Time Search

by Danele J Rotharmel

  The man continued walking toward the door with Angelina’s bags. “Her location must be kept secret, but she’ll be safe.”

  Karl swung the man around to face him. “I’m not letting you take her unless I have some assurance of her safety.”

  “The longer you delay our departure, the more you place her in jeopardy. This is an exposed location, and she is a target.”

  Karl bit his lip. “Let me come, too.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t let you do this.” he growled. “You cannot—”

  “Karl,” Angelina said quietly. “Let me go.”

  Karl passed a shaking hand over his face. He felt like he was suffocating. He didn’t know what to do. Angelina gave him another wobbly smile. Turning, she passed through the terminal doors and into a waiting car.

  He stood rooted to the spot as people swarmed past him. Even after Angelina’s car was long gone, he stared desolately at where he’d last seen her. He couldn’t believe he had let her go, but he didn’t know what else he could have done. He didn’t have the right to stop her.

  ~*~

  In his study, Andrew stared at the gruesome crime scene photographs of the woman discovered in Drake’s bedroom wall.

  “Have you identified her?” he asked Agent Ruthford in a rigidly controlled voice.

  “DNA confirms that the victim is Raquel Sanders, age twenty-six. She’s the housewife from Winchester, Virginia who went missing about eight months ago.”

  “I remember that case,” Andrew said. “Isn’t she the one who went out jogging and never returned? Has her husband been notified?”

  Ruthford nodded grimly. The muscle twitching in his cheek told Andrew that informing Raquel’s husband of her death hadn’t been pleasant.

  Ruthford cleared his throat. “Mr. Sanders confirmed that the clothes on the body matched what his wife had been wearing the day she disappeared. However, he couldn’t identify the silver locket left around her neck.”

  Andrew looked down at the photos. “How can a body be entombed in a wall and no one notice?”

  “Actually, sir, the body was well hidden. If it hadn’t been for Miss Stuart, it never would have been found.”

  “But wasn’t there a smell?”

  “The body was covered in lime—that masked much of the odor.” Ruthford thumbed through his files. “Neighbors did complain of a smell, but the landlord thought it was a dead rat in the walls. He gave everyone a break on rent, and the whole thing just blew over.”

  “Just blew over,” Andrew said in a voice quivering with fury. “A dead woman and it just blew over.” He stood and paced. “How did she die?”

  “Initial autopsy results are leaning toward strangulation. Her hyoid bone was broken. Toxicology reports are still pending.”

  Taking a firm grip on his emotions, Andrew stopped pacing and sat back down. “I’m glad you found her. At least, her family can have some closure.”

  “The credit goes solely to Miss Stuart. She uncovered a wide variety of clues that we missed.” Ruthford hesitated. “Sir, I’d like to recruit Miss Stuart. I believe she’d be a valuable asset to our agency.”

  “You’ll probably have to arm-wrestle Dan Ableman for her.” He smiled. “But offer her a position. I wouldn’t mind having her work for us, even if it does mean poaching on TEMCO grounds.”

  Ruthford nodded. “I’ll see what I can do about securing her services.”

  Gathering the photos, Andrew handed them to Ruthford. “On another matter, did agents meet Dan Ableman’s sister at the airport?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s on her way to your lake house.”

  “How viable is the threat against her?” he asked.

  “Drake was seen trying to break into her townhouse.”

  “Trying?” Andrew’s brows rose. “He didn’t succeed?”

  “No, sir. He was attacked by a neighbor’s dog. He killed the dog and ran away. But the fact that he was at her home confirms she’s a target. Your lake house should be the perfect place for her to hide. Is she a family friend, sir?”

  Andrew shook his head. “I’ve never met her, but a trusted friend asked that I look after her. He’s the same friend who requested that we search for Drake. What he says should always be taken seriously.”

  Nodding, Agent Ruthford cleared his throat. “I do have some good news to report.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Andrew said. “I’ll be glad to hear it.”

  “Earlier today, Gerald Henrickson, the Jefko deliveryman, was found on a road near C and O National Historic Park.”

  Andrew blinked. “I thought you weren’t holding out much hope for him.”

  “Truthfully, I wasn’t,” Ruthford replied. “But I’m learning to never bet against a man with a praying girlfriend. When I questioned Mr. Henrickson, I met Maria Ortega. She’s a powerhouse of faith.”

  Andrew smiled. “I’m glad they were reunited. How is Mr. Henrickson doing?”

  “He’ll eventually make a full recovery.” The agent’s stern face broke into a wide grin. “I was there when Mr. Henrickson regained consciousness. The first thing he did was propose to his girl.”

  Andrew chuckled. “And she accepted, I suppose?”

  “She did, indeed.” Ruthford’s grin increased its wattage. “They invited me to the wedding.”

  “I’m sure it will be a happy time.” Andrew steepled his fingers. “Did you learn anything about Drake from Mr. Henrickson?”

  Ruthford’s smile faded. He shook his head. “He let us know that Drake stole his uniform, but we already knew that. He was also able to describe the location of Drake’s old car. Unfortunately, the car hasn’t provided any useful leads.”

  Andrew sighed. “That’s disappointing.”

  “Not entirely,” Ruthford replied. “The one thing we did learn is that Drake isn’t infallible. He’s getting desperate, and he’s getting sloppy. Mr. Henrickson shouldn’t have survived the attack.”

  Andrew smiled. “You’re forgetting to take his praying girlfriend into account.”

  Ruthford laughed, and after a few more minutes of conversation, he left.

  When he was gone, Andrew wandered into his living room and turned on the TV. A late-night comedy show was on, and the host was discussing current events. Andrew wasn’t paying much attention. His mind was still mulling over the gruesome crime scene photographs. Suddenly, his own name in the comic routine caught his attention.

  “What’s up with Vice President Hamilton?” The host chuckled, holding up a newspaper. On the front page was a photo of him with Marjorie. The host read the headline, “VP’s New Love Revealed.”

  Andrew winced as the studio audience laughed.

  The host rolled his eyes. “How many times have we seen that particular headline over the last few days? Fifteen? Twenty? What’s up with this guy? He’s named America’s Most Eligible Bachelor, and suddenly, he thinks it’s his duty to date every woman in the country? Well, that’s one way to secure the feminine vote in the upcoming election. Our VP is very serious about making his talents known to his constituents—at least, the ones in heels. Who needs to campaign? Just wine and dine the nation one woman at a time. Honestly, folks, he needs to give the rest of us single guys a break. I feel like calling him up and saying, ‘Mr. Vice President, do you think you can leave us at least one woman on the planet that you haven’t dated?’ I mean, come on, what—”

  Making a disgusted sound in his throat, Andrew changed channels. He was hoping to come across a concert with his violinist, but after flipping through the channels twice, he gave up.

  Sighing, he propped his head on one hand. He hadn’t discovered the name of the beautiful woman, and he’d probably never know it. Unless a station replayed one of her concerts, he’d never see her again. The thought left him feeling lonelier than he’d ever believed possible.

  ~*~

  Angelina fell asleep in the car. She awoke to one of the agents shaking her shoulder.

  “Miss Ableman, we’re h
ere.”

  She didn’t ask where “here” was. She was simply too tired to care. She’d been too tense to sleep on the plane, and her lack of rest was finally catching up with her.

  She stumbled getting out of the car. An agent grabbed her elbow and steadied her. She tried thanking him, but she couldn’t remember his name, and her mind was too muzzy to form words. The agent guided her up the sidewalk toward a lovely mansion nestled in the woods. Angelina tried to focus her blurry eyes. Smelling water, she wondered if there was a lake nearby. She tripped going up the front steps. Again, the agent steadied her. She sighed. Her leg was bothering her again.

  Inside the mansion, she had a fuzzy impression of elegance and wealth before she was whisked up a grand staircase. The agent ushered her into a lovely bedroom and deposited her bags by the closet. As soon as he shut the door, Angelina undressed in a haze of weariness and pulled on a nightgown. Throwing back the covers, she crawled into bed. She would worry about everything tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was sleep.

  34

  June 14, 2:14 AM

  Student Union, NSU Campus

  Washington D.C.

  Marc looked over at Crystal with a tender smile. She was curled in a tumbled heap on her butcher paper, and she looked horrendous. He grinned. She was clothed in a hideous, green t-shirt covered by a red-and-black plaid shirt. Instead of jeans, she had on a ratty pair of purple sweatpants. To complete her fashionable ensemble, she was wearing pink tube socks with individual toes. He had no idea where her shoes were. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and it was messy as a crow’s nest. She was fast asleep.

  Studying her, he chuckled. She looked adorable.

  After they’d left the aquatic gardens, Crystal asked him to swing by her place so she could change clothes. She told him that if they were going to pull an all-nighter, she wanted to be comfy. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but when she came out of her building looking like she’d raided the ragbag, he hadn’t exactly been surprised. He was discovering that Crystal looked at things differently than most people, and in her way of thinking, comfort overruled style.

  They’d worked through the night, only stopping once to order some Thai food. Thai had been Crystal’s choice. She said if they asked for everything to be extra spicy it would keep them awake. It had worked for him—not so much for her.

  He chuckled again as he watched her sleep.

  Marc stroked his beard with the back of his hand. Three more girls had replied that evening, leaving them with nine remaining candidates for Drake’s girlfriend. They’d worked together for hours, scouring old yearbooks and DMV photos. Crystal still couldn’t come up with how a candle on the water connected to dragons, and a little after midnight, she’d returned to her butcher paper to hash it out. Somewhere around 1:00 AM., he heard the first tiny snores coming from her direction.

  Tearing his eyes reluctantly from Crystal, Marc reviewed the clues they’d gleaned from Drake’s apartment. Stonehenge signifying summer, Roman flag signifying battle, yellow signifying execution, poem on revenge from Letitia Elizabeth Landon, Egyptian symbol for Amenta, a dead body in the wall, a silver locket, flowers signifying Drake’s desire to reunite with his girlfriend, and a candle on the water.

  He knew that each clue was significant. They just needed a little twist, and they would fall into place and make sense. He agreed with Crystal. The candle on the water was the key. For the past hour, he’d been running data searches for any links between candles, water, and dragons. And just like Crystal, he’d been coming up empty.

  Suddenly, Marc heard rustling behind him. He smiled, thinking that Crystal was finally waking up. He couldn’t wait to give her trouble about falling asleep after all that spicy Thai food. His digestive system would never be the same. As he turned around to talk with her, he realized that she was still asleep. As he watched, she mumbled and tossed her head back and forth. She gave a sharp cry and jerked her legs so hard that the butcher paper tore.

  Jumping from his chair, he knelt by her side. Gathering her in his arms, he whispered, “Shh. You’re OK. I’m here.”

  Still sleeping, Crystal screamed and struggled against him.

  Trying to pin her hands, he said loudly, “Cris, wake up.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. They were full of fear. She was breathing hard and fast.

  “You’re OK,” Marc said softly, stroking her tumbled hair. “It was just a bad dream.”

  She nodded and shivered. As he held her close, she buried her face against his shoulder. Marc’s concern shifted into overdrive as he felt strong tremors shaking her body. Her heart was pounding so hard that he could feel it thudding against his chest.

  After a while, she tugged herself gently from his arms. Although he hated to, he let her go immediately. She sat silently, staring at the floor. Although he was worried, he didn’t attempt to break her silence. Forcing her to speak before she was ready would be the wrong thing to do.

  When her breathing was under control, she said quietly, “Thanks.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Tossing her tangled hair from her face, she gave a crooked grin that pierced his heart. “Nothing much to talk about,” she mumbled self-consciously. “It was just a run-of-the-mill nightmare about burning alive.”

  “Oh, Cris! I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, no worries. You stopped the dream before it became too bad.” She blew a curl away from her face. “Eventually, I’ll become so bored with that silly dream that I’ll start dreaming something else. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to discover if there’s a hidden meaning behind my reoccurring dream, some wonderful bit of wisdom that I can glean.”

  “Have you found anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “The only thing I’ve learned is that I really hate fire.” She gave him a shaky smile. “Pyrophobia has a respectable ring to it, don’t you think? If I have to have a phobia, at least that one doesn’t sound too ridiculous.”

  He could tell that she was extremely shaken and trying hard not to show it. His heart went out to her.

  As she rubbed tears from her eyes, she continued to babble. “I mean really, I could be saddled with pteronophobia, the fear of being tickled by feathers. Or arachibutyrophobia, the fear of peanut butter getting stuck to the roof of my mouth.” She gave another shaky smile. “Or ebulliophobia, the fear of bubbles. Now, that would be a cause for tears.”

  He smiled gently and let her continue. “Or kathisophobia—the fear of sitting down. Or hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, the fear of long words. How dreadful would that be? If I had that phobia, I couldn’t even talk about it. If I have to have a phobia, pyrophobia isn’t too bad…” Her voice shuddered to a stop. Her grin wobbled and broke.

  Feeling his heart breaking, he said in a tender, bolstering voice, “You could be right. It’s better to have pyrophobia than gigantasophobia. It would be awful if you were suddenly afraid of tall people. What would we do then? Our friendship would be doomed.” As she gave a watery chuckle, he winked. “And if you had Sichuan phobia—the the fear of Chinese food—we might starve. You still refuse to tell me what you like on your pizza.”

  “My pizza preferences are remaining a secret for now.” As she smiled, color began returning to her pale cheeks. “You’re right. There are worse things than pyrophobia. For instance, phronemophobia—the fear of thinking.”

  “Phronemophobia would be a tragedy,” he agreed solemnly. “You wouldn’t survive a single day if you couldn’t walk around thinking a thousand things at once.” As she gave a little giggle, he squeezed her hand and said quietly, “Your dreams are pretty bad, aren’t they?”

  Nodding, she replied with a catch in her voice, “They come every night, and I don’t know how to stop them.”

  “We catch a killer. That’s how.” He tweaked the curl bobbing beside her ear. “And in the meantime, out of respect for your pyrophobia, we’ll avoid lighting matches and eating at Mongolian grills.”

  “I
think I can handle that.” She laughed.

  “Good.” Standing up, he pulled her to her feet. “I need some sugar.”

  Crystal looked at him in alarm.

  He smiled gently. “I meant disaccharide sucrose—table sugar. Let’s go raid the candy machine. I want some chocolate.”

  Seeing a different look of wariness passing over her face, he chuckled. “Don’t worry, Cris. I’ll defend you against the vending machine. I’ll push the buttons, and if our candy gets stuck, I’ll be the one to reach into the belly of the beast to get it out.”

  ~*~

  Drake strolled down the street looking for a likely ride. He grinned when he spotted a parked car with its windows rolled down. It was practically begging to be stolen. Slipping inside, he hotwired it without a hitch.

  “It’s time to pay Crystal a visit,” he said, stepping on the gas.

  ~*~

  The soft light of the moon slipped through Phoebe’s curtains. She’d been tossing and turning all night. Anger at God. Confusion over Alex. Shame concerning her actions with Russ. They were all keeping her awake. Her thoughts were haunted.

  Phoebe thumped her pillow into a different shape. Lying back down, she tried to woo sleep. It didn’t work. Flipping onto her stomach, she scrunched her eyes closed. She tried to lie still. Making a disgusted sound in her throat, she sat up. It was no use.

  Slipping from under the covers, she grabbed her robe. Walking past the dresser, she noticed Humphrey upside down in her trashcan. Picking up the giraffe, she set him on the bed and tiptoed out of the room.

  In the dim glow of the fireplace, she could see the shadowy outline of the couch. As usual, Alex’s bedroom door was propped open so he could hear if she needed him. She paused and listened. She could just make out his breathing, soft and regular as he slept.

  In her bare feet, she stole across the creaking floor and out the cabin door. Sitting down on the porch swing, she swayed gently back and forth as she watched the stars blazing above the mountain peaks. The night air was crisp. Breathing deeply, she laid her head against the back of the swing, trying to feel peaceful and failing utterly. Closing her eyes, she tried to relax, but her turbulent feelings were a deep whirlpool that refused to let her go. As she sat there, she replayed the days that she’d spent as Drake’s captive. The more she mused over what had happened, the angrier she became.