“Mr. Watkins.”
Norman rolled over on his side so suddenly that his left wrist restraint ripped the skin on his wrist. “Shit, get this thing off me. It’s tearin’ me up.”
The dark-skinned doctor — neurology resident according to his name tag — with an unpronounceable name and a singsong voice nodded.
Encouraged, Norman said. “Hey while I’m here, can you check out my kidneys?”
“All your tests are negative.” The guy had ignored his question.
“So what’s wrong with me, doc?”
“No seizure,” the doctor said as he wrote in the chart. “Soon as my attending gets here, you go.”
“I asked about my kidney. I got a bum kidney. Pee blood, that sort of thing.” Not true about the blood. That was years ago.
Norman wondered what language he was writing in. Pakistani? Iraqi? Did he even comprehend the word, “kidney”?
“My kidney?” Norman repeated.
The freaking doctor didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him. The asshole simply walked out of the room.
Shackled to the bed by one ankle manacle and two leather wrist restraints, Norman could not even take a leak without calling one of those hags at the nursing station. Not for a minute did he think any of them were real nurses. Except for the one massive stud of a male nurse, the rest were just minimum-wage bag ladies they pulled in off the streets.
Then there was a tap at the door and a tall, black man, dressed in black pants and a black button-down shirt walked in. “Chaplain Henry,” he announced in a booming voice. “Okay if I come in for a chat?”
“Yeah, sure,” Norman said, wondering if a visit from the chaplain boded well for him. Maybe his reputation at the prison was paying off. “Sure, Reverend.”
“Your wife suggested that maybe you’d like to pray with me,” said the man of the cloth.
“Uh, sure. Hey, Rev, you know when they’re gonna spring me outta here? All I did was skip parole to see my ma? You know?”
“Your wife says you’re in real deep. Those missing kids. Daughters of Scott Monroe. I remember when Scott played for the University of Michigan. Fine catcher. Nice man. Too bad he got injured. But Norman, if you know something about those little girls, I pray to Jesus that you tell the police where they are.”
“I’m not saying nothin’ about that bitch’s kids.”
“For your wife’s sake and your daughter’s, if you tell the police where they are, it’ll go easier for you, son.”
Norman gaped at the preacher. So Connie suspected? She’d sent the reverend in to get him to talk. Well, it wasn’t going to work that way. No one could prove that he was not just driving around or sleeping in his car.
CHAPTER 14
FBI Press Conference Not Encouraging —
Where Are Sammie and Alex?
— Morning News, Wednesday, June 15
Katie and Scott did not return to the FBI field office Tuesday evening. Instead, they’d participated in a conference call led by Streeter and included agents from Detroit and Tampa. At the end of the call at nine p.m., they could not detect even a trace of optimism. The team kept repeating that as time passed, so did the hope of finding Sammie and Alex alive. Fifty-three hours: no ransom, no concrete connection linking any suspects to the Monroe girls, no new witnesses, lots of unsubstantiated sightings all the way from Florida to Michigan, from California to New York.
Scott had asked for an update on the prime suspects. Maxwell Cutty: continued surveillance in Tampa, no evidence linking to Alex and Sammie other than he’d recently withdrawn a large sum of money, no sign of his boyfriend, Adam Kaninsky. Norman Watkins: seemingly faked a convulsion, being held in a hospital prison ward for observation. Keith Franklin: admitted an ongoing infatuation with Katie, would leave his wife in an instant if Katie would have him, admitted to an extramarital affair with a white woman, no evidence to hold him, released but under surveillance in Detroit.
Jackie had fallen asleep in her grandmother’s arms, and Scott had carried her into their room, laying her on the makeshift bed on the floor. Lucy had an extra bed in her room, but Katie would not allow Jackie out of her sight. Before they went to bed, Scott slipped the contents of one of Lucy’s post-surgery sleeping pills into Katie’s ginger ale. Scott hated all drugs, but Katie had slept so well with the pill he’d given her earlier.
When Katie awoke Wednesday morning, she was surprised to find that it was already eight thirty and that Scott was not in bed. How could she have slept so late? The usual question for one accustomed to be up before dawn. But as she rolled over and saw Jackie asleep in her cocoon on the floor by her side of the bed, reality struck, erasing any trace of sleep, jolting her awake.
Sammie and Alex? Had there been any news? It was all she could do to refrain from crying out. She looked down at Jackie, needing to see Alex and Sammie lying there, too. Just thinking about them made her heart pound so violently that she felt that she might be having a heart attack, and she struggled to breathe. Where could they be? Were they safe or not?
Despite the sunlight pouring into the room, Katie’s world became totally dark and her body went still. She’d heard their voices inside her head last night, voices so familiar in their individuality. One loud, demanding: “Mom, wake up. You have to take care of Jackie.” The other, shy and trembling. “Mom, please, Jackie needs you.”
Katie felt her body stiffen, but her eyes remained closed and she stopped even trying to breathe. Sammie’s voice, Alex’s voice. Both mingling, pleading with her, and finally fading.
Katie sat up, trying to understand what Sammie and Alex were trying to tell her. The triplets had been so close, anticipating each other’s every move. Were they telling her that something would happen to Jackie, too? Ever since the triplets were born, a piece of Katie’s brain had been set in triplicate. Like an equilateral triangle she often thought, three identical angles making up a whole. An equal proportion allocated to Alex, Sammie, and Jackie. Holding her breath, Katie peered down on the floor to the nest of comforters. Jackie was still asleep, her head buried under the Yankee logo sheets that Scott had given Lucy for Christmas last year.
Katie climbed out of bed, lowered herself to the floor, and lay down by Jackie, placing her hand over her child’s chest just to make sure that it was moving, up and down.
“Please stay with me,” she whispered.
Jackie stirred and turned to face Katie, so close that Katie could feel the brush of air with each breath of her child.
“Mom, are you okay?” Jackie reached out to stroke Katie’s hair.
“Yes, sweetie, as long as you’re here with me.”
“I’ll never leave you and Dad.”
Katie was still cradling Jackie in her arms when Scott walked into the bedroom, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other.
“Thought I heard voices up here,” he said. “Now let’s get you two up off the floor.”
Scott set down the hot drinks and offered his hand to help Katie, then Jackie, up.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Katie as he handed her coffee.
Should she tell Scott about the dream? You have to take care of Jackie.
When Katie did not answer, he repeated his question to Jackie as she sipped hot chocolate.
Before Jackie could answer, Katie said, “I think we should get Jackie a puppy.”
Both Scott’s and Jackie’s jaw dropped, and Scott had to help Jackie steady her hot drink.
Jackie was the first to speak. “A puppy? Mom, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“You’ve always wanted a dog. Remember that golden lab puppy you and Alex adored?”
“Mom? Sammie hates dogs. She got bit by one. Don’t you remember? On her leg. She still has the scar.” Jackie stared at Katie, “Hey, Mom, are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. Maybe I’m going about this in the wrong way. In my dream, Alex and Sammie each said to take good care of you.
&
nbsp; “What do you think, Scott?” Katie said.
Scott said nothing, just shook his head.
CHAPTER 15
Experts Probe Similarities of the Monroe Kidnapping to
That of Madeleine McCann in Portugal.
— Talk Show Circuit, Wednesday, June 17
Manny Gonzalos, beloved by his neighbors for his random acts of kindness, lived alone in a Spanish-style villa on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico in Clearwater Beach. He mostly kept to himself, but there were rumors that he was the anonymous philanthropist behind the many projects that benefited the beach community. There had also been rumors that he was gay, but they’d been squelched when his Clearwater neighbor ran into him at a restaurant on the island of St. Bart’s with a voluptuous dark-haired woman. Manny had graciously introduced her as Monique, and it was clear that their relationship was not platonic. No one knew how old he was, but with the spring in his step and his well-muscled physique, the guess was mid-fifties.
Whenever asked about his line of business, Manny simply answered, “financial advisor.” All his mail went to a P.O. Box in Clearwater where he kept a façade of an office. Manny had served his profession for forty-five years. Now, at sixty-two, he planned to sell the Clearwater property and retire. Only he would not be applying for Social Security benefits. He’d be off enjoying life in the islands with Monique, who seemed to get more beautiful and sexy with each passing year.
Like most professionals at this stage of his life, Manny wasn’t sure how well retirement would sit with him so he had a backup plan, a career adjustment. Something different, but related; a business plan he could implement from anywhere in the world.
Manny would always look back on his career with a surge of professional pride. In all honesty, he considered himself the smartest and the most resourceful pro in the business — even with his one fuck-up, now many years ago, for which he’d paid by absenting himself from the country for seven years. Despite that one exception, he’d always prided himself on his work and endeavored to exceed his customers’ expectations.
Manny attributed his success to three factors: client selection, meticulous planning, and ingenuity. The way he worked was to cluster several cases close in time and then disappear to the islands and into the arms of Monique for a few months. When he returned he would entertain the next schedule of hits. For each client, a different identity — different name, different physical appearance, secure contact. About this he was meticulous.
Manny found scrupulous client selection the trickiest part of the job. The actual killings were easy. There were endless ways. All you had to do was treat the job like any profession, stay focused, and be reasonably smart. For Manny, smart was his calling card. The hallmark of his talent was taking the time to figure the strategy that fit each case perfectly. He’d been successful in every case but one and that still gnawed on him — and it was a kid. Well, he was smarter now.
In the dark corner of the office in his uncle’s Ybor City club, Manny checked his Rolex and patted his jacket pocket. The thick wad of airline tickets felt good. No e-tickets for him. A master of disguise, Manny had chosen the ponytail and a jeans and sports coat look for the meeting with his client. The wig was the same he’d used in the past dealing with Maxwell Cutty, but the threads were different. And the name Vincent, the same as last time. Thinking of Cutty made him grin at the prospect of overcharging the bastard. He’d charge the faggot double the going rate. The creep was a pedophile. So despicable he made Manny cringe. But a job was a job. Good guy — bad guy, he didn’t care. As usual, Manny had been briefed by his high-level cop informant inside the Tampa Police. Manny always checked his clients out. He couldn’t afford surprises. And he always wore a wire for client meetings.
When Maxwell Cutty had tried to withdraw money from the bank Monday afternoon, the assistant manager had balked. “Very irregular,” he had responded to Maxwell’s request for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundreds. Normally when some lowlife jerked him around, Maxwell would demand to see the manager and threaten to take his business elsewhere. But, instead, he’d had to kiss the prick’s ass and politely point out that he did not have to explain his use of his own company’s funds.
Now that he had the money, all he had to do was wait. Vincent said it would take a day to set things up in Nevis, and they’d meet in person at noon in Ybor City. In the meantime, Maxwell did not leave the house. The feds had already searched the place. They had his computer hard drive, but what could that do? Maxwell was not stupid enough to leave trace evidence. By tomorrow, Vincent would have eradicated the last trace linking him with the Monroe family, any child abuse charges, and even to his wife’s death.
CHAPTER 16
European Union Summit in Brussels to Focus on Climate Change
Policies and Tightening Financial Supervision.
— International News, Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Unable to come to grips with Katie’s bizarre suggestion of a puppy for Jackie, Scott simply left the room, shaking his head, descending the stairs, heading for the kitchen. Lucy had gone out for her morning walk, longer every day now as she rehabbed from hip surgery. Danielle had moved back in with her parents to make room for Katie and Scott and Jackie. Scott needed to be alone, alone with his fear, his anguish, and now, his confusion over his wife’s reaction.
While Katie had slept the sleep of the drugged, he had lain beside her and cried all night. He’d never believed a man could sob so uncontrollably. He felt drained, his throat was dry, his head foggy. All night long, every scenario, one worse than the next, kept playing in his head. Finally, he’d had to squeeze his head with both hands to try to make them stop, but they wouldn’t because the truth was that Alex and Sammie were out there somewhere, but nobody knew where, and he was powerless to find them. Scott knew they were alive. Certainly, if they — he couldn’t even think the word — he’d know, he’d be able to feel it, sense it. He missed them so and was so scared for them. Every minute without them was the worst torture he could imagine.
Scott realized that he was losing confidence that he would be able to endure. Katie, too, seemed at the breaking point. What was going on inside her head? Between them, did they have the strength to get through?
Scott went about making coffee and more hot chocolate then sat in Lucy’s breakfast nook cradling his mug, waiting for Katie. He planned to talk her into staying home, but when she appeared, one look at her trim mauve business suit dismissed that possibility. He recognized that determined look that she usually reserved for court testimony, that take-no-prisoners look that her colleagues teased her about.
When she came over to sit next to him, putting her arm around his rounded shoulders, he slumped even deeper. He didn’t know if he could take another day of agony, another day of uncertainty, another day of abject helplessness.
“Scott, I had a dream last night,” Katie said in a near whisper.
Scott looked up, his glance unable to avoid the window facing the gauntlet of reporters camped out on Lucy’s lawn and pouring out into the street.
“What about?” He stared out the window, unable to meet her eyes.
“Alex and Sammie. They —”
“Katie, I don’t want to hear it.”
“In my dream, Alex and Sammie each said, ‘To take care of Jackie.’ What do you —”
“Stop it, Katie. It was a dream.” Scott’s voice got louder, “Dreams are not true.”
“Dad, are you okay?” Jackie’s call came from the top of the stairs.
Scott’s head jerked up. “I’m sorry, honey.” He summoned the energy to climb the stairs. He picked Jackie up and carried her into the kitchen as if she were a toddler. Jackie, too, was dressed for a day at FBI headquarters. Resigned, obedient, a role model for her collapsing parents.
“I’m okay,” Scott said, setting her down by the kitchen table. “What about you?”
“I’m ready to go in to see Agent Streeter,” Jackie said. “Did you know that he has three
little girls?”
Scott was barely able to nod, so intent was he on holding back the brimming hot tears.
“You know, Dad, what Mom said about me getting a dog, it did cheer me up. But once Sammie is back, she’ll talk Mom out of it, I’m sure of it.”
Scott said nothing, put Jackie on his lap, but was unable to focus on her, only thinking about Katie’s dream. He didn’t want to hear it. What was happening to Katie. What was happening to him?
When he’d met Katie, she’d been so innocent. She was a medical student and that did make her automatically smart, but how could he ever have imagined that such a sensitive and wholesome woman would end up with a job dealing with despicable perverts? Isn’t this what the kidnapping was all about? Some twisted maniac’s idea of retribution?
Why couldn’t she have gone into dermatology or orthopedics or basket weaving? Why forensic child psychiatry? But Scott knew the answer; Katie’s heart went out to the small victims of such unspeakable violence. She felt compelled to protect them from the child abusers and sexual perverts under whose custody they suffered. If she didn’t help them, who would? To whom would the court turn to get these kids to a safe place? Scott felt his face contort when he considered what her Pollyanna attitude had cost. Nothing, nobody’s children could balance the loss of Sammie and Alex.
“No.” Scott said aloud. Stop thinking. He would go insane if he allowed himself to dwell on the stream of atrocities that kept invading his mind. Atrocities that he knew might be worse than the outer limits of his imagination. “No,” he repeated.
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