Crossed

by Meredith Doench

  “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  Kaitlin’s lies about Sambino have pushed us back hours in the investigation. But mostly I’m angry at myself. How did I let this doe-eyed little creature trick me into ignoring her as a connection? Kaitlin had been the one to originally tie Sambino to the photography store, after all. Instead of recognizing that, I felt sorry for her and her struggles with her sexuality. “If you are willing to do something for us, I’ll see about getting the charges dropped.”

  “Charges?”

  “This is serious business. You’ve taken money and been a part of desecrating corpses, not to mention interfering with a state murder investigation.”

  Tears spring into her wide eyes and all I see is Kaitlin’s frailness, her dainty features that look so weak. Despite what my head tells me, my heart softens. She looks so beautiful before me, so broken.

  “I’ll do my best to help you.” I lean toward her and press my open hand on the top of the wooden table to emphasize my slow deliberate words. “But absolutely no more secrets between us or the deal is off. Agreed?”

  She sniffs and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “I swear. No more secrets.”

  *

  I slip into the hotel bed with my hair still wet from the bath. I’m wrapped inside the Indigo Girls T-shirt that Rowan’s left behind. The well-loved fabric smells of her. True to form, Rowan left a few of her items tossed around the hotel room when she left for Dublin. Most days, Rowan’s habit of misplacing items annoys the heck out of me, but tonight it only makes me miss her more. In the dark, I call Rowan’s cell despite the late hour—she turns her ringer off when she goes to bed. The voice mail picks up and saves my short message: I miss you.

  I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Two FBI agents arrived this evening—a forensic psychologist and a team leader known as the tracker, a man who supposedly has tracked multiple serial killers over his years with the Bureau. So far, they haven’t taken over the case, only added themselves to the team. Earlier, Sanders called to explain that he was giving me professional lead on the case and waiting to come to Willow’s Ridge for a few days. “This is your chance,” he said. “Show those sons of bitches what you got, Hansen.” Thank God he doesn’t know about the mistakes I’ve made; he wouldn’t be giving me the benefit of representing our office.

  Not more than ten minutes later, I surrender to that deep well of sleep my body has been craving for days. The case has revved down the steady pitch that’s left my eardrums ringing with its siren call for the last week. There is nothing left to do until morning.

  *

  The gap between the shadow and the dark-haired girl narrowed. His rabbit-quick footsteps and lightness of stride proved he must have trained at some point in his life. The dark-haired girl pounded on until an exposed shaft of limestone caught her toe and tossed her forward. Catching herself before the fall, the shadow closed in. Only an arm’s length away, his grunting breaths barked at her back. As quick as one footfall to another, she changed course and charged directly to her left, away from the path.

  Darting between tree trunks as big as her body, the dark-haired girl tore through branches and gnarled vines that clawed at her summer-tanned skin and bit gashes that welted bright red. He trailed not far behind, slowed by the impact of a thick branch against a fleshy body part—a loud thwack that carried through the forest.

  She broke through the foliage to the rocky ledge and her feet slipped forward with the sudden stop and the forward momentum of her body. Her toes tipped over the edge toward what lay below: the deep quarry and water, at least twenty feet down. The shallow edges glinted up at her. She balanced on that precipice, gazing down.

  The dark shadow stopped a few steps behind her. He didn’t reach for her. She inched closer to the edge. He didn’t move.

  Suddenly, the dark-haired girl flailed her arms and kicked off the ledge for the center of that pool. Her arms spun wildly as layers of limestone flashed around her. Dropping fast, she scissor-kicked her legs through the surface of the cool water, plunging into the swirled depths of sudden quiet. Bubbles of oxygen floated up as the water became a container of safety for the dark-haired girl, a body able to take on wild fear. She stopped fighting. She sank lower and lower, the weight of the water a pillowy cushion.

  I wake, screaming at the top of my lungs. I reach for the lamp and it bangs to the floor. Rolling into a ball, I fold my legs in tight in the fetal position. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe. Huddled in the bed, my gaze falls on the murder board. The people that I love most are tied up with it: Marci with her murder, Rowan with her understanding of art, and my dad who saw me through the aftermath of finding Marci. My breath slowly settles into a gentle rhythm.

  A question suddenly occurs to me. Did the shadow jump into the quarry after me? I go back through the end of the dream, replaying it in my mind. I never heard his body plunge in. I never saw his shadow underneath the water. I never understood why images of water come when panic hits me or why the water feels like an encasement of safety. How many times a week do I sink under the surface in my mind when things get to be too much? How many times a month do I hear those oxygen bubbles float past me when stress and emotions overwhelm? The water—how could I have missed it? It has always been about the water.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Tuesday, January 15

  I’ve seen a lot of local jails in my career, but McCraken County has to be one of the most impressive facilities in Ohio. Much like the modern Willow’s Ridge police station that comes complete with a fully loaded workout room and state-of-the-art electronic equipment, the jail also has exercise machines, movement-activated cameras that record prisoners’ every move, and fancy electronic gates that work through staff fingerprints rather than codes.

  The visitation room is built in a large circular open space with tables scattered throughout. Sunlight filters into the room through enormous skylights. Guards anchor themselves every thirty feet or so around the perimeter, an overkill show of force since only ten prisoners are allowed in the visitation area at a time. Still, I have to hand it to them, McCraken’s never had a jailbreak or riot like some of the other rural county jails in Ohio. Ainsley, Davis, and I test equipment in an observation room on the second level that looks down over the visiting area. It reminds me of a basketball arena without the bleachers. When the prisoners or visitors look up, all they see are colorful ads for family services that line the top in an attempt to hide the one-way windows. Every prisoner knows the windows exist; it’s like an urban legend that’s passed down from one prisoner to the next.

  Kaitlin has brushed her hair in a severe ponytail pulled so tight the corners of her eyes lift. With the heavy black paint around her eyes, she rings of a skinny Cleopatra. She twirls the end of the ponytail around her thin fingers with nervous agitation. The speakers spill out her quick, short breaths punctuated with the occasional pop of her knuckles. She has worn black jeans and a faded T-shirt just as Davis directed her to do. “Nothing special. Make it look like you came to visit out of desperation,” he told her.

  Kaitlin is Nick Sambino’s first and only visitor since he’s been incarcerated, other than his lawyer. Guards told him nothing more than his fiancée has come for visitation. Despite the fact he has no fiancée, he doesn’t question it. His handcuffed wrists are bound in front of the ever-so-fashionable orange jumpsuit. The cameras around the room zoom in on Sambino’s face, but what I see there isn’t what I expect. Kaitlin’s certainly not a surprise; Sambino’s eyes show happiness at the first sight of Kaitlin and he bites back a silly grin as a guard leads him from the side entrance to Kaitlin’s table.

  “She better not fuck this up,” Ainsley grumbles at the monitor.

  It’s true we’ve got a lot riding on this Hail Mary stunt: Kaitlin has to make Sambino think we have more on him than we really do. She has to get him to reveal clues about the identity of Picasso.

  “Babe.” Sambino slides into the bench seat and waits f
or the guard to walk away. The word babe sounds foreign and slow from his mouth. Sambino laces his fingers and puts his hands on top of the standard-issue metal prison table.

  Kaitlin says nothing. Her eyes swim with tears for a few seconds as she reaches out to squeeze Sambino’s bound hands.

  “No touching!” a guard immediately calls to them.

  “Damn, she’s playing the role perfectly,” Ainsley says.

  “You doing okay?” she asks, moving her hand only inches away from his. “I put money in your commissary account.” Kaitlin’s rambling, and her nervousness shows in a voice that’s strained and high-pitched. “Want some coffee from the machines?”

  There is something about the way Sambino held on to Kaitlin’s hands, something about the way his touch already knows the curve of Kaitlin’s skin. Kaitlin’s not playing a role, I’m suddenly certain of it—Sambino and Kaitlin are lovers. It all makes sense—another couple who found one another through One True Path. What holds Sambino and Kaitlin together is the fight against homosexuality—an inner struggle they each recognize in one another.

  “Are you sure about the coffee? I’m sure it’s not the greatest.” Kaitlin prattles on about the quality of food Sambino must be eating and the cold temperatures outside. She’s interrupted by a gaggle of small children who rush toward their incarcerated father, seated near Sambino and Kaitlin.

  Sambino asks, “What are you doing here?”

  Kaitlin lowers her voice to barely above a whisper and spreads her bony elbows wide on the table. “The cops think I took the photographs.”

  Sambino scans the room, taking note of each guard’s position. “Kaitlin. Don’t.”

  She groans and rolls her eyes in perfect exasperation at him. “No one can hear us.”

  Sambino looks up at the bank of one-way windows and then ducks his head to check beneath the surface of the table. He doesn’t know that these wall cameras can zoom in on his nose hairs if we wanted to. He won’t notice the tiny microphone attached to the edge of the table on Kaitlin’s side as anything other than a black speck no bigger than a sharpened pencil tip.

  Kaitlin settles her chin into her chest and looks up at Sambino with those big blue eyes of hers. “I cannot go to jail, Nicky. I won’t make it.” Soon tears spill onto her cheeks.

  Davis marvels at Kaitlin’s ability to cry so easily, but I see those tears as something much more. Kaitlin’s and Sambino’s fears are genuine. Both of them are into something way too deep and neither can see a way out.

  Sambino reaches up and manages to wipe away a tear from Kaitlin’s cheek before a guard hollers at him to keep his hands on the table. He abides but coos at Kaitlin until her tears diminish. “Don’t worry. They’re only fishing.”

  “That woman with the state police connected us through the photo shop,” Kaitlin says, crying. “She’s not fishing, Nick.”

  Nick’s eyes scan the room.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Frustration spikes Kaitlin’s words. “I’ll tell them about Joseph.”

  Davis, Ainsley, and I perk up. Kaitlin is still holding out on us. So much for all her promises to keep no more secrets from me.

  Sambino hushes Kaitlin once again. “Don’t get excited and do something stupid,” he whispers. “They got nothing or they would’ve arrested you.”

  “Why won’t you give him up?”

  Sambino says nothing, only sits back. His pallid skin shimmers in the overhead lights. Both of them look so young compared to everyone else in the visiting room.

  “It’ll go away,” Sambino finally says. “They got a serial killer to catch, for Christ’s sakes! They’re not going to waste time on some sicko with a thing for old dead people. Go home, Kaitlin.”

  “Hello—the state cop thinks you are the serial killer.”

  “Go. Home. Kaitlin.”

  “She’s an agent, like the FBI or something. Nobody fucks with them and wins.”

  Sambino leans into Kaitlin until his nose is only an inch or so from hers. “She’ll get what she deserves.” He stands and motions for the guard to take him back to his cell. “Go home.”

  Ainsley tosses his pen onto his pad of paper and runs his fingers through his white hair. Davis shuts off the recorder. “Any ideas, Hansen?”

  Every single movement within my body stops. She’ll get what she deserves. This morning, after waking up, I checked my cell phone. Nothing from Rowan. She hadn’t yet answered my text from the night before, and I suspected that she’d already lost the new iPhone I gave her for Christmas. It was the only explanation as to why she would be out of contact with me. We never went this long without talking. Never.

  Davis nudges me, and I turn to him with my stomach in a sudden painful knot. “They’ve got Rowan.”

  *

  Captain Davis swivels back and forth in his desk chair and clicks the end of a pen over and over. Ainsley is there, too, solid and still; only his eyes follow my pacing of the room. I’ve spent the last hour calling everyone and anyone who Rowan might have talked to: friends, the art gallery where she’s scheduled to show her work. I even tried the neighbor we rarely see out on our isolated country road. Davis stopped me from driving home by dispatching a cruiser from the Dublin police department.

  After Kaitlin’s visit with Sambino, we arrived back at the station to find the two FBI field agents who have been dispatched to aid in our investigation doing little else than sipping coffee and reviewing the case file in the break room. We’ve all but ignored them with the current focus on Rowan and her location.

  “What’s taking that deputy so long?” I slam my fist against my thigh.

  “Sambino said nothing about Rowan,” Davis soothes. “You’re reading too much into this.”

  I’m too nervous to argue—we arrested Kaitlin on multiple charges of desecration of a corpse, but it really was about the secrets she has kept from me.

  “You said Rowan loses her phone a lot.” Ainsley tries to help.

  “She would have called from a landline by now.” When was the last time I’d gone over twenty-four hours without at least a text from Rowan? At the beginning of our relationship, maybe, but not in the last several months. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  The radio crackles and the deputy’s voice finally breaks through. “I’m in front of the house, Captain. Nothing looks out of place.” I can hear his fist bang against the front door.

  I lean over Davis’s desk and grab the radio from Davis’s hand. “Dogs barking?” My words are harsh and clipped.

  “Negative.”

  Dan must still have the dogs at his place, another sign that Rowan’s not been home since she left Willow’s Ridge. “Walk around to the right side of the house,” I direct. “See the two big windows that look into the kitchen? Anything on the table? Any lights on or the overhead fan?”

  After a minute, he speaks. “No lights. No fan. Looks like there’s a pile of mail sitting on the corner of the table.”

  Dan again. He’s brought in our mail and Rowan hasn’t been home to go through it.

  “The next set of windows is the family room. Any bags?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Go around back,” I tell him. “There’s a large shed. The studio key is under the window basket.”

  The deputy’s quick, short breaths filter through the radio. “Kennels are empty.” When he gets to the studio, he bangs on the door.

  “Use the key!”

  After a minute, I hear the soft click of the key turning the lock and the door opens. “No one here. There aren’t any footprints in the snow around the shed.”

  “What’s the temperature inside the shed?”

  “The temperature?”

  “Check the thermostat.”

  “Fifty-seven degrees.”

  I hold my head in my hands. If Rowan had gone home yesterday, she certainly would have been in her studio by now. Once inside, heat is always the first thing she adjusts. She hates to be cold.

  Davis cuts the communication
with the deputy in Dublin. He’s already put out a BOLO in the state of Ohio and sent a photograph from the DMV to all officers in Ohio and, just to be safe, Indiana and Michigan, too. “There’s no evidence anything has happened to her.”

  “There’s no evidence something hasn’t happened to her,” I spit back at him.

  “We need you, partner.” Ainsley nudges me gently with his elbow.

  “The best thing you can do right now, Luce, is wait.”

  “Wait?”

  Davis nods. “Give it time. Let everyone do their job while you do yours.”

  Deep down, I know Davis and Ainsley are right. I fight myself not to rush back to Dublin. Rowan, though, could be anywhere at this point. She may not be the toughest girl I know, but she’s certainly smart and can figure her way out of most messes. Every cop in the region is looking for her. There is nothing left to do, not until we can make the next connection. I need to make that next connection. Both Ainsley and I take to the computer to filter through the email tips, officer notes, and recent tickets or arrests for anyone by the name of Joseph or Joe. Davis catches the new agents up on the case.

  An hour passes and I’m getting nowhere fast. My mind reels with an endless looping of questions I have no answers to: Where’s Rowan’s SUV? Is it possible she had a terrible accident that no one has reported? There is a two-lane stretch off Interstate 75 on the way home. She could be stranded. With all the media and activity at the hotel, someone must have seen something if Rowan had been taken against her will. I open the most recent tip-line message and grin over the desktop screen at Ainsley on his way out to retrieve lunch for us. See? I’m doing what you asked. But I have other ideas. In my mind I’m stepping back in time, retracing Rowan’s steps.