Into Thin Air

by Karen Leabo

  He ought to be plenty scared.

  As she pulled into a visitor’s parking place beside the one-story hospital, she reviewed her strategy. She would go soft at first, sympathetic to Chucky’s pain and to the dilemma he found himself in. She would emphasize that she wasn’t interested in his guilt or innocence, only with information that would help locate Amanda Arkin. And she would explain how helpful he could be in finding the lost girl—who could just as easily be his sister or his girlfriend—before any harm came to her.

  If Chucky was unmoved by the tender approach, she would threaten to stuff his IV bag down his throat.

  As it turned out, none of her carefully orchestrated tactics was necessary. Two men, casually but neatly dressed, approached her the moment she asked at the front desk for Chucky Hoffman’s room.

  “Are you...are you Corporal Triece?” the taller of the two asked, his disbelief evident. He was slim and attractive in a GQ sort of way, with perfectly styled, short blond hair, wire-rimmed glasses, manicured fingernails and a Bermuda tan. If it had been any day but Christmas, she decided, he would have been wearing a double-breasted suit instead of razor-creased khaki trousers and a designer flannel shirt.

  He had to be a lawyer.

  She rolled her eyes and showed him her badge, primed for another battle. When would she get a few gray hairs and a wrinkle or two?

  The man surprised her by flashing an oily smile. “I’m Barry Seddle, Chucky’s attorney. And this is Assistant DA John Calvin. We understand you’re interested in the car Chucky allegedly stole.”

  Allegedly, right. Caro nodded. “The car belongs to a Dallas teenager who’s been missing for several days. Anything Chucky can tell me about how and when he came into possession of the car—”

  “Alleged possession,” Barry reminded her.

  “—might help find the girl,” she continued without missing a beat.

  Barry adjusted his glasses. “Naturally, I would want Chuck to offer his full cooperation. However, the risk of his accidentally incriminating himself...”

  It didn’t take long for Caro to figure out the game here. She turned to the dapper, young ADA, who looked anything but happy to be hanging around the hospital when he could be home with his family. “Mr. Calvin, is it?”

  He nodded. Although neat and conservative-looking, he didn’t reek of wealth the way Barry Seddle did.

  “Amanda Arkin has been missing for four days,” she said, her tone deliberately grave. “Now that her car has turned up and she hasn’t, I have to suspect foul play. If Chucky knows anything, or if he saw anything, it could be the break I’m looking for. And it might be the difference between life and death for Amanda.” When she saw that her bit of melodrama had no effect on John Calvin, she added in a more matter-of-fact tone, “I really need for him to be honest with me—without watching every word he speaks.”

  “Well, there you go,” Barry said to John. “See, Chucky’s a witness in a possible murder case. Now, wouldn’t you like to help out the Dallas Police Department by granting Chucky immunity?”

  John’s mouth hardened into a thin line as he pondered the situation. Finally he spoke. “If Chucky offers Corporal Triece his full cooperation, and if he gives me what I want on that little bastard Dustin Upton, I’ll reduce the charge to...unlawful possession of an alcoholic beverage.”

  Barry smiled triumphantly. “Let me talk to Chucky and his dad.” He strolled off, leaving Caro to cool her heels in the waiting room with the ADA.

  They found a couple of uncomfortable plastic chairs.

  “You like working for the county?” she asked, more to fill the awkward silence than out of any real desire to know.

  He shrugged. “I’d rather put little scumbags like Upton and Hoffman in jail than defend them, even if the pay’s lousy. But I hate cutting deals.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. We haul ‘em in, and the defense lawyers get ‘em out.”

  There was another uncomfortable pause before John spoke again. “So you think the girl was murdered?”

  Caro shuddered as Russ Arkin’s chilling prediction about finding Amanda in a ditch came back to haunt her. “I’ll know more when I get the evidence report back on the car,” she replied as casually as she could manage. She wasn’t supposed to get emotionally involved in her cases, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t help dreading the possibility that Amanda would end up another Marcy Phelps. “From what the investigating officer tells me, there was no obvious blood other than a little of Chucky’s, no clothing, no purse. Just some empty beer cans.” And no body in the trunk. She’d asked about that first thing.

  “Who was the officer?” Calvin asked.

  “Breedlove.”

  “Tom. He’s a good man.”

  “I’m hoping Amanda just decided to ditch the car because she knew the police would be looking for it by now.” But in her gut, Caro knew that wasn’t the case.

  Barry returned a few minutes later, beaming. Chucky had agreed to the deal. He would be allowed to plead guilty to the lesser charge, provided he cooperated fully in all questioning. Caro wanted the first shot.

  Considering that Chucky’s partner in crime hadn’t sustained even a scratch in the accident, Caro wasn’t prepared for how bad a shape this kid was in. He had a full cast on one arm, a splint on one leg, and a face that looked like someone had stuffed his head into a food processor. Yesterday he’d probably been a good-looking boy—and would be again, once his plastic surgeon got done, she reminded herself. This was no time to get soft.

  Officer Breedlove showed up in time to sit in on the questioning, and of course Barry Seddle was there, too. Chucky, nervous at first, calmed down after repeated reassurances from his lawyer. Then he spilled his guts.

  “Me and Upton, we was just messin’ around, you know, playing chicken on the railroad trestle.”

  “Chicken?” Caro repeated.

  “Yeah. We’d stand in the middle of the bridge and wait for a train, then see who ran first. Ah, you won’t tell my mom that part, will you?”

  “No,” she assured him. “And what time was this?”

  “I dunno, before midnight, I think. We had some beer Upton stole from his icebox at home. His dad drinks tons.”

  Caro was uninterested in this part. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, we saw these car lights down on the riverbank, where there’s not even a road. So we got closer, you know, thinking maybe some guy was parking there with his chick and we’d give ‘em a scare. But then this guy got out and we didn’t know him, so—”

  “Are you sure you didn’t know him?” Caro asked. “It must have been pretty dark.”

  “There was a moon. Anyway, we couldn’t see him that good, but we sure didn’t know the car, so we figured we didn’t know the guy.”

  Caro accepted that explanation for now. “Okay, go on.”

  “Well, he got out of the car, and then he pulled a handkerchief or something out of his pocket and started polishing the car—like you do right after you wash it, to get all the water spots off. We laughed about that, ‘cause it was so muddy down there there the car was just gonna get dirty again.”

  Caro swallowed. The mysterious man had obviously been wiping the car clean of fingerprints. Hell.

  “Then the guy opens the door again, and he reaches inside and puts the car in gear and starts to push it. And we realized he was trying to sink it in the river. But then it got stuck in the mud and it wouldn’t go any farther. He pushed it and pulled it and even got in and tried to drive it, but it was stuck good. Then he took off running through the woods.”

  “What did you do then?” Caro asked.

  “We figured the car had to be stolen or maybe used in a bank robbery or something, and we thought there might be a reward. So we found some old boards and got it unstuck from the mud. And since the keys were in it, we thought we’d just drive it back up to the highway.”

  “Who was driving?” Tom Breedlove asked.

  Caro shot him a warning look.
What the hell did she care who was driving? But these people had their own agenda—nailing Dustin Upton, who did not seem to be a popular teenager among the legal and law enforcement communities of Taryton—so she bit her tongue.

  “Oh, Upton drove,” Chucky said without any further prompting.

  Breedlove smiled. “Sorry, Corporal,” he said to Caro.

  Caro continued her questions. The kids had intended to turn the car in, but somehow they never did. The two six-packs of beer they’d consumed—the empties found in the car—might have impaired their judgment a wee bit.

  “Now, this is really important, Chucky,” she said when he’d ended his story with a graphic description of how the car had become wrapped around a telephone pole. “The guy who ditched the car—what did he look like? I know you said you couldn’t see him real well, but anything you can remember would help.”

  Chucky thought for a moment. “He was big—real big.”

  “You mean, fat?”

  “No, I mean big like a football player. And he had a kind of round face.”

  “Was he white? Black?”

  “White. And his hair was medium-colored, you know, not black or blond. And it was sort of choppy, like he must have cut it himself or something.”

  Caro took furious notes. This was better than she’d expected. “And his clothes?”

  “Baggy. Baggy jeans, or overalls, maybe, and a big jacket, like a ski jacket. Blue or brown, maybe.”

  Caro looked to see that Breedlove was taking notes, too. “You got that?”

  “I’ll put the description out right away,” he said.

  She smiled back at Chucky. “That’s really good. You have a good memory. Is there anything else? Shoes? Gloves?”

  Chucky closed his eyes, as if trying to visualize. “Gloves, I just remembered that. Work gloves, like my dad wears in his shop. I don’t remember his shoes. He was standing behind the car most of the time, and they would have been muddy, anyway.”

  They went over everything again, but Chucky could add little to the details he’d already given. Caro promised she would tell the DA that Chucky had cooperated marvelously, and the boy almost smiled.

  She and Tom Breedlove rode together in his car to the river bank where Chucky said the mysterious man had abandoned Amanda’s car. Although it had rained the previous night, the deep tire tracks left by the Cavalier at the river’s edge were still plain. Any footprints, however, had been obliterated. And there were no other obvious clues lying around. Still, Breedlove promised to get an evidence person over to comb the site. She suspected that in a department the size of Taryton’s that person might be Breedlove himself.

  It was almost dark. Caro sneezed as she climbed back into Breedlove’s cruiser. Her last dose of cold medicine was wearing off. She fished in her purse for a tissue, and suddenly she realized she was bone-tired. She longed to be home in front of her TV, watching some inane Christmas special.

  On the long drive home, it occurred to her that the sketchy description of the suspect Chucky had provided could fit a lot of people. And one of those people—six-foot-two, two hundred and twenty pounds, already a star on his college football team—was Scott Humphrey.

  * * *

  How could her father have done this to her? Amanda asked herself over and over as she lay on her cot, her stomach rumbling with hunger. She’d known he was opposed to abortion, but to resort to kidnapping and putting her into a virtual prison? That wasn’t the Daddy she knew.

  It was kind of ironic that if she’d had just a few more hours, she would have told her father about her decision to keep the baby, and this nightmare could have been prevented.

  If he understood what a hellhole this place was, and how cruel Odell was, he wouldn’t leave her here. It was Christmas Day, for God’s sake, and she’d been allowed nothing but oatmeal since last night’s green-bean uproar. Why hadn’t her father at least called her?

  The only thing that kept her sane was the tapping on her pipes. She and her mysterious tapper had kept it up for almost an hour, repeating patterns. It had been reassuring to connect with one of the other girls, but they’d been unable to truly communicate. Amanda had tried Morse code, which she’d learned so she could pass her ham radio operator’s test, but the other girl hadn’t caught on.

  She heard the scrape of the deadbolt. Oh, joy, more leftovers. Or maybe she was being allowed another trip to the bathroom. But it was Henry who opened the door.

  “Aunt Odell says you can come eat Christmas dinner if you promise to behave like a lady,” he said in a deadpan voice.

  So, Henry was Odell’s nephew. She pondered his invitation for all of five seconds. “Okay, no problem.” She would curtsy and apologize to Odell if it meant a chance at real food. Even green beans were starting to sound good.

  As she walked out the door and past Henry, he stopped her with a hand to her arm, then softly touched her hair. “You have pretty hair,” he said in a gentle voice.

  “Uh, thanks,” Amanda said nervously, then slipped out of his grasp. She skittered down the hall well ahead of him.

  Amanda’s outlook improved considerably when she sat down at the long plank table. The turkey dinner smelled heavenly. And Odell actually smiled at her.

  They all bowed their heads as Odell said grace. During the interminable prayer, Amanda felt a sharp kick under the table. She managed not to yelp, but she did crack one eye open. The very pregnant girl across from her—Terri?—was staring straight at her, and she looked like she was holding back a grin.

  What the—?

  Then Amanda understood. Terri’s foot found Amanda’s again, gently this time, and she tapped out “shave and a haircut, two bits” with her toe.

  So Terri was Amanda’s restless upstairs neighbor.

  When the prayer ended Amanda started to smile at Terri in earnest, but the other girl gave her a stern warning frown and an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  The girls weren’t allowed to talk during mealtimes, but surely smiling wasn’t taboo! Still, Amanda heeded the warning. Terri had obviously been here awhile, if the size of her pregnant stomach was any indication.

  She would have enjoyed the turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and corn a lot more if Terri had let her. But the girl was determined to communicate something. Each time she thought she could get away with it, she would form a letter with her fingers.

  E-c-s-a...what the heck did that mean? Amanda wondered.

  Terri had to stop when Odell asked her to help clear the table. But during dessert—a mouth-watering pecan pie—Terri resumed her gesticulating: P-e. Ecsape? Oh, escape! So, Terri was a bad speller.

  It suddenly dawned on Amanda what Terri was trying to tell her. She thought they should try to escape. Ha, fat chance. Amanda had seen the chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that surrounded this place. She’d seen Odell’s shotgun and her two guard dogs. What chance did any of them have against those odds? Sure, she’d like to get out of here, but she’d just as soon not get shot or maimed in the process.

  Escape. She shook her head at Terri.

  Terri became very agitated after that, so much so that Odell asked her if she needed to visit the ladies’ room.

  “No, ma’am,” she replied distractedly. The moment Odell’s attention was off her, Terri started with the letters again. O-r-w-e-d-i—

  “Terri, what are you doing?” Odell demanded.

  Amanda’s heart jumped into her throat.

  “My hands itch,” Terri complained without missing a beat. “They always do in cold weather.”

  Odell sighed. “I’ll give you some hand lotion before bedtime.”

  Terri didn’t risk any further communications. Amanda tried to make sense of the aborted message. Orwedi. Or wedi. Or we di. Or we...die? Escape or we die.

  A chill ran through Amanda, and the pipe tappings took on a new significance. They would have to do better than “shave and a haircut” if she wanted to learn more about Terri’s mysterious warning. Morse cod
e was the way to go, but how could she teach it to Terri?

  Odell surprised everyone by passing out a small wrapped gift to each of the girls. Amanda was less pleased with the two pairs of pastel socks than she was with the wrapping paper. Surreptitiously she tore off a small piece, no bigger than a baseball card, and shoved it into her pocket.

  She wondered where she would ever find a pen or pencil. Fortunately, Odell unwittingly provided that, too. After the meal was completed, the dishes cleared and the wrapping paper thrown out, Odell sent all of the girls to their rooms for the night. All but Amanda.

  As soon as they were alone, Odell set a piece of paper and a pen on the table in front of Amanda. “Are you truly sorry for the way you behaved yesterday, Amanda?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Odell patted her on the shoulder. “Well, we’ll consider it forgotten, if you’ll just do one more thing for me. I want you to write a letter to your father. In it, you’ll explain that you need some time alone, that you’re safe, warm, dry and well fed, and he’s not to worry about you.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what to write, and you write it,” Odell persisted, forcibly placing the pen in Amanda’s hand.

  Amanda’s next words were barely above a whisper. “You told me my dad knew where I was. But he doesn’t, does he?”

  Odell didn’t answer the question. “We’ll sit here until that letter is written,” she said instead. “All night, if we have to.”

  Amanda didn’t doubt it. “Okay,” she said, forcing herself to sound meek and beaten. “I’ll write whatever you want me to. But...could I go to the bathroom first? All that wonderful food on such an empty stomach...” She let the sentence trail off meaningfully.

  Odell pursed her lips together in displeasure. “All right. You can use the one right off the kitchen.” She escorted Amanda all the way to the bathroom door—to be sure she didn’t get into the kitchen knives, no doubt. But Odell didn’t seem to notice that Amanda still held the pen clutched in her hand.

  As soon as she had some privacy, Amanda made use of the facilities, in case Odell was listening. At the same time, she pulled the piece of wrapping paper out of her pocket and smoothed it out on the tank lid, then began writing on the back as fast as she could: A, dot dash. B, dash dot dot dot...