What Happened to Cass McBride?

by Gail Giles

  Ben opened the book. “She wrote in this book. In ink. I wouldn't expect that.” His brow furrowed. “There's a bunch of stuff about fathers here. Maybe she has some issues with her own?” He slid the book into an evidence bag.

  Roger interrupted. “Bed slept in. Room clean. Look at the glass.”

  Ben leaned over. “Window punched through from outside. Look at that.” He squatted and peered at the carpet. “Damn.”

  “That's what I thought,” Roger said.

  “You check the father?”

  “Haven't looked at his shoes. But eyeballing his feet, I'd say he's not even close.”

  Ben stood up. “Get a picture of that print and the girl's stats. Crime Scene needs to be here ten minutes ago. We've got a kidnapping by an unsub and time is against us.”

  Ben shook his head. “An Amber. Scott will wet his pants.”

  KYLE

  “I'm not going to lie. I enjoyed it. I did. Cass sent my brother off that limb and she had to pay.”

  “See, that confuses me,” the big cop said. “If that's the truth, why didn't you just tie her up in the greenhouse?”

  “She had to end up just like David,” I said.

  “Then why didn't you hang her? Pin notes to her?”

  A shudder rippled across my shoulders. This guy must be sick.

  CASS

  “Is that all you got?”

  The voice came from my right hand. I shrieked. Where was he? My hand smacked the top of the box. He wasn't in here. He could hear me? Could he see me?

  “What are you doing down there? So quiet?” His voice was low and smug. Whispering.

  Panic surged through me. The bad dream. Someone in my ear. The hard arms pinning me. The sting in my arm followed by a hot arc into my muscle and a warm flush spreading across my chest that took me back down into sleep.

  Adrenaline had cleared my head now. That voice had broken the window. He had probably drugged me. Yes, that quick hot pain and that cool voice. And then he had taken me.

  Who?

  Why?

  Where?

  What did he mean “down there”?

  My head spun and my chest burned as I consciously tried to gulp air. There was air. I could breathe but I wanted more. In a dark box, feeling like weights pressed against me, rolled me flat, squeezed out the air. I sucked it in, proving I could. Demonstrative evidence that I was alive.

  What did he mean “down there”?

  I sobbed. But I didn't scream anymore. My throat was raw and I knew that voice wanted the screaming. And if he wanted it, it wouldn't do me any good. Not if I made it easy.

  I had to wipe my nose and mouth with my left hand before I strangled on my own snot and tears.

  Gasping and gulping in the damned blind dark.

  Flat on my back with a psycho whispering in my ear.

  “Cass? You're too quiet. I can hear you scream, but I can't hear you cry. You are, aren't you? Sure you are.”

  I clamped my eyes down hard and grit my teeth.

  He knows my name.

  He didn't grab a stranger.

  He grabbed me.

  Someone I know put me in a box, in the dark, and he wants me to scream. He wants me terrified.

  And I am.

  But I won't scream. Not if he wants me to.

  I held my breath, went rigid with the effort of listening.

  And I heard it.

  Footsteps. Vibrations. Above me.

  My head lolled back. The footsteps were muffled like there was padding, lots of thick padding between the monster and me.

  Dirt?

  That smell like a new garden.

  Earth?

  My muscles went loose.

  Not relaxed…

  Hopeless.

  New panic. Dragging the deep, hard breaths, trying to store all the oxygen I could.

  Down there.

  The smell of soil that's been turned for a new garden.

  The chill.

  Down there.

  Muffled footsteps above me.

  The size and shape of this box.

  The total dark.

  I had been buried alive.

  Buried.

  Alive.

  Buried.

  BEN

  “Mr. McBride, what size shoe do you wear?”

  Ted looked at Ben like he'd just grown an extra head. “Shoe size? You're going to find my daughter armed with my shoe size?”

  “Nine, nine and a half?”

  “Nine. Do we make jokes about my small feet now?”

  “There's a shoe print on the carpet by the window in your daughter's bedroom and it's an eleven, by my eye.”

  Ted's mouth fell open. He shut it slowly. “Oh my god. Someone took my girl from my own house while I was asleep. This house is wired with every kind of alarm…” He looked away. “I get careless. I watch television, toss back a few drinks, don't remember to set the alarms. It's such a safe neighborhood, you know, the best people, the –”

  Ben sat in a chair and pulled it close. “We need a recent picture. Names of friends. Addresses. Tell me about her mother. Where is she? Would she take your daughter?”

  Ted took a deep breath and straightened up. “I'll get the pictures. There's a million of them. She's practically on every page of the yearbook.” He took a step, then stopped, faced Ben, and established eye contact. “And I'll tell you something about my daughter, Detective. I don't know who took her, but unless he…” Ted shielded his eyes with his hand. He cleared his throat. “Cass will find a way to come home.” Ted removed his hand and regained his composure. He straightened his back and again locked eyes with Ben. “Cass knows how to take care of herself. I taught her that.”

  KYLE

  “Why did I bury her?”

  I sat back in the chair. “Because it's what the Kirbys do. We bury things. We shove them out of sight. I didn't want to look at her, but I did want to torture her. So I grabbed her, dumped dirt over her, but made sure she understood why she was there. Tortured her the same way she had tortured David.”

  “But she didn't bury David.” This was from the big cop.

  “I don't get how she tortured your brother. You want to explain that for us?”

  Big cop with the statements; little cop with the questions. My head hurt and I put my forehead down on the table. “It's complicated.”

  I was so quiet I could hear the cops breathing. Finally the baby cop cleared his throat. His signal for me to start talking again.

  I turned my face without lifting my head. “I said I wanted to tell this my way. Maybe David went off that limb alone, but it wasn't suicide. It was murder. And someone has to pay for that. And that's not going to happen unless I tell it right. And you're hammering at me with questions and yammering at me to get things in the order you want. Shit, you're just like her.”

  I rocked my face to the other side, seeking the cool surface against my skin. “Now, I want something cold to drink, and some aspirin. And get that camera out of my face. I'll talk later if you step off and leave me alone for a while.”

  I couldn't make eye contact with the big cop.

  “I can't get my mind right. You guys are screwing with my head. Can you leave me alone in here? And turn off the lights?”

  CASS

  Oh god, this was real.

  “You've figured it out, huh, Cass?”

  His voice snapped me back and I could feel him pace back and forth across my…grave.

  “This not-talking shit is just pissing me off, Cass. You don't want to do that.”

  More pacing.

  I cried, but no sobs. Quiet tears.

  “Push in the button that's under your thumb and talk, Cass. I'm warning you. You won't like what happens if you don't.”

  His voice was slow and measured. Serious as—well, death. But I didn't answer. I couldn't.

  And what did he expect me to say?

  A spot of light as big as a silver dollar appeared above my face (not blind!), then the light bl
otted out and something showered down on me. Dirt. In my nostrils and mouth. The light appeared again for an instant then disappeared.

  I turned my head, spit, and cleared my nose and mouth, fear causing me to jerk up and bang my head, knees, and shoulders into the top and side of the box. I hit the button.

  “Stop, please, don't do that again. Please.”

  “There now. Got you talking. That's what I want.”

  What did he want me to say?

  “Cass?”

  “Yes, don't throw dirt on me, please. I…don't understand what's going on.” A sob escaped. I couldn't help it. My fingers again scrabbled the rough wood above me, ripping what was left of the skin and nails. I pounded the tape-bound hand, then pulled it closer to my face and pushed in the square button. “Please, let me go. I don't know who you are so I can't tell anybody anything. Just let me go. Let me out of here.”

  I was begging him. I knew it would get me nowhere. I watch TV. I read those kinds of books. The bad guy likes the begging.…He gets off on it.

  But what else did I have? I WAS BURIED IN A BOX!

  “Please. Just let me go. I won't tell anyone.”

  “Oh, I know you won't tell anyone. I'm so sure you won't that I don't care if you know who I am.”

  I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. He was going to kill me.

  He paced again. Across my chest. Back across my head. He stopped.

  “My name is Kyle Kirby. David Kirby is—was my little brother.”

  I didn't know until that moment that a person's teeth could actually chatter. But mine did. Fear, real fear is physical. David's name was a cold wave that washed over me, and I shivered from toenails to teeth. I shook too hard to keep my left fist clenched; my teeth wouldn't grit; nothing worked according to my will.

  “Having a guilty little moment in there?” His whisper was calm and quiet. “Wondering how much I know? How much to deny?”

  Teeth still clattering, I couldn't have answered if I had anything to say.

  The first time I saw Kyle he was half naked. Buff and blond and hot in the icy Aryan way. Sweat glazed his tan, muscled torso and he attacked the weeds in the country club flower beds as if he hated each one.

  “Hottie alert,” Erica said. “Kyle Kirby. My mom knows his dad.” She started ticking off stats like a reporter. “He's on the baseball team. Moody. Doesn't date much. Never had a steady girlfriend, as far as I know. In fact, I don't know much more. Keeps to himself.”

  Erica's mom had dropped us at the club for an afternoon at the pool. Three girls from school, juniors, sashayed in front of us.

  “Hey, Kyle,” one of them singsonged. He glanced over, wiping sweat off his cheek by hunching one shoulder and shoving his face across it. He never removed his grip on the weeds. He didn't speak but gave a half-assed nod and jerked up the weeds in the same motion.

  Standoffish catnip, I thought. He never glanced at Erica or me. And that was the surest way to my heart.

  When school started, I made it my business to find out his schedule. Following Ted's rules, I knew to do my research, then I managed to be “around” or “just leaving” the area where Kyle would be. It was a first for me to pursue a boy. The only reaction I got for my trouble was one guarded look. Something akin to distaste. When a deal goes sour, accept and stop selling. I forgot about Kyle Kirby.

  The spot of light appeared above me.

  “See this, Cass? That's the end of an air tube.” A snap and the light dimmed. “I put a filter on it—keeps out dirt and stuff. Now I let the tube fall along the ground.” Darkness again. “And you can't see the light from my flashlight. In faaaact”—he stretched this out like he was singing it—“you should be seeing pretty much what David sees.”

  A groan escaped me.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself? Hoping you weren't buried?” He laughed, low and seemingly satisfied. “Well, believe it. You're not in a nice casket like David. You don't deserve satin lining and pillows. You just get a crate for your grave.

  “But, I wasn't sure you'd know why you were there. I couldn't just leave you. Honestly, Cass, you're too damn self-centered to figure it out without me to pound it into your head.”

  Self-centered? He buried me because I was self-centered? Not even I could think this was all about me. This had to be about the note—about words that I didn't expect David to see. But, let's get real here, there had to be a lot wrong with David to go sailing off a limb because a girl rejected him. And since when does self-centered stack up against kidnapping and burying someone alive? Think about that awhile, asswipe.

  “So you have an air tube and there's a pump to get all your carbon dioxide out through a little hole in the other end. It's crude, but it will work for a while. I don't have a lot of time anyway.”

  “What do you mean? A lot of time? For what?”

  He paused and paced above me. “I don't know how long you've got either.”

  “How long for what? What are you talking about?” I screamed.

  “Damn, you took a long time to wake up. I wondered if I'd killed you with that drug. I hope you drank a lot of water before you went to bed on Friday. Dehydration is—”

  “Kyle—”

  “Don't! Do not say my name. You have no right to use it. Say my name and dirt comes down the tube. Got that?”

  I nodded.

  “Answer!”

  “Yes. I've got it. I won't use your name. I won't.”

  “And there's something else. Try to deny, just try to deny that you did this to David, make excuses for yourself, and I jerk the air tube and walk away. Understand?”

  I almost nodded again but then realized he couldn't see me.

  “Understood.”

  “Fine, now it's late and I have to go back to…a whole different kind of hell. You stay here and I'll be back. Or maybe not.”

  And nothing. Not even vibrations.

  I was alone.

  BEN

  Ted pulled a picture from a leather frame angled precisely on a polished chrome desktop that seemed to float on glass or Lucite legs. It gave Ben the jeebies. How could you put your feet up on a desk like that? Drop a heavy box on it? Nothing in this house felt like it had substance. Except Ted. Maybe that was the point.

  “Cass knows where she's going and how to get there,” Ted said as he handed the picture over. “She's going East to school, PR and marketing. She's going to be an events manager. Handle the movers and shakers. She knows how to do that. Network. I taught her to read people. She's a natural.”

  Ben looked at the photograph. Attractive, but not threateningly so. Poised. Leaning against a large tree. Dressed in white shorts, peach knit shirt, athletic shoes, and socks. She gripped a tennis racquet loosely in a tanned hand. Brown hair pulled back, makeup natural, smile easy and confident. Wholesome, Ben thought. An old-fashioned word, but that's how she appeared.

  A quick search of her clothes didn't show a split personality. The kid didn't pose as an angel then go hoochie mamma to parties.

  Ted paced the carpet. “Who would kidnap Cass?” He tugged his rumpled hair. “My ex doesn't have the nerve. Even if she doped Cass and took her, when Cass woke up, she'd just leave. Leatha knows that.” Ted turned and paced back the other direction. “Cass can visit anytime and she doesn't want to. No, Leatha's not a possibility.” He stopped and looked at Ben. “Do you think I should call her?”

  “If you don't mind, if you haven't told her, we'd like to do that,” Ben said. “It helps to see someone when we tell them about a kidnapping if there's any chance—”

  “I get it,” Ted said. He resumed pacing. “Sure. But I'm telling you. Waste of time.”

  Ben nodded. “Probably, but talking about a waste of time…you mind taking a polygraph? Personally, I don't take you for a suspect.”

  Ted waved him off. “Fine. But I could talk my way past your electrodes even if I was guilty. Cass could too. We have a way.”

  KYLE

  The dark soothed me a little, but the q
uiet—nobody can understand how great quiet sounds unless he's never had it. Or what it feels like to talk with a person when you usually have someone talk at you. At you. And at you.

  “Do you have flying dreams?” David asked.

  “I think most people have them. But yeah, I do.”

  We were in the park. I sat on the bench reading A Confederacy of Dunces. “Can't you sit like a normal person?”

  “I'm not normal. Not even close. Ask her.” David's feet were on the back of the bench and his head hung over the seat. “Besides, I like watching things upside down.”

  “Knock yourself out, bro.”

  “I know why we have flying dreams.”

  I sighed and closed my book. I might be here for the quiet, but David had so few opportunities for conversation. “Tell me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Arrggh.” Sometimes he was a cretin.

  David put on a fake Freud voice. As if he knew anything about Freud. “The answer is here. Right here in this park. You just have to look.” He dropped the accent. “And you'll know why my flying dreams are always bad.”

  I looked around. Kids playing with each other. Mothers watching. Dogs playing with the bigger kids or adults. Little kids in sandboxes.

  “I don't…” And then I saw what he meant. A little kid flew, just flew right into the air.

  The kid in the sandbox had been playing with a pail and shovel, filling up the pail and dumping it out, filling his shoes with sand as he dumped. Then he filled the pail and held it high and dumped the sand over his head.

  She swooped down like a vulture. One arm under his butt and the other around his chest.

  “Stop that this minute. If you can't play nice, you can't play.”

  And then he was airborne. One minute his sneakers rooted in sand, the next he's picked straight up and flying away, his feet dangling over the grass and zipping along through the air with no control, the wind against his face until he landed astraddle her hip, her voice in his ear in the punishment zone.