“It’s locked.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Back home.”
“You’re not waiting for the officer?”
“No, you have the package. Give it to him when he shows up.”
“What about my offer?”
“What about it?” I grab my purse off the counter as she jerks at my sleeve. “Hear me out, Blair.”
“I want nothing from you, got it? Don’t you think I know you and Daddy would’ve preferred that I had disappeared? Don’t you think I wished the same thing? How my life turned out? You act like you’re the only one that’s suffered.”
She ignores my statement. “If you find Bristol, whether it’s her alive or… you know… I will leave you the house and money to fix it up.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her voice drips poison. “I’ll leave you nothing. You’ll be dead to me even when I’m gone.”
“I’ve been dead to you living, Priscilla. Nothing will change.” I open the door, turning to face her. “I want to find Bristol because she’s my sister, not because you demand it and promise your land.”
“Good enough.”
I start to slam the door in her face.
“Wait,” she yells. She thrusts an envelope in my hand. “Here’s five thousand dollars. Instructions are inside.” I try to push it back in her palm, but instead of taking it, she slams the door in my face.
I hear the deadbolt chain.
When I sink into the worn cloth seats of my car, I wait until I’ve headed down the gravel road before I pull over and scream at the top of my lungs, pounding my fists on the dash and steering wheel.
Priscilla’s a fucking lunatic. What did I do to deserve her as a mother?
You lost your baby sister, I remind myself.
I open the manila envelope, holding it away from me like a snake’s going to strike me, injecting venom from its bite into me. No different than Priscilla.
A typed note is inside.
Blair,
I want to go to sleep and die knowing Bristol has been found, whatever the outcome may be. I’m not worried about an eye-for-an-eye at this point, God will take care of anyone who was involved in her disappearance.
$5,000.
First, you must buy a plane ticket. I want an emailed receipt so I know the date you are leaving. I suggest it be a one-way ticket since you’re not to come home until you have answers.
Second, the same goes for the hotel. Emailed receipt so I know where and how to reach you. Room number emailed to me upon arrival.
If you can manage to finish something in your life, make it this.
Mother
Lighting a cigarette, I burn her note.
The nerve of her, trying to buy me off, my sister not some pet project. I’m not some sinister type who purposely dumped her with a crazy person. I watch the flame lick up the paper, shriveling it, the ends a burnt crisp. The bits fly out the window, trailing behind me as I drive off. I leave the windows rolled down, hard rock vibrating against the speakers, the bass and treble making my seat pulsate.
37
Bristol
When I wake, I’m disoriented, my eyes lifting to see murky shadows. I think I’m back in the room, the four walls closing in on me.
I see The Mole’s blue eyes, staring into my pupils. I jerk my head, drifting back into my abyss, unable to pull myself out of my suffering.
He caught me, I knew he would.
Another gentle tug on my arm, and the blue eyes turn to brown. This time, I notice long eyelashes and a baseball cap staring back at me. The sandy blond hair of The Mole has been replaced with brown hair and olive skin.
Trembling, I blink, my hands moving over my belly, checking to see if the baby’s still there. I feel wetness between my legs, liquid pooling there, my thighs covered in stickiness.
My left side feels like a boulder’s weighing it down, like I’m smashed underneath something heavy. Gasping, I notice my left arm’s twisted at an odd angle, the bone jutting out of the skin. I try to move away from the pressure. Bad choice, since my legs are Jell-O.
“Hi, I’m Max.” His voice is almost too soft to understand. “Do you know where you are?”
I don’t respond, cradling my arm as I wince at the pain. I try to focus on that, but a cramping sensation starts in my low back and intensifies, my teeth gritting in agony.
His hand clutches me as I try and reach down, feeling between my legs, a dark spot pooling what’s left of the nightgown. My eyes are frantic as I realize that the baby’s in danger and I’m about two feet from going over another rock wall. The steep drop would no doubt be fatal. His eyes drift down, shocked at the bleeding coming from my lower region.
“I’m pregnant.” I manage to croak, trying to sit up.
“You’re pregnant?” He’s baffled, my body anorexic-looking, my limbs resembling thin sticks.
“You better stay down.” The guy named Max puts his hands on my elbow. “I tried to call for an ambulance, but there’s no cell service here. I’m gonna walk back out and try again.”
“No,” I scream, “you can’t.” I flail, looking around. “Where is he?”
“Who?”
“The Mole, where is he?” A wave of panic propels me forward.
“Argh….” I scream in agony.
“I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” He’s confused. “Were you with someone before you fell? You’ve got some nasty cuts that will need stitches and…” he examines my dangling left arm, “that’s definitely broken. Potentially a concussion.”
He tries to keep the horror off his face as he tries not to gasp. “Are these cigarette burns?” My body is covered in scars from The Mole’s lighter.
“They’re nothing.” I murmur.
“They don’t look like nothing.”
“I need your help.” My eyes dart around. “I have to make sure I’m safe from him.”
“From whoever did this to you?”
I stare at the sand-colored wall. “Where am I?”
“A ledge on the side of the lava rocks.” He points upward. “There’s a cliff above us, this is the lower part.”
“Honolulu?” I ask. “How far from Waikiki Beach?”
“You’re not far from the beach, thirty minutes or so.”
“He could come back for me.”
“I didn’t see anyone come up here.”
“Where can I hide? He could be waiting for me.” Trying to think through my pain, I ask, “Are there multiple ways up this trail?”
“Yeah, there’s a couple paths,” he says. “But it’s a decent hike, so a lot of people don't go to the top. We’re about halfway up. I came up here to hike and camp.” He shrugs. “Just my backpack and a sleeping bag.”
“Any weapons?”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Shaking my head, I groan, “No, to protect us from him.”
“A hunting knife.” He looks at my broken body. “I’m going to go try to reach someone.”
“No hospitals,” I say.
An unreadable expression crosses his face. “I’ll be right back.” Terror-stricken, fearful I’ll be left here, I whisper, “Please don’t leave me, I need help.”
“I’m not leaving you, promise.” He sets his canteen next to me. “I’ll leave this here so you know I’ll be back. I’ve gotta get you and your baby help.”
Max starts to walk towards an opening in the cave. Pausing over his shoulder, he asks, “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Bridget… I…I…” I can’t breathe, contractions tremoring through my body. “Baby, don’t let him take the baby,” I manage to say before I lose consciousness.
38
Blair
I’m calmer when I get back to my apartment, Priscilla a mere annoyance. I pound on Marge’s door, wanting to know her thoughts on this. She answers on the third knock, knowing it’s me and not some drunkard from downstairs.
“Hiya, kid, what’s up?” Marge
is old enough to be my grandma, but she dresses like she’s twenty-five and acts it most of the time.
Except when it comes to her business.
Tonight she’s wearing a red sequin mini-skirt and a see-through black blouse, black suede boots that stop at her knees.
“It’s bingo night,” she explains. “I gotta call out the numbers.”
I just shake my head.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” she says.
I sink down on her worn tan leather couch. Pickles circles around my legs in greeting.
“I pretty much did.” I add, “Priscilla.”
She whistles through her teeth. “Really? Praise be! I thought she’d moved up to her glass house by now, the way she throws stones.”
Marge is familiar with Priscilla, the year of AA a constant battle that involved long conversations about my parents, particularly my mother.
I tell her Priscilla’s offer.
She sits down on a bar stool and faces me. “What do you want to do?”
I shake my head. “I’m torn. It’s not like I haven’t looked for Bristol.”
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Then what will going there accomplish?”
“She wants me to investigate.”
“But the FBI, the police, they have. No offense to your skills, kiddo, but what the fuck are you going to do that you haven’t or they haven’t?”
“I know. That is my dilemma.”
“Whatever happened to those boys they accused of kidnapping her?”
“They had to release them. They had no proof.” I pick at a nail. “I only found one on Facebook, the other is either in prison, silent, or hates technology.”
“You have to do what you think is best.”
“What about my job? And our arrangement?” Marge had offered me a job, on the condition that I work at least forty hours a week managing the bar, I don’t steal, and I don’t date losers. I also can’t drink or imbibe on any drugs.
With my menial salary, I get free rent and all the Pepsi products I can stomach.
“Don’t worry about your apartment. It’s fine.” Marge shrugs her shoulders. “I’m worried about you, kiddo. I don’t want you falling off the wagon.”
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“You should.” She gives me a tight smile. “If you head down that dark of a path again, can you steer clear of those habits that trip you up?”
Looking at her clock chiming on the wall, I notice the time. “Shit, I gotta get down to the bar.” I give Pickles a quick rub and her a peck on the cheek. “Enjoy your bingo numbers.”
“Blair?” She cautions as I head out. “Your sister has been missing for ten years. But so have you. Don’t harm yourself on the imagination of your mother. You’ve already paid the price.”
I nod, she’s right. Not everything in life has a successful outcome. I set the box on the top shelf of my closet and head down to the bar. As I’m pouring drinks and writing down food orders, I consider what Priscilla and Marge both said.
Texting Priscilla on my smoke break later, I thank her for the offer, wish her luck on her chemo, and tell her I’ll expedite the money back.
Her only response. “I shouldn’t have given up on you, please don’t give up on her.”
Stubbing out my cigarette angrily with my black boot, her attempt at reverse psychology pissing me off, I block her on my phone. I set boundaries that my therapist would be proud of. I don’t need any more messages affirming what we've always known.
I’m a loser.
That night I toss and turn, my nightmares taking on a different form. Usually it’s water of some kind I’m drowning in – a bathtub, the lake, an ocean.
Now, I wake up to Bristol being tossed in a shallow grave, arms reaching up. A nightgown drapes her, the color pink surrounding her face.
Pink roses? I wonder, my forehead clammy.
I slide open my closet doors, pulling the smooth black box out. I wrestle the key from my old jewelry stand, a corner one that’s mirrored with drawers clothed in velvet. It was my graduation present from high school from my parents. The key’s still hidden in the second drawer from the last, small and tiny, insignificant-looking.
Yet it means the world to me.
Firing up my laptop, I open my own Pandora’s box. I look through the names and notes, some photocopied from the police file, others handwritten from myself, Mark, or Goodman. Flipping through pages, I find the orange wristband of the bar we were at - The Ocean Club, the club everyone denied seeing us at.
There's a photocopy of a receipt – Will Loomis’ eighty-nine dollar bar tab.
The date on the paper says the twenty-fifth. I’m confused, until I remember Will didn't pay the bill, they had to charge it after the fact.
The bartender. The DJ.
Maybe they can still remember something?
It’s worth a shot.
I'm microwaving a Hot Pocket, my preferred dinner since I don't like to cook, when my cell rings.
It's an unknown number.
Priscilla.
Another attempt to put me down and guilt trip me. She must’ve realized I blocked her when it repeatedly went to voicemail.
I’m tempted to ignore the call, except it could be Marge with more questions.
I pick up, but before I can say hello, a man says my name, one I haven't heard since our tense parting when I slid into a taxi all those years ago.
"Blair?"
"Yeah?"
Relief's palpable in his voice. "Thank God you never changed your number."
"I couldn't." I sigh. "In case she ever got found..."
"It's been years with nothing. I know it's the waiting that’s the worst."
"My mother seems to think she's alive.” I grab a dirty plate out of the sink. “I think she's crazy."
"That's why I'm calling." Mark Matsen lowers his voice.
I wipe it off, rinsing yesterday’s crumbs, ignoring the thump of my chest.
"Blair, I have to preface what I’m about to tell you – this isn't public knowledge yet. I only found out since Goodman's replacement called and I do some P.I. work on the side for them.”
I grip the counter, the smell of burning ham and cheese filling the small studio.
"A hiker found a girl today. It’s believed to be someone who went missing recently, Bridget Masterson.”
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
"She’s dead?'
"Right now, unconscious."
I inhale sharply. My heart starts palpitating, beating out of my chest as if a marching band is practicing in my sternum.
"But there's more...” He pauses, "Blair? Can you sit down for me?"
Sliding down the counter, hitting the floor with a thud, I rest my head against the marred oak cabinets. "I am now."
"Blair, they found bones. Lots of them that they believe to be from different individuals. They have to go in for examination and testing, but it looks like many have been hidden for years." Mark hesitates. "I'm wondering with the likeness to your sister and where Bridget was found if they might be related."
"So you're saying there's a chance my sister might be… part of the group?" My face drains of color. ”She’s dead?” I whisper. Saying it aloud after this kind of news feels different than saying it to Priscilla.
This is actual proof.
"No, I’m not saying it’s her,” Mark reiterates. “There’s a possibility, and I wanted you to hear it from me first. I’ve never given up on this case.”
I’m only half-listening, my mind racing. "I need to come there,” I say. “I need to find the killer. Did they catch him? Was it Will? Or Nicholas?"
"No suspects yet. A hiker discovered Bridget and a search by investigators led to the discovery in a cave. It was a fluke thing.”
"I know he did it. And he's just been continuing to kill all these years. That sonofabitch. Think how many girls could’ve been saved
.”
"We don't know that for sure."
"I'm coming there." I cross my arms over my chest.
"No, stay put, Blair. I need to be able to contact you and your mother.”
“That’s what cell phones are for.” I sigh. "Did you call her yet?"
"No, I called you first."
"I can't sit and wait for him or his friends to keep taking girls."
"If it’s her, you can be on the next plane.” Mark promises. “Wait until after the autopsies. They will test for prints, DNA, the works. Let us do our jobs in finding the asshole.”
He adds. “Besides, I’m not even there, I’m in the States visiting my daughter and grandchildren, but the department’s keeping me in the loop.”
I’m numb, frustrated at their lack of ability to find the murderer. He’s evaded them for at least a decade, maybe more. Who knows how long he’s been killing girls?
Priscilla thinks I haven’t tried – that I let Bristol die without a fight.
She has no idea the meticulous research I’ve done, the log of missing persons in Hawaii I’ve compiled going back two decades.
Some are runaways, others are reported missing but come home, a few are still out there, either displaced by their own accord or because they have no choice.
In 1998, I couldn't find out as much information on potential victims as I can today. The difference is that with time has come advances in technology.
Cameras.
Amber Alerts.
Everything is digital, and human nature prides itself on oversharing.
Twitter.
Facebook.
Instagram.
Snapchat.
Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way. The night of the twenty-fourth is lost. The block of time is too big to reconcile.
If Bridget was taken by the same person, there has to be a link between Bristol and her. Either a hotel, a restaurant, something they both did that put them in harm's way. In his way.
Or maybe it was completely random.
I have no leads with Bristol.
But Bridget’s another story.
Into the Night Page 27
