Missing

by Bill Noel

  I asked her for his home address and the information on his sister. Her hands shook as she handed me his application. I copied down the addresses.

  Anne rubbed her eyes and then looked at me. “Does it have something to do with those poor women?”

  “It might,” I said.

  “Damn,” she mumbled.

  I agreed.

  CHAPTER 55

  CHARLES AND I RUSHED BACK TO MELINDA’S. ANNE had said that Damian took all his tools, which meant that he didn’t plan to return. He knew Charles had scoured the island for information on the women and that Melinda had acted suspicious earlier. When he saw her checking out his car, he knew it was simply a matter of time before we put everything together. His days on Folly were numbered, and he knew it.

  I doubted he would go after Melinda, since she hadn’t seen him with any of the women and all she knew was that his sister’s car looked like the suspicious vehicle. Regardless, we had to make sure she was safe. Charles ran in, and I waited in the car. He quickly returned and said she was safely tucked in and had her door double locked.

  “Now what?” said Charles.

  “Let’s go by his apartment. If Burton’s there, we’ll keep going. I’m afraid Damian may have already skipped town.”

  Damian lived in a first-floor apartment in a two-story house on East Huron. The house, located three blocks from town and two blocks from the marsh, was owned by an elderly widow in an assisted-living home on James Island. Anne said that Damian loved the cheap rent and privacy.

  Damian’s house was the fourth of five two-story frame houses on a slight rise on the left side of the street. Three of the houses had had extensive renovation work, and the other two, including Damian’s, looked like they hadn’t seen a can of paint or a lawnmower since the Vietnam War. Weeds, decorative grasses, and wilted flowers covered the front and one side yard. A gravel drive with patches of weeds covered the bulk of the other side yard. The only vehicle we saw was a rusty orange bicycle with a missing front wheel.

  “Now what?” said Charles for the second time in five minutes.

  I saw what Damian meant by liking the privacy. The house to the right had a faded For Rent sign in the yard, and it didn’t look like the sign had been successful. And with his landlord in a nursing home, he would have had the run of the place. A bomb could have gone off in his living room and I doubted anyone would have heard it. The same went for a scream. It would have made a perfect haunted house. A knot tightened in my stomach.

  “Burton probably drove by and didn’t see a car,” I said. “He would then have headed to the sister’s house. Let’s look around.”

  I parked two houses down the street. I didn’t want to be in the drive if Damian came home. Four wooden steps led to the front porch. Two were broken, and the other two creaked as we carefully made our way to the front door. I didn’t expect an answer but knocked anyway. I then walked to the window that overlooked the porch. It was covered by a thin, lacy drape. Through a two-inch gap on the left side, I could see a Victorian-style couch and chair in the living room. A layer of dust on the floor looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in months.

  “Let’s go around back,” I said as we walked down the steps. The handrail was as shaky as the steps. The door to Damian’s apartment was on the right side of the house about five feet from the drive. Two large bushes on the left side of the door blocked its view of the street and the house next door. The door had a two-by-three-foot window that was covered on the inside with plywood. That was strange since the windows were in good repair. Several layers of paint had peeled off the door, but there was a new, brass lockset. That was odd.

  I leaned close to the door and heard the muted sounds of a television. I held my breath and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. It was times like these that I wished for Larry, the reformed cat burglar. Charles had walked around behind the house, returned, and waved for me to follow.

  The deep backyard was more private than the side yards. Four massive live oaks and a row of overgrown shrubs shielded the property line. Weeds and plants of all shapes and sizes had haphazardly filled in every vacant spot. An old cast-iron bathtub was on its side next to a small, wooden storage building, and rusting tools were on the ground beside the building. I barely saw the roof of the houses on the next street over. Trees cast eerie shadows on the yard and the rear of the house.

  Two small windows were on the lower level. One had been covered with plywood like the door. The other window was smaller, a little higher, and frosted. I assumed it was in the bathroom. Charles held his finger to his lips and then pointed to the window with the plywood. I put my ear to the window and barely heard the television. I clearly heard what sounded like the low, whimpering sounds of an animal—or a person.

  My heart pounded. I didn’t know how well the plywood was secured and if it was possible to get past it. The bathroom window was our best chance to get in. I grabbed a tire iron from a pile of junk near the storage building and pointed to two concrete blocks that leaned against the house. Charles helped me move the blocks under the bathroom window.

  I stepped on the blocks, covered my face with my left arm, and swung the tire iron at the window. The glass broke into thousands of pieces. I raked the iron around the edges of the frame to break off any sharp pieces sticking out. The noise from the television was louder, and so were the pained sounds coming from somewhere in the house. They were human.

  Charles pushed me up through the window. It was above the toilet, and I managed to crawl through and get enough leverage on the toilet’s water tank to get in without falling. I hesitated and looked around the nearly dark room for a light switch. I heard Charles whisper for me to give him a hand. I helped him through before I turned on the light. An empty cologne bottle was on the vanity.

  I grabbed the tire iron. I felt confident that Damian was gone but was still hypercautious. The whimpering voice was louder and then uttered, “Help.”

  Charles walked to the small living area and turned the television off. I looked around to get my bearings and see where the voice came from. The apartment was small, so it didn’t take long to spot the three-quarter-height door at the back of a tiny bedroom. It had an industrial-looking latch on the door and a padlock through the latch. The lock wasn’t fastened, but it held the hasp in place. I looked around to make sure no one was there and then removed the lock and unlatched the door.

  I took a deep breath and slowly pulled the door. The room was windowless and almost completely dark. I saw movement on the far wall and reached around the corner for a light switch. I flicked it on. What was in front of me could have been out of a horror movie.

  CHAPTER 56

  A WOMAN STRAINED TO STAND ON HER TIPTOES, HER back pressed against a concrete block wall. She was in her twenties and had on green shorts and a gray, sweat-stained Nike T-shirt. She was barefoot. An inch-thick rope was attached to the low ceiling and looped around her neck. The rope was unyielding, and the slightest movement downward would have choked her to death. Her arms were restrained by smaller ropes anchored in the wall. She could only move her arms a few inches from the wall. Her face was blood red, and her arms shook uncontrollably. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  I yelled for Charles to find a knife and then hurried to her. I assured her that everything would be okay as I lifted her sagging body to loosen the tightening noose. The front of her T-shirt was wet from tears.

  She mumbled, “Thank you.”

  Charles arrived with a steak knife. He looked around, grabbed a wicker chair that was beside an army surplus cot on the other side of the room, and moved it close to the woman. The chair was rickety, and he carefully balanced himself on it to reach the overhead restraint. It seemed like an eternity before he cut through the noose. She fell into my arms. Charles then sawed his way through the ropes holding her arms.

  We carried her to the twin bed in the small bedroom adjacent to h
er room of horrors.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  She was hoarse, and I barely understood her. I told her who we were and why we had come to the apartment. Then I asked her to rest a minute while I called the police. Charles went to get her water, and I called 911.

  She took a sip, thanked Charles, rubbed her blood-red neck, and then took a larger sip. She said she was Erica Lane, was from Wisconsin, and had recently separated from her husband. She had read about Folly Beach in a magazine and thought it would be a good place to escape her past. She had cleaned out her bank account and arrived a week ago. Her story was strikingly similar to those of the three murdered women.

  “How did you run into Damian?” I asked.

  She finished the glass of water and asked if she could have more. Charles nodded and took her glass to the kitchen for a refill.

  She blinked a couple of times. “In college I won a couple of beauty contests. When I got married, my husband thought it was wasteful to regularly get my hair fixed. We lived on a small family farm, and most of the days we worked outside.” She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “The first thing I wanted to do when I got here was to spoil myself—get a facial, a manicure, and a pedicure and have my hair styled.” She paused. “It sounds self-centered and like I’m a spoiled brat.”

  “Not at all,” said Charles as he returned with her water.

  I smiled and said, “Go on.”

  She slowly sat on the side of the bed and put her arms on the mattress to steady herself. She kept looking at the entry door. I reassured her that Damian was gone. She finally continued, “I stayed the first two nights at the Tides until I found an apartment. I was wandering around town the third day here and saw Folly Curls.” She shook her head. “Then I made a terrible mistake.” She hesitated and then blinked. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I went in.”

  “And met Damian?” said Charles.

  She looked at Charles and then down at the filthy, beige rug. “Yeah,” she said. “He was the only one there. Said the owner was out having fun. He laughed when he said it. I don’t know why. Anyway, I told him I would like to make an appointment to get my hair done. He pointed to his chair. ‘Why not now?’ he said. I was surprised and said okay.”

  “Hang on a second,” interrupted Charles. “I’m going to open the door so the police can find us.”

  Erica took another sip, and then Charles returned. “Okay,” he said.

  She shook her head. “He was so nice. He wanted to know about my trip. Who I was with, where I was staying.” She shook her head again. “I just put my head back, let him start working on my hair, and spilled my guts.” She sighed. “What an idiot I was. What an idiot!”

  I reached over and patted her knee. “No, you weren’t. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Charles.

  “He seemed like such a nice guy at first. To tell you the truth, I thought he was gay.”

  “Why?” asked Charles.

  “Nothing specific. He acted feminine, you know, like a gay beauty pageant director I had in college.” She giggled. “Found out pretty quickly that I was wrong about Damian. His hand started lingering on my shoulder, even rubbed my back.” She reached back and ran her left hand along her lower neck. He was also taking way too long with the haircut. I felt uncomfortable and wanted to get out of there.”

  I heard a siren in the distance. “How did you end up here?” I asked. We would be politely pushed out of the way once the police and EMTs arrived, and I wanted to hear her story first.

  “He finished my hair and then stood between me and the door. He smiled at me. He still had the shears in his hand, and then the bastard had the nerve to ask me out.” She paused. “I made up a story about having a dog in my apartment and needed to get back to feed it. He stared at me. His smile had disappeared. He said, ‘Erica, Erica, you know that’s a big, fat lie. If you had a dog you would have told me when you were babbling on about your life.’”

  The siren reached the front of the house and stopped wailing. “Then what happened?”

  “He glared at me—it was scary. He said we were going to take a ride and then go to one of the finest bars in Charleston for a drink. He still had those long scissors in his hand. He wasn’t much larger than me, but I was afraid. I thought if we went to a bar, I could say I had to go to the restroom and then get help. There’d be others around. He wouldn’t hurt me in front of them.” She shook her head. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Police! Anyone there?”

  I recognized Cindy’s voice and asked Charles to meet her. I heard a second vehicle slide to a halt in front of the house. Erica’s hands had finally stopped shaking, and her breathing was steady. I heard Charles tell Cindy that everything was okay and that she might want to check the rest of the house to see if anyone was there. He was stalling. Cindy said something to the second officer who had arrived and then told Charles that an ambulance was on the way.

  “What happened then?” I prompted.

  “The bastard put his arm around my waist and pulled me close. The scissors were still in his other hand. He walked me out to his car and opened the passenger door and asked me to get in. I was too scared not to.” She shook her head. “That was a big mistake, I know. But there wasn’t anyone around. I didn’t know what to do. He steered with his left hand and kept a death grip on my wrist with his other hand. He’s strong.”

  “Did he bring you here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe four days ago. I’m not sure. I was in that room most of the time. No windows, so I couldn’t tell if it was light or dark.”

  “Were you tied up all the time?”

  “No, just one other time until today. But the doors were padlocked, and I couldn’t get out.” She looked back toward the room where she had been bound. “The first time he didn’t put the rope around my neck, but he tied my hands. I must have been there for seven or eight hours—it seemed longer.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, but I thought he was going to. He alternated between rage and telling me how much he enjoyed having me here. He said I’d really like him once I got to know him.” She paused and looked at the ceiling. “He’s crazy.”

  Cindy was on her radio in the living room. I didn’t have much longer to talk to Erica.

  “What happened today?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I was in the room and heard him pull into the drive. Then he slammed the front door. I heard stuff being thrown around and him cussing.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “I couldn’t understand, but he sure was mad.” She hesitated. “I was so afraid.”

  “What happened next?”

  “He unlatched the door to my room and then flung it open. I saw a suitcase outside the door. I was standing here by the cot. He grabbed me around the waist and yanked me over to the wall and looped the rope around my wrists. Kept mumbling something about a damned green-haired old lady and a kid. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew something was wrong. He was jittery, all hyper-like.” She closed her eyes, and her shoulders shuddered. “That’s when he left the room and returned with that rope … I was so scared.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  “He … put the rope around my neck and then attached the other end to that hook in the ceiling. He pulled it so tight that I had to stand on tiptoes to keep from getting strangled.” She nervously rubbed her neck.

  Cindy peeked around the corner. She glanced at the ropes attached to the wall and the ceiling and then over to Erica. “Are you okay?”

  “I am now,” she said.

  Officer O’Hara was the next through the door. “We’ll take it from here, Mr. Landrum,” he said. I wondered if he would arrest me for breaking in.

&nb
sp; I didn’t argue, knowing that Cindy would fill me in on anything I missed. I patted Erica on the back and told her that she was in good hands. I heard an ambulance pull in front of the house and stood to leave.

  Erica grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Before he left, he looked at me struggling against the ropes. He said, ‘Guess we won’t have that date.’ He then laughed like it was hilarious. That man’s crazy.”

  Two EMTs rushed into the room. One knelt down beside Erica and started asking her questions. I motioned for Cindy to follow me to the living room. Officer O’Hara followed on her heels. “What happened?” asked Cindy. “How did you find her?”

  I looked around the room. “Just a sec,” I said, and walked into the larger bedroom and looked around. The closet door was open, and the only thing in it was an empty coat hanger. Dirty socks were in the corner, and the bed was unmade. Damian was gone.

  I walked back to the living room, where Cindy looked through the drawer in a small table by the ratty couch. Officer O’Hara stood in the doorway as the EMTs checked out Erica. Charles was seated on the couch. “Cindy,” I said, “you’re standing in the apartment of the man who murdered the three women. If it hadn’t been for Charles and me, you’d have one more body.”

  I then shared everything that had happened in the last couple of hours. I told her that Detective Burton was looking for Damian and that, most likely, he had gone to Damian’s sister’s house on James Island. I told her about the borrowed Crown Vic. O’Hara took notes. To his credit, he kept his mouth shut.

  “We need to get her statement, if she’s up to it, before they transport her to the hospital,” said Cindy. “Hang around.”

  The air-conditioning was off, and the apartment was stifling. Charles and I walked out to the backyard. He asked me what Erica had said while he was out of the room, and I began to tell him. Then it computed about what she had told me Damian said about a “green-haired old lady and a kid.”