly enough room for the rickety-looking lawn chair.

  The screen door in the back was shut, but Anna noticed the kitchen door was open a crack. The narrow, dark gap revealed nothing. But Anna could hear music: Neil Diamond singing “He Ain’t Heavy . . . He’s My Brother.” She didn’t hear any other sounds inside. But would Bianca have stepped out, leaving the light and the radio on, and the back door open?

  She had to be home.

  Anna figured, whether she knocked or snuck into the apartment, there would be a confrontation either way. If she snuck in, at least she might get a quick look around the place and maybe even find a second digital recorder with her manufactured confession on it. She was convinced Bianca hadn’t given her only copy of the recording to Taylor.

  Whatever happened, Sally’s guy was on his way. So Anna knew she’d have some help soon.

  Biting her lip, she pulled open the screen door. It squeaked loudly.

  Anna froze. She listened for a few moments to make sure the noise hadn’t alerted anyone. She didn’t hear anything, just Neil Diamond on the radio.

  She held the screen door in place, half-open. Then she pushed at the inside door and
squeezed through into the kitchen. The screen door squealed again as she slowly closed it behind her.

  Though the kitchen window was open, the place was still muggy and smelled like sour milk. None of the lights were on, but Anna could still see everything pretty clearly by the last hint of twilight through the window. Looking over toward the small, banged-up dinette table, Anna noticed a purse sitting on one of the chairs. She recognized it from her sessions with “Dr. Tolman.” It was where she kept her digital recorder. The purse’s long strap hung over the seat back.

  Anna told herself that Bianca wouldn’t have stepped outside without her purse.

  She tiptoed over to the kitchen table.

  She almost jumped at the sound of another voice in the apartment. Then she realized it was just the radio: “You’re listening to Seattle’s favorite oldies station! And here’s Lulu with ‘To Sir With Love’!”

  As the song began, Anna carefully looked through the contents of the purse. She didn’t find a digital recorder. But she discovered that the woman had a burner phone. She was sure it was the fake Dr. Tolman’s bag, but just to make certain, Anna opened the wallet. There wasn’t any cash in it. But she found a nondriver’s identity card with a current photo of parolee Bianca Ray Dunn. It was the same middle-aged woman who had pretended to be Dr. Tolman. The address on the card was this one.

  Slipping the wallet back into Bianca’s purse, Anna crept into the sparsely furnished living room. There was a ratty sofa, a standing lamp, a folding table and chair, and on the floor, an old TV. On the table were the remnants of a dinner: a can of Diet Coke, a carryout container, and a crumpled napkin. She wondered when Bianca had eaten that meal, because flies were buzzing around it.

  A light was on in the bathroom, which, along with the bedroom, was off a little hallway. The music seemed to be coming from that part of the apartment. Anna poked her head into the bathroom. It was ugly with salmon-colored tiles. The counter was a mess. Towels were haphazardly draped over the shower curtain rod and the rack on the wall.

  Anna moved toward the bedroom, but stopped dead in the doorway.

  The music was clear now. It came from a clock radio on the nightstand.

  Bianca Dunn was sprawled across the unmade full-size bed. She was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve yellow top—only most of the top was stained with blood. It looked black in the dark. The sheets tangled beneath her body were bloodstained as well.

  Anna noticed Bianca was wearing only one sandal. The other was on the floor near the foot of her bed.

  Terrified, Anna thought she was going to be sick. But she forced herself to step closer to the bed. That was when she saw the box cutter in Bianca’s hand—and the slash across her throat.

  Bianca’s eyes were open. She seemed to stare at the ceiling. A forlorn look was on her face.

  For a moment, Anna was paralyzed.

  “Eleanor Rigby” started to play on the radio.

  Past the music, Anna was sure she heard the screen door squeak.

  Panic-stricken, she turned and hurried back to the living room. She saw a light go on in the kitchen. A shadow swept over the kitchen doorway.

  Anna ran for the front entrance and tried the doorknob. It was locked. Her heart racing, she fumbled with the lock and flung open the door.

  A tall man stood there, blocking the way. His face was in the shadows.

  Anna let out a scream and shrank back.

  A light went on behind her.

  She turned around to see a buxom, fortysomething brunette standing beside the floor lamp. She wore a sleeveless top and jeans and carried a shoulder bag. She also had a gun—pointed at the floor.

  Anna turned again toward the doorway. In the light, she recognized Jim Larson, the private investigator who had been guarding Taylor yesterday. He let out a little laugh and sighed.

  “Well, that’s five bucks I owe Sally,” he said. “I told her you wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here on your own. But Sally said you’d probably make it here before we did.”

  A hand over her heart, Anna stared at him and tried to catch her breath.

  “I take it Bianca isn’t home,” he said.

  “Her purse is in the kitchen, Jim,” the woman said.

  His brow wrinkled, he looked at Anna.

  She nodded. “Bianca’s home . . .”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Without opening his eyes, Russ was aware of someone hovering over him on the bed. A damp washcloth soothed his aching head, but he still felt awful. For a few moments, he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to think about anything. His escape attempt had failed miserably, and now he had no idea how he and Taylor would ever get out of there.

  He remembered something Bud had said a moment before the guy had knocked him out: “You, I need. But her, I don’t give a shit about.” It didn’t make any sense—especially coming from someone who was supposed to be obsessed with deaf women. Russ wondered why the guy considered him so essential and Sally Justice’s daughter expendable. Why was he being kept alive?

  Russ’s eyes were still closed. He knew Taylor was at his side. She started to caress his cheek. It was sweet of her to comfort him this way. But it was also awkward as hell, since he barely knew her.

  He felt her gently kiss his forehead. Her hand slid down to his neck and then to his chest. She unfastened the top button of his shirt and moved her hand over his chest.

  “Hey . . .” Startled, Russ opened his eyes and sat up. The washcloth fell off his head.

  Taylor pulled back. She looked flustered—and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry! I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Russ nodded and touched the abrasion in the corner of his forehead. “Thanks, I think I’ll be all right,” he muttered, signing for her. “I’m sorry about everything. I really screwed up our Great Escape attempt.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, smiling bravely. She picked up the damp washcloth and brought it to his forehead again. “You could have easily gotten away when he was struggling with me. You should have run when you had the chance. It’s what you told me to do, remember?”

  “Well, I couldn’t desert you,” he replied.

  “I know. And if the tables were turned, I couldn’t have deserted you, either. That’s what I was trying to tell you before. We’re in this together, Russ.”

  He took the washcloth from her and hung it over the headboard. “I guess you’re right,” he signed. “Thank you for looking after my war wound.” He pointed to his forehead.

  She blushed. “Isn’t it funny how two people who hardly know each other are thrown together in a desperate situation, and they form this instant bond?”

  Russ nodded and then signed: “Yeah, well, we’ll get out of here. Don’t worry. Between the two of us, we’ll figure something out.”

  “You’re so good at sign language,” Taylor went on, staring at him, dreamy-eyed. “I can imagine you and Courtney having all these intimate conversations in bed, signing to each other. You really were a beautiful couple.”

  He shrugged. “Well, thank you. That’s kind of you to say. But Courtney and I had a lot of problems.”

  “Courtney was special. And maybe that’s why she wasn’t very easy to live with. Special people sometimes have their own special rules.” She smiled. “Me, I’m just an ordinary, uncomplicated girl. But I guess you’ve figured that out by now.”

  She started to caress his arm.

  Russ discreetly pulled away and repositioned himself on the bed. She was making him uncomfortable with her flirting. He wasn’t even remotely interested in her that way. At the same time, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  With her bruised face, she kept looking at him expectantly—like she was waiting for him to kiss her. “It means a lot to me that you couldn’t leave without me,” she said and signed. “I think we both feel—”

  Outside, the screen door slammed. Taylor sat up on the bed.

  Baffled, Russ looked at her. “How did you hear that?”
/>   She shook her head. “I saw you react. You heard something. What was it?”

  The door to the RV opened.

  “He’s coming back,” Russ silently signed. He got to his feet and felt dizzy for a moment.

  It sounded like the guy was approaching the bedroom door. “Hey, Doc, I’m taking your girlfriend off your hands! Let her know. Tell her to stand up—back to the door and hands behind her. Meanwhile, I want you to ring that bell. Understand?”

  Taylor moved to the edge of the bed. “What’s happening?”

  “He’s taking you out of here,” Russ reluctantly explained. “He wants you to stand with your back to the door and your hands behind you.”

  Panic-stricken, Taylor shook her head. “No, I won’t!”

  Russ felt so powerless. “I’m sorry. You better do what he says.” Then he silently mouthed and signed to her, “I’ll figure out a way to get out of here and help you. For now, please, just do what he says.”

  “I can see you talking to her in your secret hand code,” the man called, obviously at the peephole. “Tell her to get off her ass or she’s a dead woman. I don’t have all night. C’mon, quickly.”

  “He’s going to kill you if you don’t do what he says,” Russ told her.

  Tears in her eyes, Taylor sprang off the bed and threw herself into Russ’s arms. She desperately clung to him. He felt her lips pressing against the side of his face.

  He had to pry her away until he had her at arm’s length. Russ stepped back—toward the bell on the wall. “You need to put your hands behind you so that he can see them.”

  He heard two of the three locks being unlatched. Then he reached for the little rope and clanged the bell. He could hardly look Taylor in the eye.

  With a wounded look, she gazed at him and slowly shook her head over and over. She may as well have been standing in front of a firing squad.

  Russ felt hopeless—and angry. He kept thinking there must be something he could do.

  But then, past the bell resounding, he heard the last lock unlatch, and the door swung open. With a ski mask once again covering his head, the man stepped into the room. He held Russ at gunpoint. In one quick motion, he grabbed Taylor by her hair and pulled her toward the door.