The Abduction of Mary Rose

by Joan Hall Hovey

  "We gotta talk," his caller said quietly.

  Same old Weaz. Scared of his shadow. "Yeah, figured you'd call. I have to admit, reading that story in the local rag hung me out there too. Who'd a thought the bitch would live long enough to have a kid. She sure as hell looked dead enough when we left her, eh, Weasel?"

  When you left her, Norman thought, but didn't say. But that wasn't exactly true either. He was right. I left her too. "I wish you wouldn't call me that," he said. "No one does anymore." The beers he'd had all but worn off. Just the headache left. He felt cold, and sick in his gut, and it wasn't the beer that was making him feel that way.

  "Yeah, sure, sorry. Take it easy, okay? You sound bad. Like you're coming apart at the seams."

  "Maybe you shouldn't say things on the phone. Might be tapped."

  He laughed that ugly laugh of his. Norman heard that laugh in his darkest dreams. How could he have taken up with him?

  "Get a grip, man," he was saying now. "Why would the phone be tapped? It happened nearly thirty years ago. The cops don't know squat. You still living in the same place?"

  The question caught Norman by surprise, followed by a jolt of panic. He sure as hell didn't want him knowing where he lived. Didn't want him anywhere near his family. "No, we bought a house out in ... the country. Look, I gotta go. I'll meet you somewhere. Friday night, okay? The wife works until ten on Fridays."

  "Sure, Weaz Norm. Whatever you say?"

  Norman swallowed. Tentatively, he said, "She's your daughter, Mac."

  "Who? What are you talking about?"

  "That girl. Naomi Waters. She's your child." He was hoping the reminder might trigger some normal human feeling in the bastard. Norman might not be any hero, but he had kids himself and he'd die for any one of them. But the icy vibes that came through the line froze any such hopes. He wasn't really surprised. He shouldn't have called, he thought again. Why was he meeting him anyway? What was the point? But he let himself be carried along.

  Just like he did all those years ago.

  "Deb know you called me?"

  Hearing his wife's name coming from the man's mouth to his ear made the hairs stand up on the back of Norman Banks' neck, terrified him. He'd met Deb only that one time, before they were married. How the hell could he remember her name? It didn't seem possible. Had he been keeping track of him all these years? Maybe he knew exactly where he lived.

  "No." He could barely get the word past the boulder in his throat.

  "You never talked to her about that night?"

  "You crazy? She's still with me, isn't she? Anyway, I didn't do nothin'. You know that."

  "Don't matter. They get me, they get you." Ice in his voice. It melted a little as he said, "But it ain't gonna happen. So don't worry, Weaz … Norm. It'll be fine. We'll meet, like you said. We'll talk, okay?"

  Mac glared at his phone as if it were a black serpent with poisoned fangs, oblivious to the fact that he was dripping water onto the carpet, that his eyes had narrowed to slivers of grey ice. He turned away, caught his reflection in the mirror and grinned. Like he always did, even when he didn't realize it, he admired himself in the glass for a couple of seconds, then headed for his bedroom to get dressed and think more on his conversation with his old buddy. His dangerous old buddy.

  He didn't miss the Weaz's surprise that he'd remember his wife's name after all these years. No reason he should have remembered. Nothin' memorable about her that he could recall. Pretty enough, but a mousy broad. But the Weaz was nuts about her, like she was something special. Even bought her a diamond ring. He didn't see much of him after that.

  The Weaz was trouble. He'd cave. I'll die in a cage, and no way in hell that was going to happen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Friday night, while his wife worked the evening shift at Sears, Norman Banks waited in the designated meeting place down by the wharf for his old friend in deed. It was just 9:15 by his watch. They'd set a time for meeting at 9:30. He'd come early, wanting to get it over with. Part of him had considered going to the cops and confessing the whole damn thing, getting if off his chest, but then he got to thinking again about how Debbie and the kids would suffer if he did that. They deserved better than to have their lives turned upside down, be forced to feel the shame because they were a part of him. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd just been part of a bank robbery or something, but the rape and beating of a young woman who would eventually die of her injuries was something else again. That would be unforgivable. No, he'd have to carry the burden alone. He'd been a part of what happened whether he'd personally done anything to that girl or not, and having this awful thing on his conscience was his punishment, and would continue to be for as long as he lived. He was glad he'd at least got up the gumption to phone the girl, to warn her against Mac.

  He just knew he'd needed to talk to someone about what had happened. He'd been frightened, desperate. But he was okay now. He didn't need this meeting. Dumb idea. He'd just hit a bad patch in the road, that was all. I'll just leave, say I waited and somehow missed him.

  He was okay now. It was just seeing that girl's picture in the paper like that which had got to him … reading about her.

  Norman shifted his feet in their heavy brown work boots, which he wore to operate the forklift at Mason's Woodworking. The crunch of gravel under his boots was amplified in the silence. It began to occur to him that it was creepy down here. The night sky was overcast, no stars showed through. Although dirty amber light glowed here and there among the wharves, it was dark where he stood. Between the long, low buildings, he could see the water gleaming black and oily, and hear it lapping against the slick and creaking wood pilings.

  Feeling a sudden chill, he zipped up his nylon jacket all the way, checked his watch again. Only two minutes had passed since he last checked it. To hell with this, he thought. I've changed my mind. A person's allowed to change....

  Before he could complete the thought, a large powerful hand clamped over his mouth and nose and yanked his head back. For an instant, he tasted salty sweat and turpentine from the hand, and then he felt a mild sting across his throat, but when he tried to breathe there was a gurgling sound and he couldn't take in air. Panic rose up in him, eyes widening as his hand shot up to cover the grinning wound, but the blood flowed over and between his fingers and his knees went out from under him as he frantically tried to gasp in air through vital tubes, now severed and useless.

  As he lay there on the ground, his body jerked convulsively like a live fish tossed upon a bank, and then the darkness, darker than any night, rolled over him.

  Norman did not feel himself being moved, nor hear the scrape of gravel beneath his body as it was dragged away.

  * * *

  Earlier that evening, Naomi went shopping for a frame for Mary Rose's poem and found exactly the right one, with a narrow light wood trim. Intent on her own purchase, she didn't notice the dark-haired sales-clerk a few aisles away in the children's department, smiling at an elderly woman who was holding up a large, brown teddy bear for her approval. Neither the sales-clerk nor Naomi could know that they were fated to meet, or that Debbie Banks' life, like her own, would be changed forever because of what happened to a teenaged Native girl all those years ago. Norman Banks' wife would later wonder why she didn't feel the exact moment when her husband's life had bled out of him, and his soul departed this earth. How could she not have sensed this?

  At home, Naomi hung the framed poem in her room beside the vanity mirror and stood back to admire it. She had neatly cut out Mary Rose's photo from the newspaper and fitted it in the bottom, left hand corner of the frame. Perfect.

  The room seemed more hers now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Take a seat right over there, Ma'am." The heavy-set policeman with a pewter-coloured buzz cut said, gesturing to a row of forest green plastic chairs set against the wall. "I'll tell Sergeant Nelson you're here. He's with someone right now."

  Naomi had been sitting in the hard-backe
d chair for about five minutes, by turns thumbing idly through an ancient copy of Reader's Digest she picked up off the low table in front of her, and observing the early morning traffic like the bleached-blonde in a mustard-yellow leather micro-mini skirt presently being led by a plain clothes cop through to a room at the end of the hallway. Her wobbly spiked heels clicked out an uneven beat on the beige tile floor.

  Off to Naomi's right, an old man was ranting to a female police officer about teenagers tormenting his dog. "I'da shot the buggers if that gun wasn't so damned old and rusted out."

  But for the clientele and the uniforms, the reception area looked like any office waiting room. There the comparison ended. You couldn't disguise the faintly sour smell of human desperation and fear in the air. As she mulled over that thought, a bray of laughter issued from across the room, where a knot of policeman were in private conversation. The laughter had held a mocking undertone, and Naomi found herself instinctively looking around for the woman in the leather mustard skirt. Not seeing her, she went back to her magazine. She had just turned to the humor page, "All in a Day's Work", when a male voice spoke her name. "Miss Waters … Naomi?"

  She looked up, expecting to see a police officer standing there, but instead saw a vaguely familiar and very attractive civilian grinning down at her. He was tall, blond, wearing a dark blue suit and burgundy and cream-coloured striped tie, and could have posed for an Armani ad.

  "Yes?" Naomi said, trying to place him. His grin reflected amusement, a certain sheepishness. "You don't remember me."

  "I'm sorry, I...." There was something familiar in the eyes, but no, she couldn't place him.

  "Reporter at large," he joked. "Eric Grant." He gave a small, mock bow, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  At what must have been her look of surprise, he laughed and rubbed a self-conscious hand over his square, beardless jaw. "Can't say I blame you. My boss said I looked like a mangy buffalo when I walked through the door last week. Not particularly a good idea to shave when you're information-gathering in the Middle East. At least I never found it to be. Any response to your story?"

  Momentarily embarrassed, she quickly recovered her composure. "Yes, it's why I'm here. I received an anonymous call from a man who said he tried to stop the other one. And I did recognize you, Mr. Grant. Just not right away." The smile gave him away, as did those eyes, even if not at a glance. She had only met him one time, after all. But she had to admit, he cleaned up spectacularly. "You're a war correspondent. Yes, I remembered your last book was up for an award. Are you home for good now?"

  "For the time being, anyway. I'm freelance now, pretty much. I like being a free agent. Suits my temperament. Appreciate your mentioning the book. I'm trying my hand at fiction now. It's a hell of a lot harder. For me, anyway. Being freelance, gives me that time to follow a dream of writing a novel."

  "Sounds like a great job."

  "Pays the bills. Like I said, lets me work on my novel. I hope you're not pinning all your hopes on that phone call. It could be legit, but that kind of story also can bring a lot of weirdoes out of the woodwork. They'll confess to just about anything to see themselves on TV or read their names in the paper."

  "Yes, you said," she replied stiffly, irritated at his assumption that she wouldn't know a crank call from a real lead.

  Before he could annoy her further, the policeman called out from behind his desk, "Ms. Waters, Sergeant Nelson will see you now."

  Naomi was glad for the interruption. Eric Grant must think she was very gullible and not too bright. "I'm sure, Mr. Grant. He was one of them. Excuse me. I have to go. Nice to see you again. Good luck with your novel."

  "Thanks. Great to see you, too." He stepped aside to let her pass. "I really hope you're right about the call. Maybe we could have coffee after and talk about—"

  But Naomi had already brushed by him and was now striding down the narrow corridor with its pale green walls to her meeting with Sergeant Nelson.

  Conversation drifted from inside the second door on her left. The door had a brass plaque that bore the name Sergeant Graham Nelson. The door opened and an attractive black female officer stepped out. Her hair was cut close to her perfectly-shaped head, enhanced by gold-hoop earrings. She gave Naomi a nod and told her in a rich, contralto voice that she could go right on in.

  "Naomi Waters," the big man said, rising from behind his desk and extending a hand to her. She shook it, conscious of the firm, practised handshake. His muscular build was softening in middle age, a paunch just starting to spill over his belt, but he was still a formidable man, an impression not lessened by the granny-type glasses.

  He gestured to the leather chair in front of his desk and offered her coffee. "Thanks, coffee would be great."

  The coffeemaker with all the fixings stood on a table off in a corner of the room. "Cream? Sugar?"

  "Black's fine, thanks."

  He returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups and handed her one, settling back behind his desk. "Tastes bad but it's hot."

  He grimaced over his own, but drank it anyway. She didn't think it was so bad. As he said, it was hot and she needed a jolt of caffeine. She was still feeling some residual anxiety she couldn't explain from her encounter with Eric Grant.

  He pushed the glasses higher up on his large, heavily veined nose, and gestured to the newspaper on his desk, folded with her story turned outward. "I read the article. Helluva story. Young fella from the paper was in asking for a quote. I wasn't much help, I'm afraid. I was in traffic back then. Though I recall the case."

  He glanced down at the folded newspaper and gave her a half-smile that held sympathy. "Like they say, truth is stranger than fiction. I'm sorry for the loss of your mother, Miss Waters. I read she recently passed of cancer." He was talking about Lillian, of course.

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "Well, let's get to it, shall we? What can I do for you, Miss … okay if I call you Naomi?"

  "Of course. I think you probably already know why I'm here, Sergeant Nelson. I want you to reopen the case." She looked at him squarely across the desk as she said it, then took another sip of her coffee. She could tell by looking at his face that he was already thinking of a way to let her down easy. He sighed and removed the glasses, slipped them into his shirt pocket. His eyes were hazel, intelligent, probing.

  "You mentioned on the phone you received an anonymous phone call from a man you believe is one of the two men who abducted Mary Rose."

  "That's right. I bought the tape with me."

  "What makes you so sure it wasn't just some crackpot?" he said, smiling a smile that was both indulgent and sympathetic. "You must have expected when you made your phone number and email public, you'd get your share of those."

  She retrieved the tape from her purse and slid it across the desk to him. "Please. Play it for yourself, Sergeant. Then tell me what you think."

  At least he wasn't going to turn her away without a hearing. Not a stupid man, he knew she wouldn't be above going to the newspaper again if he blatantly refused to help her. He would listen. But she was hoping hearing the tape would garner a more genuine interest in her cause.

  She appreciated his use of Mary Rose's full name, rather than dismissing her as merely 'the victim'. It gave her the dignity she deserved, rendered her as a human being worthy of respect and consideration. And justice, she hoped.

  "Fair enough," he said, sliding the small black recorder on his desk toward him. He snapped in the tape and closed the lid. "Long time ago," he mumbled, and she heard the warning beneath the words. A cold, cold case. Don't expect too much. He pushed the button, turned up the volume.

  At once, the whispered voice filled the room.

  "Naomi Waters," came the near-whispered words, fearful, chilling even now, in this well-lit office with a policeman sitting across from her. "I'm sorry, girl … I tried to stop him. I just wanted to tell you that. I … I couldn't do nothin'."

  The country music played in the background. Something she'd heard m
any times she still couldn't put a name to. It didn't matter. Beneath the music, the tape recorder whirred on. The man spoke again. "You don't know him. You oughta leave it alone, honest to God. He's bad news. You wanna watch your back...."

  The music went on for a couple more seconds before the message clicked off.

  "Well?" Naomi said. "You can hear the fear in his voice. He's terrified that someone—"

  "You asked me to tell you what I think," he cut in. She fell silent. Nodded. "Okay," she said.

  The sergeant replayed the tape, frowned as he listened, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

  "I know he's one of the two men," she insisted when it was over. "I know it. Maybe you could run the message on TV and radio. Someone might recognize his voice."

  He gave a short humph to her suggestion, and she wasn't sure if it was in agreement or dismissal. He slid his glasses back on his face and leaned back in his chair.

  "First, with all due respect, you don't know anything, Naomi. You think you know. Your caller sounds like he's 'been into his cups', as me grandma used to say. But let's not jump the gun either way. I repeat, this could just be some nutcase who read your story and decided to have a little fun," he said, pretty much echoing Eric Grant's assessment. "There's no end of whackos out there, and I'm in a position to know that. As to the men who actually grabbed Mary Rose, I wouldn't be surprised if they're long dead."

  Well, that would wrap it all up nicely, wouldn't it? she thought, anger building in her. She put a lid on it and spoke calmly.

  "But you don't know that they are. No, I know I think they're alive, Sergeant Nelson. With everything in me, I feel it. I believe they were young men at the time. In their twenties, maybe. Predators, stalking the vulnerable." The lone travelers at the edge of the herd, she thought. "They'd be in their late forties now, maybe early fifties," she continued. "That's relatively young these days. Who knows what else they've done. They're animals. And I've already rattled one of their cages."