She let out an earsplitting shriek as he dragged her out the doorway.
Russ rushed for the door. But it shut in his face.
He heard the locks click: one, two, and three.
He listened to Taylor crying—and the retreating footsteps. A few moments later, the RV door shut. Shortly after that, he heard the screen door bang.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Frustrated, Russ started to pace in a U formation around the disheveled bed. As he passed the wall, he slammed it with his fist and dented the paneling. It hurt like hell, but he was too enraged to care. He kept thinking of poor Taylor, looking at him so dreamy-eyed just minutes ago—like he was her savior, her hero. Some hero, Russ thought. He hadn’t been able to do a thing to help her. And that was the second time the door had been open today, his second opportunity for escape—and he’d blown it.
He took the cool, damp washcloth off the bed’s headboard and wrapped it around his sore hand. Then he started pacing again.
What was that creep Bud planning to do tonight? Was he going to tie Taylor to that kitchen chair again? Would he succeed in raping her or would he end up killing her?
Russ was convinced this Bud scumbag had murdered Courtney. One more dead deaf woman wouldn’t make a difference to the son of a bitch.
He thought he heard the screen door squeak open.
Russ stopped and listened. It had been only about ten minutes since Taylor had been hauled out of the room.
Russ heard another door shut. Someone locked it, and then the screen door slammed.
He could hear murmuring, but couldn’t make out what the guy was saying. Was Bud talking on his phone?
Russ moved into the bathroom and stood under the vent so that he could hear more clearly. He detected footsteps on gravel. Was it just one person or two? A car door opened and shut. The engine started. It sounded as if someone got out of the car for a moment and then climbed back inside. Russ heard the gravel snapping on the driveway as the car pulled away. Then there were just the sounds of the woods at night.
Russ anxiously glanced around the bedroom for a means of escape—as if he hadn’t already considered every possibility. Still, he looked up at the escape hatch again. He’d already spent hours standing on the bed, trying to manipulate the padlock on the latch. All he’d gotten was a crick in his neck.
He swiped the broken piece of cheap baseboard off the carpet and banged it against the window. The glass didn’t even crack. Still, he kept hitting the window. But it just made his aching hand sorer.
He massaged his sore hand as he paced around the room some more. He glanced at the dent he’d made in the wall. “That was brilliant, Russ,” he muttered to himself.
Stepping into the bathroom, he set down the washcloth and ran his hand under the cold water in the sink. It felt better. He kept waving his hand under the running water until his fingers turned numb. With his free hand, he pushed against the spot on the wall where the mirror had been torn out. The drywall seemed solid.
Crouching down, he opened the cabinet below the sink and examined the empty space. He could see the pipes for the sink faucet and drain. The wood panel at the back of the cabinet looked kind of shoddy, maybe even shoddier than the baseboard that had broken so easily.
Russ wondered what was on the other side of the wall. He couldn’t remember the exact layout. But if he could smash through that back panel, maybe, with a bit of contorting, he’d be able to squeeze past the drainpipes and crawl into the main cabin of the RV.
Sitting down on the bathroom floor, Russ stuck his leg into the cabinet. He slammed his foot against the panel. He heard a couple of cans or bottles clanking in the next room. With his back against the wall, he stomped against the panel again. There was more rattling and a loud bang on the other side. It sounded like a shelf had fallen. Gritting his teeth, Russ stomped against the panel once more. He felt something give and heard a crack.
It was the crisp, beautiful sound of the wood splintering.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Saturday, July 25—11:32 P.M.
“Thanks for the lift,” Anna said. “And thank Sally for me, too.”
She climbed out of the backseat of Jim Larson’s car and shut the door. Sally’s private investigator and his partner, Brenda Melnick, had driven Anna from the East Precinct back to where she’d parked her car on 16th Avenue East and East Harrison—a couple of blocks from Bianca Dunn’s apartment. Anna had just spent the last two hours with them at the police station, answering questions about Bianca Dunn.
Detective Baumann hadn’t been there. Anna had been interviewed in a hot, airless interrogation room by a pair of detectives she’d never met before. The two fortysomething cops had been friendly enough. They’d provided her with a cup of stale coffee from a vending machine and turned a small desk fan in her direction during the questioning.
But Anna could tell they’d been dissatisfied with the interview. They’d caught her in a lie. She’d had to recant her story about visiting Taylor three afternoons in a row to get tutorials in sign language. She’d already admitted as much to Sally; so Sally’s private investigators hadn’t been at all surprised by this revelation.
But the police were understandably perturbed to learn that she hadn’t been completely honest with them in her statement the day before.
Even as Anna revealed the real reason for her visiting Taylor, she couldn’t be completely transparent with the police—or Sally’s private investigators. She admitted that she’d seen Bianca Dunn at Taylor’s apartment those three afternoons for hypnotherapy sessions to help her remember events from the night Courtney had vanished. Anna pointed out that, while Bianca had obviously duped Taylor and her into thinking she was Dr. Tolman, she’d still been a skilled hypnotist.
“With her help, I was able to remember a lot of details about that night,” Anna told them. “But I’m sure none of it would be useful to your investigation. It was mostly things like what we ate at the restaurant and the route we drove home. The only detail of any significance I can now tell you is that Courtney was still wearing a brown sleeveless dress when I left their place. She hadn’t changed into the purple robe they talked about on Sally’s show and on the news. I was glad to remember that detail. But maybe it’s not significant to you at all.”
Anna didn’t mention a thing about the hypnosis sessions having been recorded.
But she gave them a blow-by-blow of how, earlier in the evening, she’d let herself into Bianca Dunn’s apartment and then discovered her corpse in the bedroom.
The entire time she spoke to the police, she kept thinking: Why should they believe me? They’ve already caught me lying to them once. And they’re not even getting the complete story now. She was digging herself a deeper and deeper hole. But she wasn’t ready to tell them about the recorded “confession” yet, not until she could prove it was fake.
Before the police detectives had let her go, one of them had told her that Detective Baumann would be in touch with several follow-up questions. He’d told her this with a sigh and a raised eyebrow, the kind of look no patient wanted to get from a doctor after a medical exam.
Anna figured she’d just made things worse for herself as far as the police were concerned.
Sally’s private investigators had offered to give Anna a lift to her car. On the way, Brenda, in the front passenger seat, had been texting. When she’d finished, she’d asked Anna how things were going with her brother, Stuart. Anna had totally forgotten that this woman had helped Taylor track down Stu.
“Oh, he’s fine, thanks,” Anna had lied. “He’s getting some help with his drug problem.”
She hadn’t felt like telling the woman that all her work had been in vain.
Now she took her key fob out of her purse and unlocked the Mini Cooper. The lights flashed. Opening the door, she cautiously peeked in the back and then climbed in behind the wheel. Anna waved at the two private investigators, and they drove away.
Just then, her phone r
ang, startling her.
She fished the phone out of her bag and checked the screen. Sally Justice was calling. Anna tapped the screen. “Sally? Funny you should call. Your private investigators just dropped me off.”
“I know. Brenda just texted. She gave me the lowdown on everything that was discussed at the police station. She said the police believe that Bianca Dunn has been dead for about twenty-four hours. And at first glance, it appears she might have killed herself. What’s your opinion?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told the police,” Anna said. She glanced around as she spoke. She was on a tree-lined residential street, and it was awfully dark. She made sure the Mini Cooper’s doors were locked. “It’s damn suspicious. I mean, for starters, if I was going to commit suicide, I can think of less gruesome ways to do it than slashing my throat with a box cutter.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” Sally said. “As I mentioned earlier, I wonder if Bianca took up with some ruthless extortionists while she was in prison. Maybe with this kidnapping scheme she got in over her head—that is, if it wasn’t a suicide.”
“Sally, that’s the second ‘suicide’ within twenty-four hours,” Anna pointed out, “Bianca—and the man who worked on your show. I’m sorry, what was his name again?”
“Gordon Savage.” Sally sighed. “He shot his wife and then himself—with his own gun. They were found in their house. He had a lot of problems—debts, depression, you name it. Are you saying that you don’t think he committed suicide?”
“No, I just think it’s strange, both happening on the same day. What was his job on the show?”
“Gordy was my soundman for years.”
For a moment, Anna was speechless. It all made sense now.
“Anna? Are you there?”
“Yes. Did Taylor know him very well?”
“She knew him as well as she knows everyone else on the show. But it’s not like Taylor’s at my studio every day. Why do you ask? Do you think Gordy’s death is somehow connected to Taylor’s disappearance?”
“Maybe,” Anna said. “Listen, Sally, can I call you back in a bit? Are you going to be up awhile longer?”
“You think I’d be able to sleep a wink until I know my baby’s safe?” she asked. “If you can help me find Taylor, feel free to call me whenever you want.”
“Thanks, Sally, bye,” Anna said. She hung up and then started her car.
She still didn’t trust Sally enough to think out loud on the phone with her.
As she drove home, it started to make sense. Bianca Dunn had hypnotized her and made her repeat certain phrases and sentences for the fake confession. More snippets of her talking were lifted from her various broadcasts. Then Sally’s soundman, Gordon Savage, had edited everything into one seamless “session.” But it was obviously a rush job, because Anna had noticed gaps and pauses in her dialogue.
Maybe Sally was right, Bianca might have gotten in “over her head” with some ruthless kidnappers. She and Gordon Savage had helped create the bogus confession, but they knew too much. Savage’s wife was probably collateral damage in an effort to “clean house.” And poor Taylor must have figured out what was going on. Was she dead, too?
Tightening her grip on the wheel, Anna watched the road ahead.
She still had no idea why all this was happening. It didn’t make any sense: Why was someone going to all this trouble to frame her for Courtney’s murder?
Anna wondered if she’d survive long enough to find out the answer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
As he crawled through the debris on the other side of the opening, Russ heard his pant leg tear and felt something sharp scrape across his left calf.
“Shit!” he muttered.
He stopped and caught his breath. He was half in and half out of a broom closet, surrounded by old containers of cleaning supplies, a broom and a mop, several splintered pieces of paneling, and a dislodged shelf. He was filthy and sweaty. His shirt, soaked with perspiration, clung to him. And now, he could feel blood running down his leg.
It had taken about a half hour for Russ to kick apart the water-damaged panel at the back of the bathroom sink cabinet. His right foot ached from all the pounding. It had seemed to take forever for him to wriggle past the drainpipe, through the opening, and into the broom closet. Then he’d pushed open the closet door, which, fortunately, wasn’t latched.
Throughout the ordeal, he’d listened for a car. But as far as he could tell, his captor hadn’t returned. Russ didn’t know if the guy had taken Taylor with him—or if she was, once again, tied to a chair in the kitchen.
Once he dragged himself through the opening, Russ was able to sit up. He sighed with relief. After close to ten days being cooped up, he’d managed to crawl out of his little prison.
With all the windows painted over, it was pitch-black in the RV’s main cabin. Russ had to navigate the closet by the bathroom light that seeped through the opening. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled over the old cleaning supplies strewn on the floor as he felt his way toward the front of the cabin. He finally found the door and blindly groped for the handle. He prayed Bud hadn’t installed an outside lock.
Russ pulled down on the door handle and pushed, but the door didn’t budge.
He gave the door a kick, and it flew open. It had just been stuck.
Russ let out another grateful sigh.
The night air was incredible—so fresh and cool. He relished taking those first few breaths of freedom as he stepped outside. And he finally set eyes on the house—and that screen door he’d heard slam so many times.
Taylor’s description of the house was pretty accurate. It was a dumpy little rambler in the middle of some woods. Russ didn’t see any other houses or lights. The driveway snaked through the trees and then seemed to disappear in the darkness.
There was a light on in the window by the screen door. But an old bedsheet had been tacked over the window inside. Approaching the house, he figured this must be the back entrance. The door past the screen was windowless.
Russ pulled open the screen door and tried the doorknob. It was locked. He gave the door a push, but it didn’t move.
Once again, he wondered if Taylor was on the other side of the door, tied to a kitchen chair.
He hurried around to the front of the house, which was just as decrepit and neglected as the back. But there was an outside light on by the front door—and the door had a window in it.
Russ jostled the handle. Locked.
Frustrated, he glanced around and spotted a brick border around a shabby patch of weeds and bushes. It must have been somebody’s garden at one time. Grabbing one of the bricks, Russ threw it at the window. The glass shattered. He pushed out the remaining shards of glass until he could reach through the jagged opening and find the door lock. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Inside, he found a light switch and turned it on. The overhead in the living room was a naked bulb in the fixture. The furnishings were cheap and slapdash: an old sofa, and a desk with a stool on wheels. The threadbare beige carpet was littered with papers and food wrappers. Among the refuse, Russ noticed the discarded store packaging for a burner phone. There was also a paper bag from Pete’s Supermarket, the store down the block from Anna’s place.
Russ still had no idea where he was, but the house couldn’t have been anywhere near their Lake Union neighborhood in Seattle.
He stopped for a moment and lifted his pant leg to inspect the scrape on his calf. The blood dripped down to his sock.
He lowered his pant leg and headed into what looked like the kitchen. If Taylor was in there, she was being awfully quiet. She wouldn’t have heard the window in the door shatter, but she’d have noticed the living room light go on.
He stepped into the kitchen. The room was practically barren except for an old avocado-colored stove, on which sat a microwave. Over against one wall was a mini-fridge, which was humming. The faded linoleum floor was littered with a few pieces of tra
sh. But it wasn’t quite the pigsty Taylor had made it out to be. There was no kitchen table.
And not a kitchen chair in sight.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sunday, July 26—12:02 A.M.
As Anna pulled into the carport, she realized she’d have to tell Sally and the police about her recorded “confession.” At this point, it could be connected to two “suicides,” a murder, and most likely, Taylor’s disappearance. The sooner the police and Sally knew about the bogus confession, the better chance they had of finding Taylor.
She should have told them about the recording as soon as Taylor had disappeared, but she’d been too worried about incriminating herself. Now Anna was ready to pay the price for that delay. She hoped it wasn’t too late for Taylor.
She considered just restarting the car and driving back to the East Precinct. But she wanted to splash some water on her face and change her clothes for what would be a long night ahead in the police interrogation room.
Climbing out of the Mini Cooper, Anna locked it with the key fob. At a brisk clip, she headed down the dark, narrow street that ran alongside the lake. It was one of those nights when she hated the long walk from the carport to her home. And tonight, she had every reason to be on edge. Above her, the tree branches swayed in the gentle breeze, creating shadows that danced across the street pavement. Anna didn’t see anyone else along the way, and she noticed only one boat out on the water—a sports cruiser, not far from her dock.
A bit breathless, Anna finally turned down the shadowy pathway that led to the dock gate. Sometimes, this was the scariest part of her journey home at night because, although she was so close to her destination, the spot was surrounded by bushes, and a tall elm tree nearby blocked out the moonlight. Anna never felt safe until she was able to lock the gate behind her. She already had the key in her hand.
The Night She Disappeared Page 36
