High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  McGrew knew the woman wanted comfort, but he had none to give. What she had done was terrible, especially in light of the fact that she knew how it had wounded Abbott. She had to know the scars something like that might inflict on a small boy. What did she think? The young man would forget?

  Now, McGrew steered onto a rutted dirt road, directed by a sign reading, “East Drive. Private.”

  He remembered Abbott’s cache of horror movies, and thought this setting would have been a perfect location for many of the teen slasher movies in his collection.

  McGrew pulled the car onto the brown grass at the side of the road, got out of the car, and stretched.

  He circled the lake on foot, stopping at each of the twenty or so cottages dotting the shore of Lake Myers. He found no one at home at any of the dwellings, and after knocking, had even peered into windows. All of the cabins appeared to have been empty for some time. Most were in need of roofing, others paint jobs. All spoke of a different time, a time when the lake was clean and dotted with Sunfish, perhaps sailboats and canoes, not being encroached upon by thick, green algae. The beach lay choked with weeds and a rusting swing set.

  The place stood eerily quiet, almost echoing with children’s voices. Had Abbott added his own voice to the din, the splashing and laughter? But McGrew imagined Abbott standing off to the side, watching; imagined him alone in the pine forest, building forts out of pine needles.

  Finally, McGrew came to the last cottage, a small white rectangle with a lean-to on one side. Some sort of storage area, maybe? Paint peeled from every whitewashed surface; no one had lived here in a long time. All the other cottages bore signs of at least some use in the summer months, but this one had black windows and a rusting drainpipe, looked abandoned. Brown muddy spots and weeds filled the small yard. Behind the house, a rickety wooden boat dock looked as if it would submerge itself, in despair, into the murky water.

  McGrew tried the door and found it open. He went inside, and the acrid smell of vinegar almost overwhelmed him.

  What the hell?

  He proceeded through the cottage, noticing that the bed along one wall looked as if had been recently slept in, the sheets still clean, the blankets in a heap on the floor. He also found dirty dishes and TV dinner trays in the sink.

  And blood on the floor.

  Years of working as a homicide detective had taught him to recognize blood in all its guises, even these stains, now chocolate dark, dried over, and crusted. He followed the spots to a door with a padlock and metal bar on the outside.

  He shivered. Was this where Abbott kept Beth?

  The door stood partially open and, as McGrew opened it fully and found a littering of broken blue-green glass. Some shelves had toppled over and they, too, with their brittle wood, had broken.

  He noticed bloody pools on the floor, bigger than the ones in the other room. Suddenly feeling nauseous and cold, he stooped, squatting near the floor, one hand outstretched to support himself on the blood-spattered wall.

  She had died here, then. What other explanation could there be for the blood and wreckage?

  Where had he taken her? What had he done to her while she was here?

  Why couldn’t McGrew have followed the trail of clues more quickly?

  Why couldn’t he have found Beth Walsh in time?

  Chapter 29

  Kate had heard that green rooms were supposed to be calming. So why was she praying for her perspiration to stop? Why was she gulping down air and eating Salerno butter cookies by the handful? She looked around her once more, trying to concentrate on the cream-colored furniture, mahogany accent tables, and sea-foam green walls. Over a speaker, softly, came Bach’s “Brandenburg Concerto.” Relax, she told herself, relax, as the terror bordering hysteria mounted.

  In ten minutes, she would be on live TV.

  She popped another cookie into her mouth, wondering what had ever possessed her to come on the show. Ted had been right; she was being exploited—a tragedy for all of Chicago to watch and be entertained. She was someone at whom the viewers could stare and be grateful their own lives weren’t as horrible.

  She forced herself to stand, even though she trembled. She took a deep breath, then crossed the room to a hanging mirror. In spite of having her hair and make-up done, she was still disappointed in what confronted her: a fat lady with brittle hair, swept up to show off her pearl earrings. Enough, too, to show off her three chins, the flabby folds of her neck, and the worn look around her eyes no make-up could conceal.

  Kate had worn one of her best dresses: a muted burgundy silk, loose, that hung in a straight line to just below her knees. The dress had a Mandarin collar and puffy sleeves. She wore it with wine-colored velvet pumps and a strand of pearls. She had thought she looked elegant when she tried it on at home, but now she saw all it accomplished was to make her into a huge burgundy rectangle.

  They would laugh her off the stage. And who could blame them?

  “Mrs. Donner?”

  The voice startled her. She turned, wondering how long the woman had been calling her name.

  Caryn Moll was waiting for her, all smiles and professional courtesy. The woman was young, probably fresh out of college, this being her first real job. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a French braid; she wore a black and white pinstriped suit.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to be starting in just a few minutes. Is there anything you need before?”

  Kate felt the woman’s smile was almost predatory. She hated her, but smiled anyway. “No. I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never been on television before.”

  “Well, the one thing that consistently surprises our guests is how fast it all goes once the cameras start to roll. Usually, they’re disappointed that it’s over so quickly.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be feeling any disappointment. Relief, maybe.”

  Caryn grinned as if she hadn’t heard a word Kate had said. “Anyway, I need to get the pictures of your daughter you brought so we can mount them for the camera.”

  Kate sat and rummaged through her purse, pulling out four photographs: Beth and Mark in Paris, Beth alone at Belmont Harbor, her head a red halo, one at Christmas with most of the family, another of Beth in her kitchen. Was Beth sleeping with other men when these were taken? Had she slept with other men in different countries where she and Mark traveled?

  Why was she thinking this way? Kate felt a lump forming in her throat and her eyes tearing up. She couldn’t look at the photos anymore. She forced them on Caryn, glad to be rid of them. “These should give your viewers a good idea of what she looked, er, looks like.” Kate’s voice rose barely above a whisper.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” Caryn Moll stared at her.

  Kate straightened up. “Of course. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, and I won’t.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. You certainly won’t be the first person to shed a tear on this show.” Caryn switched on a monitor and Kate saw the studio she had been led through when she arrived, people in jeans arranging furniture and calling for sound and light checks. Kate gulped as she heard the excited babble of the studio audience.

  “We’re almost ready.” Caryn held up the photos. “Let me get these to one of our cameramen, then I’ll come get you.”

  Once the woman left, Kate wondered if, in twenty years, Caryn would also be fat and ugly. She whispered to herself, “Last chance, Kate. You know where the door is.” She shook her head, remembering her last phone call from Ted. He had said their marriage was over if she went through with this “nutso idea.”

  Didn’t he know their marriage had been over long before The Joanna Downs Show came to town?

  After a few minutes, Caryn led her into the studio, telling her she loved her dress and was going to be just fine. Kate noticed the audience was even fuller than usual; folding chairs had been set up in the aisles to accommodate the overflow.

  Kate heard rustling in the seats, whispers, even a few titters as she asce
nded to the stage. The audience was probably thinking, “Yikes! Look at the fat lady!”

  She couldn’t bear to look back at them, grateful for the lights, which almost made the spectators disappear. Maybe she would be able to pretend the audience wasn’t even there. She wondered how many people in the Chicago area were sitting down to breakfast and tuning in the show.

  “I need something to drink.”

  “There’s water on the set at all times.” Caryn adjusted Kate’s pin-on microphone. “Don’t worry about speaking into that or anything. Just forget it’s there; it’ll pick up your voice just fine.”

  “If I have a voice to pick up.” Kate laughed, and Caryn turned to pour her a glass of water. She handed it to her and wished her good luck.

  It seemed like only moments passed before all the cameras stood in place and Joanna Downs, in a bright pink suit, bounded through the audience and onto the stage. “Hi, everybody!” She waited for the applause to die down, then continued, “We’ve got a great show for you today. We’re going to get things rolling in just about five minutes.”

  Kate thought five minutes would be plenty of time to fling the pinned-on microphone to the floor and dash for the exit. But she remained sitting, hands folded in her lap.

  This would be over before she knew it.

  The show began. “Good morning, everybody. We have a very special show for you. Today’s topic is very serious. I’m sure you’ve all read or heard about the case we’ll be discussing. In fact, the whole country has gotten caught up in the disappearance of Beth Walsh and the brutal murder of her husband, Mark.

  “This morning, we’re going to be talking about tragedy—and secrets.” Joanna paused and glanced down. “We have three people here today who can give us intimate insight into the Walsh case, and a peak into the secrets you may not have heard from the media. First, we’ll be talking to the mother of the missing woman, Kate Donner. Mrs. Donner, welcome to the show.”

  Kate froze as one of the cameras swiveled toward her, the red light atop it almost accusing. She wanted to study the monitor to see if she looked as nauseous as she felt, if her face appeared clammy with sweat.

  “Kate knows firsthand what it feels like to be at the center of a tragedy, having lost a beloved son-in-law and a daughter whose whereabouts remain a mystery.

  “Waiting backstage, we have the Chicago Tribune’s Melissa King, who has been covering the case from the start, and Dr. Martin Sorrel, whose new book Sexual Addiction: The Mythology of Love is already climbing the New York Times bestseller list. Dr. Sorrel has some unique insight into Beth Walsh and what may have happened the day she vanished.”

  What could this man possibly know about my daughter? Kate wanted to spit out the words. Already, she was seeing how right Ted had been—she would be crucified. She folded her arms over her stomach and tried to sit up straighter.

  “When we come back, we’ll find out from Kate how it felt to discover her daughter’s secret life.”

  The applause rose and Kate could finally see the faces in the crowd. They stared, hungry, and she wanted to run, but the time for that had passed.

  * * * *

  “So you’re trying to tell me to feel sorry for your daughter?” Kate wondered where the young black woman got so much anger. She didn’t even know her. “When she was sleeping around with not one, not two, not three, but with God knows how many different men? I’m sorry, lady, but you’re the one who needs somebody to feel sorry for you if you believe she deserves any pity.”

  The audience broke into laughter and applause.

  Kate had never dreamed it would be this bad.

  Joanna Downs smiled. “What do you say to a reaction like that, Kate?”

  When had she become Kate? She was Mrs. Donner when the show began, Mrs. Donner as Joanna led her through her story, but now, as the audience turned on her, she was just Kate.

  “I would say that none of you people know my daughter.”

  The audience groaned.

  “I would say that Beth is a very sweet girl and she must have been very troubled to do what she did.”

  Joanna shoved her microphone in the face of a dark-bearded man standing in the aisle. “I think your daughter pulled the wool over your eyes as much as her husband’s.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Kate said.

  “Listen, I’ve been around enough sluts to know one when I hear about one. Poor sweet girls don’t trick around like your daughter.”

  Joanna moved to a fat woman with bright red hair. “Do you think your daughter killed her husband?”

  “Of course not!” Kate cried. “She wasn’t even capable of such a thing.”

  “Because, if she didn’t, she probably would have. And do you know how? The slow way, with something like AIDS. Have you thought about that? I feel sorry for you, lady, I really do. But your daughter was playing Russian Roulette not only with her own life, but with her husband’s. And that’s truly reprehensible.”

  Joanna looked to her. “Comment?”

  Kate froze; she had no answers. Why had she done this? But she had come too far to turn back now. She took a deep breath. “I’m sure Beth was aware of the risks. She’s very bright. She would have taken precautions.” Kate felt the words come tripping out, sounding unconvincing even to her.

  The audience actually booed.

  Another woman, this one with a mass of brown curls and small round glasses, stood. “I think everybody here feels for Mrs. Donner.”

  Thank God, Kate thought, maybe finally someone has something sensible to say. Ever since Joanna Downs had gone into the audience for comments, it had been more of the same. If Beth were here, they probably would have mobbed her, ripped her limbs from her body, and eaten her.

  “But I have to say Mrs. Donner is a good example of the worst kind of denial a mother can have about her child. What I’d like to know is what was going on in that house Beth grew up in, to make her the way she was. I wonder how much Mrs. Donner overlooked as Beth was growing up, how much she simply chose not to see.”

  “When we come back,” Joanna Downs said, “we’ll talk to Melissa King, who might just be able to provide us with some keen insight on the Beth Walsh her mother chose not to see.”

  The floor director cued the audience to applaud. Joanna Downs turned to Kate and mouthed, “You’re doing great.”

  Kate wanted to mouth back, “You bitch,” but only stared at her hands.

  She watched as they brought out Melissa King, and wanted to burst into tears. The reporter held a sheaf of papers, probably photocopies of pages from Beth’s journal. The temperature in the coliseum would certainly rise.

  Kate turned away from Melissa King when she sat next to her.

  Before King could begin, Kate recognized a familiar face slipping into the studio: Yoshi Blake. She didn’t look at Kate. Guilt? Instead, she went directly to Joanna and began whispering something.

  Joanna looked stunned, her composure for once faltering. Kate strained to hear their words. She could make out Joanna asking, “Are you sure?” and Yoshi nodding.

  Joanna crossed to one of the cameramen. “Make sure to get a tight close-up of her face when I break the news.” Kate squirmed when the cameraman looked at her.

  What was going on? Her hands began to tremble and the possibility hit her that Beth’s body had been found. Surely, they wouldn’t tell a mother news like that on live television, in front of an audience? Sadly, Kate already knew the answer.

  She didn’t have long to think. In seconds, the floor director once again cued the audience to applaud, the theme music came up, went down, and then all eyes turned to Joanna Downs, who held a piece of paper in her hand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been handed a bulletin from our news department.”

  Kate had to remind herself to breathe.

  “A fascinating turn of events has transpired in the case and we’ll be switching live in just a minute here to Raleigh Keith for all the details.”

 
Is she dead? Kate wanted to scream.

  “The news, ladies and gentlemen—and Mrs. Donner—is that Beth Walsh has just been found.”

  Kate felt herself growing faint, the audience blurring.

  “Although Mrs. Walsh appears to have been injured, she is reportedly in good health and is being transported right now to St. Joseph’s Hospital on the north side.”

  In good health. In good health. She had said “in good health.”

  The cameraman tilted his equipment as he zoomed in on her face.

  “Mrs. Donner, how do you feel now that you’ve heard this wonderful news?”

  Kate froze, not knowing what to say. The studio went dead quiet. She gripped the arms of the chair and hoisted herself up. Without a word, she did what she had longed to do since the day had begun—she crossed the stage and left the studio without once looking back.

  “Mrs. Donner? Mrs. Donner!” Joanna Downs shouted behind her.

  St. Joseph’s was a short drive away. Beth would need her.

  Chapter 30

  It took Beth a moment to realize where she was, not locked in some cold storage room, shivering, but in a hospital, warm under a green fuzzy blanket, with clean sheets beneath her. Sunlight streamed in through the window.

  What time was it? No matter. Beth snuggled down further into the bedclothes, luxuriating in the feel of them, a cocoon of warm linen.

  She didn’t know where it came from, but she heard strains of music: Pachelbel’s “Canon.” And then the door swung open, and Beth tensed. She saw a man, his face obscured by a spray of irises wrapped in green paper. The flowers, her favorite, came down slowly to reveal Mark standing there.

  She closed her eyes as she felt tears brim over. His face bore scars; it would never be the same. But he was alive!

  Their eyes met, and for a moment, it seemed they existed in a void and everything around them faded away. He came toward the bed, and Beth wanted to say so much, ask so many questions, beg his forgiveness, but no words could emerge from her constricted throat. She held up her arms, hoping the fingers missing from her right hand wouldn’t alarm him too much.