by CJ Lyons
She had to laugh at that. "Guess we're both compulsive overachievers."
"A match made in heaven. Unlike the two back there. What's with them? The mister, I swore he never even blinked the whole time I was talking with him. Eyes like a dead fish."
"Maybe that's from studying snakes and reptiles all day long. He's not used to us warm-blooded creatures."
"Guess that's why he picked her. She's not exactly warm and fuzzy, is she?"
"More like lost in her own little universe. I think maybe they both are—which left no place for Ashley."
"Poor kid. As bad as it sounds, I kind of hope she ran away, maybe with a boyfriend who really cares about her."
"Too bad that usually translates to: pedophile who seduces young girls. You know as well as I most of these guys know exactly how to manipulate kids, give them all the love, attention and affection they need."
Burrough's expression went to cop-neutral but his knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Just what every kid needs and wants. Until the pervs start asking for more." He cut her a look. "I don't know how you deal with these bastards every day, seeing what you see, knowing what you know."
"Someone has to."
"Better you than me."
Lucy shrugged and stared out the window. She hadn't perfected a way to "deal" yet—other than insulating Nick and Megan from her world as much as possible. And she was beginning to worry that insulation was fraying—or maybe working too well. Sometimes she felt disconnected, working to get back inside the bonds Megan and Nick forged when work pulled her away from them.
A stranger to her own family. Probably a lot like how Ashley felt.
They pulled up in front of a small strip mall directly across from Gateway High. "Cashier at the Stop N Go says she saw a girl fitting Ashley's description yesterday afternoon."
Lucy got out of the car and looked around. There was a bus stop on the curb, a chiropractor's office, the Stop N Go, and a nail salon. "Let's hope she saw more than that. We need to get a bead on Ashley. Soon."
This was the hardest part, Jimmy told himself, swiveling his chair to decrease the glare on the small computer screen. Just another day—a minimum forty-eight hours, that's what all the experts said. He had to do it right this time, couldn't fail.
Not again. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to block out the images. Sweet, sweet Connie with her heart-shaped face and lilting voice. And Vera—God, that had been awful, whoever would have guessed that such a tiny thing could be so strong?
Enough. They were the past. Ashley was his future.
He had to stay in control, follow the plan. He had to save her. He needed her as much as she needed him. What else could you expect from family?
He focused on the ghostly green images the night vision camera projected. He'd heard her screams. His palms still held the imprint of screws from gripping the edge of his seat. He wasn't ashamed to say that her terror and despair had driven him to tears. True love had its price.
Step one. Establish control.
Ashley crawled across the screen, jerked short by her leash. Step one, complete.
Step two. Foster dependence for survival.
The sounds of Ashley gulping the water he'd left her carried through the speakers. He turned his head, gave her her privacy as she used the commode. Step two, finished.
Step three. Complete disorientation. Break old reality.
He'd sound-proofed the barn, blacked out every speck of light. Forty-eight hours, they said. Of course there were ways to hasten the process. Drugs. Sleep deprivation. Dehydration. He'd use those if need be, but he knew how frail she was, knew her weaknesses.
She'd already told him all her secret shames, her fears. He'd already prepared her; a long, long time he'd spent. She was ready, malleable.
Part of him wanted to rush, was eagerly anticipating Ashley's liberation. Finally, he'd have someone by his side once more. It'd been almost three years since Alesia left for the nursing home. With each passing day alone he felt the thin edge of control slipping from him.
So much so, that some days—especially after his first two failures—he wondered if his mother wasn't right.
If he wouldn't be better off dead.
But not now. Now he had Ashley and she would save him. As he would save her.
Because that's what family did.
He rubbed his eyebrow, watching her hug herself as if she were cold, even though it had to be over ninety degrees in the barn. Wished he could make things easier for the both of them.
Knowing the worst was yet to come.
Chapter 9
Saturday 1:48 pm
Burroughs showed the cashier at the Stop N Go Ashley's picture. She was a gum-cracking, twenty-something named Jalonna. "Sure, I seen her," she said. "Same as I told the other cops."
Knowing Guardino was watching, judging, Burroughs toned down his usual style, instead adopting a soft, polite tone and thanking the less-than-helpful num-nuts for her time.
"She came in here, bought a diet Dr. Pepper, went out and waited for the bus," she continued, her eyes and fingers busy sorting lottery tickets. "It was about one o'clock or so. She got on the East Liberty bus." She paused, still looking down, a hitch in her sorting. "That was it."
Burroughs looked at Guardino, shrugging as he put his notebook away. "One o'clock yesterday, East Liberty bus. Okay, thanks a lot."
He started for the door but Guardino stepped forward. The clerk didn't notice her at first, not until Guardino slammed her palm down over the stack of tickets. "Tell me what else you saw."
Was Guardino trying to show off for him? To let him know who was boss or to impress him? The move was pretty darn aggressive to use on a cooperating witness.
The clerk jerked away, backed up a step, rattling the cigarette display. "Nuthin. I didn't see nuthin' else."
Guardino let her go, but not without a knowing look. "You sure as hell didn't see the bus number from in here. You went outside, followed Ashley. Why?"
Whoa. How'd he miss that? The clerk looked to him for sympathy, but he gave her nothing.
Then she cocked her head to one side, trying to challenge Guardino with a tight-lidded gaze and failing. Her eyes slunk away in defeat, coming to rest on a iPod sitting beside the stack of lottery tickets. It was one of the expensive ones, a mandatory accessory for any well-dressed suburban kid.
"The place was empty so I went out to have a smoke. That's how I saw the bus number."
"And?" Guardino prodded.
Jalonna's chest heaved with a sigh that made her double-E's bounce like basketballs. "And she left this on the bench." She handed Guardino the iPod. "If she's saying I stole it or something, the bitch is a liar. I kept it safe right back here in the," she hesitated then brightened, "in our lost and found."
Guardino took the iPod. Most of the kids Burroughs knew, including his own, lived with the thing plugged into their ears, wore it like jewelry. "Kind of a hard thing to lose."
"Yeah, it was weird. Kid saw the bus coming, took the earbuds out and set it down on the bench. Like she planned to leave it behind. So y'all can't blame me for picking it up."
"No problem, Jalonna. Thanks for your help." Guardino shoved the iPod into her bag and followed Burroughs outside.
"Why on earth would a kid leave their music behind?" Burroughs asked, pausing in the shade of the awning. He couldn't believe he'd almost let that clerk off the hook—that's what he got for trying to play Mr. Niceguy. "Her age, music is a kid's life."
The theme song from the Mickey Mouse Club sang out from Guardino's purse. Burroughs watched as she grabbed two phones from the bag. One was labeled in pink: Kate, the other in bright blue: Joey. She flipped open the pink one and shoved the second phone back. Edging away from him, her face blanked for a moment before she spoke.
"This is Ruby." She listened for a moment. "You want to change the time to tomorrow morning? Oh no, I don't think so, me and Katie have church. She has the cutest little outfit to wea
r: all pink with white ribbons, oh and these adorable panties with lace ruffles. What?"
His fist closed around the car keys as he realized what he was witnessing. Guardino honestly looked as open and friendly as her tone of voice. Burroughs doubted he could ever be that good of an actor.
"No, no I don't think that's a good idea. How about if I just send you some more pictures if you want. Why not? Because this is happening real fast, ya know what I mean? I mean, how do I know you're not some cop or something. All this wanting to meet, I'm just not sure about that. Anyway, I wouldn't have any time free until after church tomorrow."
He marveled as she dangled the bait. No fear of entrapment here, the perv on the other end of the line was obviously working hard to convince her. She tapped her fingers on the Impala's roof, caught his stare and rolled her eyes.
"Well....maybe I could bring Katie to meet you all. But I'd have to be there the whole time, watching out for her. Yeah, I guess that's okay. No, no, I'm not promising any more until we check you out. And we're not going out our front door until the money's there. You said two thousand? Yeah, that will be all right, but you'll need to buy us breakfast too. Some place nice, no drive-thru garbage. Okay then, see you tomorrow."
She flipped the phone shut and her face lost its animation once more. For a fleeting moment she looked disoriented, as if trying to find her balance. Then she took a deep breath. "Sorry about that. While we're here, might as well check out Ashley's locker."
He drove them over to Gateway. "That was some show you put on back there. Does that happen a lot?"
"More than you want to know. We've been working overtime these past two weeks, did a sting this morning, in fact."
"You can't be sending them porn, that would be entrapment." Not to mention against the law.
"No, we set up a child-actor website. The kids are fictional and fully dressed. When someone nibbles, requesting more info on the kids' availability, we check them out and then pose as a parent, and usually it's way too easy to go from there."
"So that guy," he nodded to the phone in her purse, "and his buddies think you're going to just hand your daughter over to them? How stupid are they?"
"They're not stupid. Just thinking with the wrong set of brains. They want—no, they need—to believe me when I offer them a dream come true. Of course I make them work for it."
"Yeah, so I saw. And their dream come true is?"
"Is a four year old girl dressed up for Sunday school." She shook her head. "Hey, we don't have time for this. Especially since these bozos are gonna take up some of my time tomorrow."
They exited the car and walked toward the yellow brick single story school. The football team was hard at work on the practice field as were the cheerleaders. The marching band drilled in the parking lot, a tinny rendition of Ghostbusters mixing in with the whistles of coaches. A typical September weekend in western Pennsylvania.
"Gateway Gators, they have a chance this year?" she surprised him by asking as they entered the school.
"If they can beat Latrobe. Man, those guys looked great last season."
A smiled crossed her lips. "The Wildcats."
"You talk like you're from around here."
"Grew up in Latrobe. My mom worked at the Rolling Rock plant until they moved it to New Jersey."
"And your dad?"
"Died when I was a kid." She pushed open the door to the principal's office.
"So coming back here is like homecoming? Local girl makes good, that kind of thing?"
A brief frown clouded her face. "Yeah, people love hearing about the FBI part. Just not the rest of my job."
She shivered in the air conditioning. Damn, he did admire the way that top fit her. She had to be at least in her late thirties, but with her long dark hair and smooth, unwrinkled face, she could pass for a decade younger.
Guardino leaned over the receptionist's desk. "Hello? Anyone home?"
A harried looking black man with wire-rim glasses emerged from one of the offices. "I'm sorry, we're in the middle of a crisis here—" He stopped when he saw Guardino's credentials. "Oh. Well. Now. I've just got off the phone with our attorney and he said to let you see Ashley's locker and belongings. Right this way."
Burroughs trailed after Guardino. The view from the rear was a nice distraction, made him forget where he was for a moment. He hated schools—the budding sociopaths, the cliques, the hierarchy that forced a kid to accept whichever hole his peers pigeoned him into.
The vice-principal was prattling on about the disruption the police had made in the school's routine, removing his glasses to wipe them three times during the twenty-foot march down the hall to Ashley's locker.
"Well, now here you are." He fumbled with the master key. Guardino didn't rush him, didn't get in his space or take the key away like Burroughs itched to. Instead, she used the opportunity to pump the guy for info.
Not that the guy had anything helpful to offer, but it was pretty slick to see her milk him dry in seconds flat. She seemed to have a gift of finding her subject's weak spot and using it to get them to spill everything. Handy talent for a cop, especially one with her job.
Finally, the door sprang open. The vice-principal jumped back as if he were about to bolt, but Guardino restrained him with a gracious hand on his arm as Burroughs plunged into the teenager's treasure trove.
No help here—just textbooks and a binder. Other than her gym clothes, Ashley had left nothing personal behind. Still, Guardino acted like it was the motherlode, flipping through every page in the looseleaf binder, examining the bored doodling of a seventh grader.
"Think we could see any of her artwork?" she asked the vice-principal who hovered as if uncertain that they weren't there to arrest him.
"According to her schedule, she's in Mrs. Dunkin's art class. She's also Ashley's faculty advisor. I saw her here a while ago—something about firing some pots the students made."
Guardino smiled at the man and gestured. "Let's go meet Mrs. Dunkin."
Burroughs felt exceedingly small walking the tile-walled corridors. Trapped. Back to being thirteen again. The rows upon rows of steel lockers, the shiny linoleum, the noise bouncing from one wall to the next, the teachers making you feel stupid just 'cause you didn't talk so hot. Not to mention the humiliation of leaving class for speech therapy, constantly being labeled a dummy or retard.
A sheen of sweat broke out over him as their footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. He caught Guardino looking at him and shoved his hands into his pockets before she could see his clenched fists. As long as he didn't open his mouth, make a fool of himself, it would be all right.
They turned the corner and entered a brightly lit room festooned with colorful paintings, textiles and paper maiche sculptures. A petite woman knelt before a kiln, adjusting something.
"Mrs. Dunkin? These are the police. They're trying to find Ashley Yeager and have some questions for you." With that the assistant principal left them.
"I was so sorry to hear about Ashley," Mrs. Dunkin said, turning to face them. She wore frayed jeans and a Pitt T-shirt smeared with paint. If more of his teachers looked like her when he was a kid, school might not have been so bad. "She's a promising artist. Transferred here from Plum to take advantage of our art program."
"We'd love to see her work," Guardino said when Burroughs didn't respond. She gave him a look like he was acting like a fool, tongue-tied and gawking. He balanced Ashley's binder under his arm, took out his notebook and pretended to be busy taking notes.
Dunkin brushed clay dust from her hands on the back of her jeans. She laid out several cardboard canvasses of Ashley's work. Seeing it, Burroughs had the feeling he wasn't the only one with bad feelings when it came to school.
"Her work is quite advanced from a stylistic view point," Dunkin said. "But very primal in its energy."
Primal. That was a tame word for it.
Terrified, a child trying to claw her way out of a dungeon, desperate and despairing would be a be
tter description. Each canvas revealed an amorphously feminine shadow dwarfed by one nightmare image after another.
In one, the girl—for all its womanly curves, the figure felt immature, very young—was about to be stamped on by a giant boot. It was impossible to tell if the black Doc Maarten was a man's or woman's.
In the next, she ran, looking over her shoulder at dark shadows, not realizing that she was trapped in a labyrinth formed by the coils of a monstrous serpent. It waited ahead of her, mouth open in anticipation.
And so on. Darkness, shadows, fear, helplessness, bleak despair. No hope, no light, no escape.
"Were her grades dropping?" Guardino asked.
"Yes, last year she went from a B student to C's and D's," Dunkin said. "I tried to arrange a meeting with the parents, but," she shrugged, "they were too busy."
"Did Ashley talk with you at all, give you any idea what was going on?"
"I tried to get her to open up, but she only spoke through her art. These were from the end of last year. This year, I hoped things were looking up." Dunkin reached into a vertical cabinet and pulled out a heavy sheet of watercolor paper. "She left the acrylics and her dark palette behind. Started this two weeks ago."
Burroughs wouldn't have recognized the watercolor as being the work of the same artist. Here there were two forms, drawn proportionately, one male, one female. They were silhouetted by either a sunset or sunrise, features hidden, but their posture was one of purpose. Most telling of all, they held hands. Partners. Traveling into an unknown, unseen future. But together.
"It's a bit precious, but I encourage experimentation."
Guardino turned the paper so he could read the scrawled words at the bottom corner. Ashley had titled her painting: The Escape.
The art teacher hadn't been able to give them any more helpful information, but she did let Lucy take Ashley's most recent work. They had just gotten back on Route 22, were planning to stop for lunch, when Lucy's cell rang. "Guardino here."
"Hey, LT. I got something. That camera you found in the vic's room—"
