by Karen Leabo
“Ran off? And the police couldn’t find her?”
“Apparently not.”
Virginia vaguely remembered hearing something about the girl being missing for a while. She hadn’t paid very close attention, though.
“I count Marcy as one of my failures,” Odell went on, “although I did accomplish my primary goal. By the time she left here, she was too far along to have an abortion.”
Bully for you, Virginia wanted to say. Poor Marcy. She probably would have had a better life if she’d never heard of Odell. Now she didn’t have a life at all. And the poor baby. What had become of it?
“Won’t you reconsider, about the names?” Odell asked in her most wheedling voice. “Don’t think of yourself, think of the babies you’re saving.”
“No. Our association is finished.”
Odell sucked in a sharp breath. “I could ruin you, you know. If I went to your boss—”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Don’t be too sure. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve done nothing illegal or immoral. You, on the other hand...” Her words trailed off, and she let her silence speak for her.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Virginia finally said, galled that she was being blackmailed by the likes of Odell, whose last name she didn’t even know.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Virginia hung up and blotted her damp forehead with a tissue. Christ, she’d never thought her lucrative little side business would get so complicated.
* * *
“Has that Arkin girl shown up yet?” Tony asked as he swiveled his chair to face Caro’s desk, again stuffing bubblegum into his mouth. Green-apple flavored, this time.
“Not yet. I talked to the psychologist she was seeing, Virginia Dreyfus. She said Amanda was very mixed up. She wanted an abortion, but she’d been raised Catholic.”
“That’s a problem, all right,” Tony commented dryly. “What else did the shrink say?”
“Precious little. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear Amanda had disappeared, though. She said Amanda probably needed to get away from her father’s pressure tactics and make the decision on her own.”
“I thought Arkin told you he was being very supportive, no matter what Amanda decided.”
Caro sighed. “Yeah. I guess I can’t hold that against him. His idea of supportive might be very different from Amanda’s, though. He’s remembering what he wants to remember. What I do hold against him is those damn fliers he put up, offering the ten-thousand-dollar reward. Suddenly Amanda’s being spotted at every Burger King and bowling alley from Plano to Oak Cliff. But given the slim progress I’ve made so far, I’ve had to follow every damn one of those leads.”
“You don’t have anything else solid?”
Caro shook her head dismally. “I’ve checked all of her favorite hangouts, right down to the library and her church. No one’s seen her or the car. Her friends seem surprised over her disappearance, and none of them has any idea where she would go. There’s been no activity in her checking account, which isn’t surprising. Her balance is under ten dollars. Nothing on the credit cards, either, but it’s early yet. The Denton police are cooperating, looking for leads up where she went to school. So far, nothing.”
“What about the boyfriend?”
Caro gave an unladylike snort. “Oh, yes, Scott. He’s so concerned, he went off on a skiing vacation with his family.”
“So you haven’t talked to him?”
“Can’t find him. But according to his friends he’s due back home on Tuesday. Want to come with me when I question him?” Caro usually worked on her own, as did all of the Missing Persons investigators, but there were times she enjoyed having Tony and his black, intimidating glares with her.
“My pleasure,” Tony said with an evil smile.
* * *
Chloe Krill bottle-fed her sleepy newborn as she read the Metropolitan section, spread out over the kitchen table. The article about poor Marcy Phelps fascinated her, and she read it over and over. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d heard the name before. Maybe she’d read something about the girl when she’d first disappeared.
Normally, Chloe didn’t share her husband’s morbid curiosity about crime news. Don was on the city council, so she supposed he had a legitimate need to stay up on that kind of thing. But she was usually much too busy with her charity work and running her household to pay attention to the news. Sometimes she scanned the society pages, to see if she or one of her friends were pictured, and the food section for new recipes, but that was about it.
Her habits had changed, however, since Justin’s arrival a week ago. Now she was homebound. She hadn’t realized, until she undertook the care of her newly adopted son, how addicted she was to her freedom to come and go as she pleased. Why, before Justin, she could, on a whim, hop in her car to visit friends, have lunch at the country club or indulge in an afternoon shopping spree.
It wasn’t that Chloe was bored. Justin kept her plenty busy, so busy that she was already thinking about hiring a nanny for him. But she craved contact with the outside world. Thus, her newfound interest in the newspaper.
Although there were a terrifying number of heinous crimes detailed in the paper, the Marcy Phelps case held a special fascination for Chloe. Perhaps it was because Marcy had died in childbirth.
Chloe could relate to that. She had been pregnant three times. The first two pregnancies had ended in miscarriage; the third child had been stillborn, and his birth had nearly killed her. Thank God she’d had the very best in medical care, or she, too, might have ended up like poor Marcy.
How very lucky she was, Chloe thought as she gazed down lovingly at her new son. His tiny rosebud mouth was lax now as he slept. She set the bottle down and gently blotted a drop of formula from his chin.
After losing three babies, Chloe had all but given up on being a mother. Her doctor had cautioned her not to risk another pregnancy. She was thirty-five, and Don, forty-five; adoption agencies considered them too old to qualify for a healthy white baby. Even those agencies that would put the Krills on a waiting list had said it would be years before they could adopt.
A chance comment Don had made to their attorney, Travis Beaman, about their frustration had spurred Travis to help. He had made several discreet inquiries among his associates and clients, and one of them had come up with a pregnant teenage daughter who desperately wanted to give up her baby to wealthy, caring parents like the Krills.
The arrangements hadn’t been made cheaply, but was anything cheap these days? Chloe would have been willing to pay anything, anything, for a baby of her own. She’d hardly blinked as Don had written out the check for forty-eight thousand dollars and change, which covered legal and medical fees. And she hadn’t asked too many questions, even though she’d suspected that her own husband knew more than she did about the circumstances surrounding Justin’s birth. Don had cautioned her, once, not to rock the boat, and she’d kept her mouth closed.
Chloe stood slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping baby, intent on closing the newspaper and taking Justin to his crib for his afternoon nap. But some odd compulsion made her pause and read over the article about Marcy Phelps yet again.
The body had been found on Wednesday, and the medical examiner said she’d been dead for about a week. That meant she’d given birth on or about December 13—which was exactly Justin’s birthdate.
This realization really bothered Chloe. Here was Justin, safe, warm and loved, while out there somewhere, Marcy Phelps’s baby, born on the same day, was in God-knew-who’s hands, possibly cold, hungry, in danger.
Chloe’s eyes moistened with tears. Why would anyone hide the birth of an unwanted child when there were thousands of parents, just like her and Don, who would welcome a baby with open arms? Someone would give that Phelps girl’s baby a happy home, if only the child could be found. This was so senseless.
Marcy Phelps. Marcy. Miss Phelps. Is that where she’d heard the name?
Whispered between her husband and her lawyer? Or murmured on one of the many occasions when Don talked in his sleep?
She studied the picture of Marcy Phelps—smiling, happy, just a baby herself. Then she looked down at Justin’s chubby cheeks and blond peach fuzz. Her gaze darted back and forth between the black-and-white photo and her own sleeping child.
Suddenly she realized she was looking for a resemblance.
A sick feeling began in the pit of her stomach, working its way slowly toward her throat.
Chapter 3
Terri Zamasko watched the new girl carefully, always on the lookout for an ally. Odell had called the girl Amanda. She seemed older than most of the others here, even older than Terri herself, and hopefully that meant she wasn’t as naive as the others, either. Honestly, Terri couldn’t believe how easily the old lady led these morons toward the slaughter like a bunch of sheep.
Odell sat at the head of the long, rough-plank dinner table. Amanda sat to her immediate left, sullenly chewing on her roast beef and new potatoes. She sported a fresh bruise under her left eye, marring an otherwise flawless face. Terri wondered what other bruises were on Amanda’s body.
The routine was the same for every new girl, as far as Terri could figure. She was brought in unconscious and locked in her room. When she woke up she screamed and hollered or cried for hours, but eventually she would quiet down, exhausted, hungry. If she promised to behave, she was allowed to enter into a more normal routine, which included group meals, outdoor exercise, work details and occasionally some television.
If the girl refused to cooperate, she was kept isolated. If she was rude or insolent to Odell, she might even get a slap or two. The really unmanageable girls were treated to a stint in the dungeon—the dank, filthy cellar. It didn’t take any girl long in that place to see the light.
The slaps weren’t that bad. Hell, Terri’s old man had occasionally roughed her up worse than Odell did. It was the food given to her when she was in isolation that finally did Terri in. While subsisting on cold, unappetizing leftovers—and little enough of them—she kept smelling beef stew, corn on the cob and mouth-watering baked goods. After two days, she had finally decided that her chances of getting out of this hellhole would be better if she were allowed out of isolation.
Most of the girls reached this conclusion after only a few hours. Terri had held the record, until Amanda. Amanda had remained locked in her room for almost three days.
That fact was encouraging to Terri. The other factor that played into her hands was that Amanda had taken over Marcy’s old room, right under Terri’s. The floors and walls of this big old farmhouse were thickly insulated, so Terri hadn’t been able to understand what all was said between Amanda and Odell. But she heard every time Amanda pitched a screaming fit, which had been often. And if the girl was as smart as she looked, Terri would be able to communicate with her.
Terri listened with half an ear to Odell, who was at this moment preaching from the Bible. Today was Christmas Eve, and that gave the old woman lots of material to brainwash with. Sooner or later she would ask Terri a question, and if Terri didn’t know the answer, she wouldn’t get her dessert. Normally that didn’t matter, but she’d smelled cherry pie, her favorite, coming from the kitchen.
Odell, however, wasn’t of a mind to pick on Terri tonight. Her sights were set on the new girl. She stopped mid-sentence and laid down her Bible. “Amanda, you aren’t eating your green beans.”
“I don’t like green beans,” she mumbled, her eyes downcast.
“That’s unfortunate, because you have to eat them. You want the best nutrition for your baby, right?”
This time Amanda looked up, her blue eyes staring daggers into Odell’s body. “I won’t eat green beans,” she said, clearly enunciating every word. “They make me throw up.”
Terri could almost see the steam rising off Odell’s face, which was turning an unbecoming shade of red. Slowly she came out of her chair and then she struck like a snake, grabbing Amanda’s arm and jerking her off the end of the bench.
“You dare criticize the bounty the good Lord has provided for you? You have a roof over your head and a decent meal in front of you. God has seen fit to save you from committing mortal sin. You have no right to be ungrateful. Now, you will apologize to me and to the other girls for disturbing this wonderful meal, and you’ll eat every green bean on that plate.”
“Like hell.”
The other girls kept their eyes downcast and continued eating, but Terri stared in wide-eyed admiration. She’d hardly ever seen anyone talk back to the old witch like that. She could tell Odell was itching to slap Amanda, but she seldom did that in front of witnesses. She probably didn’t want to engender any sympathy from the other girls.
Instead she turned to her helper, the hulking Henry, who was as loyal as Odell’s dogs but certainly not as smart. He wasn’t retarded, exactly, but there seemed to be something definitely wrong with him, the way he talked to himself and made those weird faces. “Henry, take Amanda to her room, please. Apparently she needs a few more lessons in humility.”
Henry, who was seated at the other end of the table shoveling down his food, now stood and impassively moved around to take Amanda by the arm. When she resisted, he just pulled a little harder until she was forced to follow him or be dragged. His moon face registered little expression except a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Terri suspected he enjoyed exercising his brawn.
Odell sat back down with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the Three Wise Men. Terri, can you tell me what gifts the Magi brought to the Christ child?”
For once Terri knew the answer. But she realized she would be blowing a golden opportunity if she gave the correct response. With a small pang of remorse for that cherry pie, she answered, “Oh, I think they brought some sheep, so Mary could make a wool blanket to keep him warm.” At Odell’s outraged expression, Terri added, “Well, damn it, I know you said something about sheep.”
“Young lady, have we not talked about the use of profanity?”
Odell wasn’t mad enough, Terri decided. “Yeah, you’ve talked my goddamn ear off about it!”
That did it. For the second time that night, Odell’s complexion approached purple. “Henry!” she bellowed.
Henry shuffled into the dining room, having just returned from his first mission. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Take Terri to her room, also. And the next girl who shows such disrespect will get worse.”
Henry clamped his beefy hand around Terri’s arm. She made a show of resentment, but only until she was out of Odell’s sight. This was exactly what she’d wanted. If she were to have any chance of establishing communication with Amanda, she would have to do it when everyone was busy somewhere else.
Henry more or less threw Terri into her room and slammed the door. She listened to the scrape of the deadbolt and the sound of Henry’s scuffing footsteps retreating down the hall. Then all was quiet.
Terri turned on the light and put her ear to the floor. Nothing.
Quickly she sat on the bed and pulled off one of her shoes, an ugly oxford Odell had provided when Terri’s running shoes, which she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped, had fallen apart. The shoe was utterly unfashionable, but it did possess one redeeming quality: a hard heel with a sharp corner. Terri had often fantasized about using the shoe as a weapon; this was the next best thing.
In one corner of her room, which was next to the bathroom, a set of water pipes protruded, covered with pink insulation. Terri carefully removed the insulation, so that she could put it back when she was done with her experiment. Presumably the pipes extended into Amanda’s room as well.
Terri gave one of the pipes a sharp whack with her shoe. It gave a resounding, satisfying clang. Worried that she might alert someone other than Amanda, she put a little less oomph into the next strike, finding a volume that pleased her.
Now, how would Amanda distinguish Terri’s clangs from the norma
l protests of the old pipes? The only thing she could think of was “shave and a haircut, two bits.” Surely anyone would recognize that. She clanged out the first five beats, then waited.
Nothing.
She did it again. “C’mon, Amanda,” she murmured, “wake up and smell the coffee.”
Still nothing.
She tried a third, fourth and fifth time. She was about to give up, concluding that Amanda either couldn’t hear her or was ignoring her like the other girls, when she heard a tentative clunk, clunk.
Hallelujah! Communication at last. She had no idea where to proceed from here, but she did know that somehow, she and Amanda would learn how to talk through this tenuous link they had found.
* * *
It was Christmas Day, the happiest day of the year if you had family and friends with whom you could eat turkey and dressing, rip open packages, sing carols and watch football. But for Caro it was a depressing day. The weather, chilly and overcast, matched her mood, and the cold she’d picked up didn’t help matters.
She had decided to work straight through Christmas, afraid that if she abandoned her vigil over the phone, even for a day, she would miss the break she was looking for in the Arkin case. Not that she would miss much at home. She didn’t have a tree. She might have sat alone in front of the fireplace, nursing a cup of eggnog, opening the presents her parents had sent from Florida, and letting her cat play with the ribbons. It wasn’t a pretty picture, and though she was due a holiday, she preferred keeping herself busy.
But her vigilance wasn’t paying off. Although she had dutifully followed several more leads, courtesy of Russ Arkin’s infernal fliers, all had been dead ends. Signs were pointing to foul play; if something didn’t break today, she would have to concede defeat and turn the case over to CAPERS.
She popped another cold pill, washed it down with hot tea, then blew her nose and tossed the tissue into her overflowing trash can. She had a new batch of cases to work on. One was another runaway—a boy, this time. He’d split twice before, and both times Caro had found him bunking with his older brother in San Antonio. She had no reason to believe this time would be different.
