by Simon Wood
That was it—the air. Terry raced to the closet by the front door. It was half open. When he left this morning it had been closed. Sliding the door back, he fell to his knees. The floor panel was to one side, exposing the house to the musty dirt scent of the crawl space.
“The box is gone,” Terry said.
Oscar hefted an easy chair back onto its feet. “Alicia Hyams’s name was on the list?”
Terry busied himself with the task of returning everything to its rightful place in the attempt to turn his refugee camp back into a home. “It was the last of the five names.”
“And who were the others?” Oscar turned his attention to the kitchen.
“They were like Alicia Hyams—ordinary people.”
“Not that ordinary. Alicia Hyams was murdered.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“You think the other four women could be dead too?” Oscar hefted a stack of plates into an overhead cupboard.
“Yeah.”
“And that Sarah could be the sixth?”
“Yeah.” Terry fell silent. The admission scared him.
Standing with a mug in each hand, Oscar asked, “Why didn’t you take the box straight to Holman?”
Terry shrugged. “I wanted an honest opinion. I wanted to see if you would see what I saw. You, I trust. Holman might not be straight with me.”
Oscar nodded and hung the mugs on the mug tree. “Okay, let’s take this step by step. You’re worried that the list was a list of victims.”
Terry nodded and slotted the couch cushions back into place.
“Did you find any obituary notices for any of these women?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just a thought.”
“Go on.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“There’s not a lot I do like hearing these days. You’d better just tell me.”
“Okay,” Oscar said, frowning. “Sarah was long gone before you arrived, which makes it nearly three weeks.”
“Yeah.”
“And Alicia Hyams was snatched the week you arrived.”
“So?”
“So Sarah compiled that list before Alicia Hyams was a headline.”
Terry nodded. It was an interesting point and a frightening one. Had Sarah known what was going to happen to Alicia Hyams before it happened and been powerless to save her?
“I’m finished in here,” Oscar said. “Where next?”
“Sarah’s office.”
They shifted their attentions to stacking the papers and files in their rightful places, although Terry was guessing where everything went. He hadn’t taken any notice when he’d been pulling everything off the shelves.
“Okay, Alicia Hyams hadn’t been kidnapped at the time Sarah made the list, and let’s assume the other women aren’t dead,” Terry said. “What does that prove?”
“I don’t know,” Oscar said, shrugging.
“But what if the other women are dead?”
“I don’t know.”
“See. You don’t know. Anything could have happened.”
“You’re right, I don’t know, but it doesn’t mean we have to assume the worst. For all we know, the women on Sarah’s list might be old college buddies,” Oscar said.
“But she kept their information hidden. What does that tell you?”
“Okay, but consider this. Alicia Hyams’s murder may have nothing to do with Sarah’s disappearance. It could be purely coincidental.”
“Is it likely?” Terry asked.
“Maybe, maybe not, but we can’t nail our colors to any particular cause. Not right now. There’s so much we don’t know. You can’t just write Sarah off as dead.”
“I’m not trying to write her off, I just don’t know what to think.”
“Then don’t try. You’ll only drive yourself crazy.”
“I know.” Terry jumped up. “But it’s hard not to. My wife is missing. She has a murdered woman’s name in her files. Why wouldn’t I think she’s heading for the same fate?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Oscar pulled up Sarah’s office chair and sat. “There is something we can do that might help.”
“What’s that?”
“Talk to the women on the list.”
“We can’t talk to Alicia Hyams.”
“No, but we can speak to her family.”
Terry frowned.
“Don’t look like that,” Oscar snapped, but he wasn’t angry. He was more like a football coach trying to rally his players before the big game. “Do you want to find Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Oscar said. “Were these other woman local?”
“No, not really. One was in Oregon. Another was from Nevada. Alicia Hyams and two others were from California.”
“Okay, so we’ve got a lot of dialing to do. It’s interesting that these women aren’t geographically close. It might give some credibility to the fact that Alicia Hyams’s death isn’t linked to Sarah’s disappearance.”
Terry tried to stop Oscar from his stream of consciousness, but he continued to reel off theories and ideas, making connections then dismissing them. Eventually, Terry made himself heard.
“Oscar, listen. Please.”
“What?”
“There’s one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t remember their names. Alicia Hyams is the only name I remember.”
Oscar frowned.
“I didn’t try to memorize them,” Terry explained. “I didn’t think I was going to have to.”
The next afternoon, Terry wheeled out his shopping cart from the Raley’s supermarket. As he pushed his cart back to his car, he tried to recall the names on Sarah’s list. He was loading the Ford’s trunk with paper sacks when a familiar voice called him.
Terry turned. “Hello, Jake.”
“You remember me, then?”
“It’s hard not to remember the sheriff’s son. Have you come to do a bit more spying?”
“Terry,” he moaned.
“Go tell your dad that if he wants to ask me something, then he should ask it himself.”
Jake grabbed Terry’s shopping cart. “It’s not like that!”
Terry noticed they were attracting glances from shoppers and staff leaving the supermarket.
Jake relaxed. “I am Ray Holman’s son.” He removed one of Terry’s sacks and put it in the trunk. “But I’m not a spy…not for him.”
Terry put the last two bags in the trunk and closed it. “Okay, you’re not a spy, then what are you?”
“The prodigal son.” His smile was crooked. “Except my dad wasn’t that pleased to see me. No fatted calf waiting on the barbecue.”
Terry didn’t know whether to believe Jake or not. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility, but this could be a well-rehearsed sob story to sucker him for the second time. Terry decided to give Jake enough rope to be his own hangman.
“Did you walk or drive?” Terry asked.
“This is America. No one walks.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“C’mon,” Terry said and pointed at a McDonald’s.
Jake chose a meal deal. Terry, not being much of a fan of fast food, settled for a coffee. He normally wouldn’t have chosen McDonald’s, but he didn’t want waste too much time on Jake. He wanted to hear what he had to say and move on. Terry paid and took their food to a booth away from everyone else. Jake tugged the wrapper off his Big Mac and bit into the sandwich. Terry sipped his coffee. What it lacked in flavor, it made up for in temperature. He pushed it to one side to let its nuclear core cool off.
“Do you really know my wife?”
Chewing, Jake nodded. He swallowed and raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“I was never a Scout.”
Jake frowned and dropped his burger on the tray. He sucked on his Coke. “Okay, I admit it
. I misled you. I didn’t tell you my pop was the sheriff. Guilty as charged. Can we move on?”
“That depends. Why wouldn’t you be spying for your dad?”
“A long story.” He stuffed about half a dozen fries into his mouth at once. “But I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say I disappointed him. I didn’t grow up the way he would have liked.”
Terry thought the way Jake ate was interesting. He kept his food on the tray. Personally, Terry couldn’t stand to eat off a tray. It was too restrictive, but not for Jake. He hugged his tray with his arms, forming a barrier around his meal. Terry decided Jake’s school days must have been tough.
“You said you were the prodigal son. Have you been away for a while?”
“Yeah, it’s hard growing up as the sheriff’s son. Everyone thinks you’re snitching to him. So when I had my first chance, I left. I’ve moved around over the years.”
“Why have you come back?”
“My mom died a few months back. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”
“You came back for the funeral?”
“Yeah, and I decided to stick around. I got quite nostalgic coming home.”
“How did you hook up with Sarah?”
“Our paths crossed on a story. She needed information and I provided it.”
“When was that?”
Jake scrunched up his face. “Two or three months ago. Then again a few weeks ago.”
“I see.”
A cloud fell over Jake’s face. “Hey, are you pissed at me because I spent time with Sarah?”
“Should I be?”
“Don’t you trust her?”
“Yes, but you brought the subject up.”
Jake exhaled. “This is getting screwed up. I came to help you. Now you’re suspecting me of all kinds of crap, and I’m trying to guess your thoughts.”
“Funny, that’s what I was thinking.”
Jake smiled.
Terry sipped his coffee. It was now at a temperature fit for human consumption. “So what do you want to do?”
“Start again from the top.” Jake shoveled in more of his food. “Hi, my name’s Jake Holman. I’m Sheriff Ray Holman’s son. We do not get along. I know your wife, Sarah. I’ve worked with her. No, I don’t know where she is. No, nothing funny happened between the sheets when you weren’t around. And no, I’m not working for my father. Anything else you want to know?”
One question did spring to Terry’s mind. It had finally dawned on him why Jake protected his food the way he did. “Did you serve time in prison?”
That sent a flare into the air. Jake thrust his tray with the food on it straight at Terry. Terry snatched up his coffee before the tray could spray it all over him, but it didn’t stop him from getting a lap full of fries.
“Screw you!” Jake jabbed a threatening finger in Terry’s face. “I tried to help you.”
He leapt to his feet and stormed out. Terry watched him go and noticed no one was talking. He turned to see all eyes centered on him.
“I think he wanted a Happy Meal.”
Terry helped a McDonald’s employee clean up the mess before driving home. Obviously, he’d struck a raw nerve. But thoughts of Jake Holman evaporated when he arrived home. Two cruisers from the county sheriff’s department filled his driveway. Neighbors, eager for developments, surveyed events from their front yards. Terry parked, blocking in the cruisers.
Deputy Pittman was on the porch. She scowled, but didn’t attempt to stop him from entering. He brushed by her.
“Mr. Sheffield, glad you could make it. Sorry about the door.”
Terry glanced back at the door. Splintered wood hung from the door frame close to the dead bolt.
“We have a warrant.” Holman slapped a tri-folded wad of papers against Terry’s chest.
Terry examined the paperwork, but the words meant nothing. “What the hell is going on?”
A deputy Terry didn’t recognize came into the living room from the direction of the bedrooms and dropped to his knees in front of the crawl space hatch where Sarah’s lockbox had been fastened to the underside. At least they wouldn’t find Sarah’s notes.
“Mr. Sheffield, we have reason to believe your wife isn’t missing but hiding out here,” said Holman.
Terry laughed. “And where did that cock-and-bull story come from?”
Holman’s answer was interrupted by the deputy who had the crawl space hatch turned over. The lockbox was still missing, but a small Ziploc bag was in its place. Inside it was a woman’s wallet and a pair of earrings.
“Sheriff Holman, I think those are the earrings Alicia Hyams’s husband described.”
“And that looks like her wallet,” Holman added.
The deputy opened the bag, fished inside for the wallet, and opened it. “It’s hers.”
“Oh, come on,” Terry said. “What the hell is going on here?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me, Mr. Sheffield.” Holman spun Terry around. “I think you’d better come with me. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Terry was calm now, at peace and alone in the interview room. He was in the same room they’d put him in him when he had been arrested for breaking and entering into his own home. He kicked off his shoes and leaned back in his chair, awaiting Holman’s next move.
He’d been ready to explode when Deputy Pittman dumped him in there. He was being screwed. He wanted Holman, and he wanted a bloody explanation. But Holman was conspicuous by his absence, and Pittman had confined him to the room. That had been hours ago.
With the quiet of the interview room to cool his temper, he wondered what Holman had planned for him. If his intention was to let Terry stew in the hope that he would be easy to break during the interrogation, then the sheriff’s scheme had backfired. He’d given Terry too much time. His white-hot rage had cooled, and he was content to stare at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights while trying to piece events together.
Who could have placed Alicia Hyams’s wallet and earrings at his house? Her killer. He would have had access to her possessions. This was an obvious point, but it begged the question, why plant her belongings on him? What was his connection to the killer? Sarah. The thought sent his stomach into free fall. Although he didn’t want to admit it, Sarah and the killer were linked in some inexplicable way. She must have been on to the killer. It was the only explanation. The next question didn’t bear contemplating. The repercussions were too alarming. How did the killer get into his home to plant the items? There were no signs of forced entry. He could have picked the locks, but the visit from the Honda driver who had opened the garage with the garage-door opener said otherwise. That meant the killer had a way into his home. And that meant only one thing. He’d abducted Sarah.
Terry couldn’t breathe in the windowless room. He’d been banking on the notion Sarah was on the run, but how else could the killer have obtained the garage-door opener? He couldn’t delude himself anymore. Sarah was a hostage. It explained how the killer could just walk into his home, steal Sarah’s confidential notes, plant the wallet and earrings, and make off with no one noticing. It chilled him to think about it.
Another chilling thought rocked Terry. If the killer had access to their home, he could still come and go as he pleased. When he got out, he’d change the locks—if he got out.
Terry tried to think practical thoughts—get released, then change the locks—but these thoughts were swallowed up by his fears for Sarah. If Alicia Hyams’s murder was a guide, then the killer didn’t plan on keeping Sarah hostage forever. She could be dead in days, if she wasn’t already. He tried to ignore that inevitable outcome. He couldn’t lose hope that she was still out there, not free, but alive.
But the killer wasn’t the only one who could have planted the evidence. Holman could have done it. Hadn’t that been Terry’s knee-jerk res
ponse when the deputy produced the wallet and earrings? But how likely was it that Holman was corrupt? Out of the hundreds of thousands of cops in the country, how many were bent? There was probably a decent number jaded by their careers, but corrupt? Terry couldn’t imagine there being many. However, he couldn’t escape the fact that the sheriff’s department had found Alicia Hyams’s body. Who said they hadn’t found her belongings at the lake? Holman might have planted the evidence to set him up or to push him into confessing. The fact that Holman’s son had tried to pump him for information didn’t help Terry dismiss the idea.
“The earrings,” he said, sitting up.
Taking himself back to the reservoir, he tried to remember if Alicia Hyams had been wearing earrings. He remembered the bright lights, the lapping of the water against the boat ramp and her corpse, but not the earrings. She might have been wearing them, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t something he had taken notice of at the time. He jumped to his feet.
He paced the interview room like a caged animal. Alicia Hyams’s face filled his mind. With sickening detail, he recalled her naked body covered by a sheet, her silt-clogged hair, her white-white face, and her bloodless lips, but he just couldn’t remember if she’d been wearing earrings or not. He cursed and sat back down.
A key clicked in the lock and the door opened. Terry stood. Holman and Deputy Pittman stood in the doorway. Holman had the keys in his hand. Deputy Pittman rested a hand on her holstered weapon.
“Ready to talk?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,” Terry answered.
“Let’s get the proceedings started, then,” Holman said.
Terry nodded, finding it hard not to show his contempt.
“Good.”
Deputy Pittman closed the door, leaving Holman and Terry by themselves. Holman indicated for Terry to sit. Terry sat. Holman chose to stand, leaning against the wall.
“Where to begin?” Holman asked.
“With my phone call. Aren’t I entitled to one?”
“And legal representation,” the sheriff said. “But that would apply to someone under arrest, and you’re not under arrest. You’re just helping us with our investigation.”
“So I can leave, then?” Terry stood to leave.
