Going Gone

by Sharon Sala

  “Not a party, not really. We just decided that whoever wanted to bring him something would do it when they came for class.”

  Cameron eyed the table again, and then glanced up at the ceiling.

  “Looks like a lot of his students brought presents. Did you bring something, too?”

  J.J. ducked his head. “No. I ride a bike. Didn’t have a way to carry anything.”

  “No matter. The reason I asked is because I need you to do something for me. It’s really important, and since you were the last student here, then you’re probably the only one who can help us.”

  J.J. sat up a little straighter.

  “I’ll do anything to help find Lionel. He’s a good guy and a sick dancer, for sure.”

  Cameron smiled. “Sick? That means good, right?”

  “Right. So how can I help?”

  “I need you to walk the room with me and tell me if you see anything unusual, something that’s here now that wasn’t here last night.”

  “I already know one thing,” J.J. said, and pointed to the ceiling. “There weren’t that many balloons when I left.”

  Cameron’s heart skipped a beat as he looked up. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. You can ask around. There are at least ten or twelve more than when I left.”

  Cameron kept looking. “How can you be that certain?”

  “The ceiling is low. I’m short. I danced in front of that dang mirror for two straight hours trying to get my routine down, and every time I looked up I could see them bouncing against the ceiling. There weren’t more than eight or nine. Now look.”

  “Good eye, J.J.,” Cameron said.

  “Did that help?”

  “Yes. It helped a lot.”

  “Can I go home?”

  Cameron put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The kid was shaking.

  “The detectives will let you know. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Do you think Lionel is okay?”

  “I don’t know, son. I sure hope so,” Cameron said. “Sit tight, and I’ll send a detective over.”

  The boy sat down again as Cameron headed back across the room. He stopped to talk to Wells, who was directing the crime scene photographer to get the shots he wanted.

  “Tell him to take pictures of the balloons,” Cameron said.

  Wells paused. “Why?”

  “I talked to the kid. He said there are at least ten or twelve more here now than when he left last night.”

  Wells looked up, then back at Cameron. “Maybe another delivery? I’ll get some guys on that. We could get lucky and find a place that sold someone a dozen balloons last night.”

  “Good idea,” Cameron said. “Oh, the kid wants to know when he can go home.”

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Wells said, then told the photographer, “Hey, Pete, get me some shots of the balloons, too.”

  Cameron went back to the office.

  Tate was going through a day planner on the desk, and Wade was watching the last recordings made on the security camera.

  “Hey, Tate, I think we’ve got something,” he said.

  Tate looked up.

  Wade pointed. “I think we’re looking at a balloon delivery here. Oh, wait. Damn it.”

  “What happened?” Tate asked.

  “Just a second,” Wade said as he ran the footage back a couple of seconds and then hit Play.

  They got their first glimpse of Ricks as he waved goodbye to J.J. and turned toward the office.

  “Nice-looking guy,” Cameron said.

  “And fit,” Tate added.

  Wade pointed. “Now he disappears, which means he came in here. Now watch the front entrance. It’s dark out, but you can see movement through the glass door.”

  Their gazes were focused on the door as it began to open. But instead of a person, all they saw was a deluge of balloons being herded inside. There was a brief glimpse of the top of a dark hoodie, and then a man’s chest and legs. From the angle of the camera, the balloons completely obliterated his face.

  “The bastard knew about the camera,” Tate said.

  “This guy is skinny. He’s not built like Inman,” Wade said.

  “Wait! Look at his legs,” Cameron said.

  “I’ll be damned! They’re bowed! Good eye,” Tate added.

  “There’s Ricks again,” Wade said as Ricks appeared on camera again, walking toward the front door. Then the deliveryman fired a Taser. “And down he goes,” Wade added.

  The deliveryman suddenly pivoted. They had a brief glance of his back as the balloons floated upward. All of a sudden the room went dark.

  Wade grunted. “He turned out the lights.”

  “Is that all?” Tate asked.

  Wade nodded.

  “So what’s your call?” Tate asked.

  “It’s Inman,” Cameron said. “He may have changed his build, but he couldn’t hide those bow legs.”

  “I agree,” Wade said.

  “Let’s get back to the P.D.,” Tate said. “If he follows the pattern, once Ricks’ body shows up, he’ll take his next victim. We have to figure out how he targets these people beforehand, or someone else will die.”

  “Why do you think he hasn’t contacted us?” Cameron asked.

  Tate shrugged. “Because he’s pissed. I think something made him angry. I’m not sure what, but these killings are quick and brutal. They mean nothing to him. They’re just a means to an end. The message is that he can do what he wants, when he wants, and we can’t do anything about it. He doesn’t want to talk to us anymore. He’s telling us he’s through with the game.”

  “But we’re not in charge of the investigations like before, so it’s really not directed at us,” Wade said.

  Tate took a deep breath and then looked at his partners.

  “Not yet it’s not. But if this is Inman—and I fully believe it is—he’ll find a way to draw us in.”

  Cameron suddenly shivered. “By taking someone we love.”

  Tate pointed to the security camera. “Bag the disc and let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  Hershel woke up feeling as if he’d been on a two-day drunk and needing to pee. His head was spinning, his back was killing him and his mouth tasted as if he’d been eating shit. It was just after ten in the morning, and he’d been asleep almost nine straight hours. He rolled over to the side of the bed, and then slowly swung his legs off the mattress and got up. It hurt like hell to walk, but he hadn’t wet the bed since he was four and wasn’t going to start now.

  After he was finished, he thought about getting in the shower and letting the hot water loosen up the muscles in his back, but he needed coffee worse.

  He had just started the coffee when there was a knock at the door. The unexpected sound made him jump, which sent the muscles in his back into a spasm. He felt like hell, and considering the fact that he’d slept in his clothes, he probably looked like hell, too. Whatever. If someone comes unannounced, they get what they get.

  A second knock sounded as he shuffled slowly to the door.

  “I’m coming!” he yelled, cursing beneath his breath.

  He opened the door to find Lucy Taft on the stoop. Her cheeks were pink from the exertion of climbing the steps, and she had her gardening shears in her hand again.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you. Hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said in a rush.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I was up, but I’m moving slow. I hurt my back a couple days ago, and it keeps getting worse.”

  Now Lucy understood his behavior from last night and felt somewhat guilty that she’d tarred him so quickly with the drunk brush.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you
need to go to a doctor? I can recommend one.”

  Hershel was surprised by the offer. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, the reason I came up is only going to add fuel to the flame of your discomfort. I was in the garden when I noticed your back right tire has gone flat. I thought you would want to know.”

  Hershel groaned, thinking of the pain of lifting and changing a tire.

  Despite her distrust of him, Lucy felt bad for his discomfort. “I can make a call, if you like. There’s a garage that I use for oil changes and tune-ups. They fix flats. If I called them, they would come out and remove the tire, then fix it and bring it back, if you were willing to pay a little extra.”

  Hershel sighed. “That would be great, and paying extra is no problem.”

  She nodded primly. “Then I’ll get right on that. Have a nice day, and I do hope your back gets better soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” he said.

  He watched until she was safely down the stairs before he shut the door. The scent of freshly brewed coffee pulled him back to the kitchen, and within an hour he heard a truck pull into the drive and park at his apartment. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs again, but this time he was wearing clean sweats and had given himself a half-assed shave for a face that grew a half-assed beard. Filled with more pain pills, coffee and cereal, he answered the door, then shivered from the chill of the wind.

  The mechanic quickly introduced himself.

  “Hey. I’m Frank from Georgio’s Garage. Mrs. Taft called us about fixing a flat on your van.”

  “Paul Leibowitz,” Hershel said. “I really appreciate this. I hurt my back a couple days ago, and I’m barely mobile.”

  “We’ll get you fixed up,” Frank said. “Do you have a spare?”

  Hershel’s heart skipped a beat. It was inside the van, but he wasn’t sure if there was anything obvious in there that might incriminate him.

  “I’ll get my keys and meet you downstairs,” he said.

  The mechanic nodded and headed back down as Hershel went to get a jacket and his keys.

  He descended the steps slowly, taking care not to hurry, and made it down with a minimal amount of pain. When he unlocked the van, he opened the back door and looked in. Nothing seemed out of place. He pointed at the tire lying against the side.

  “There it is, but I’m not sure it’s good. I haven’t owned the van very long.”

  The mechanic pulled the tire out and then let it go. It bounced. He nodded.

  “It’s holding air. Do you want me to switch it out and bring back the one I fix as your spare?”

  “That would be great,” Hershel said. “I think there’s a jack somewhere.”

  “I brought a jack. This won’t take long,” Frank said.

  Hershel shut the van and locked it.

  “I’ll have your money ready when you come back,” he said.

  “Boss said a hundred bucks, seeing as how we’re making two trips, plus fixing the flat.”

  “That’s fine,” Hershel said. “I’ll pay cash.”

  He watched for a couple of minutes and then went back upstairs, grateful he didn’t have to do this himself.

  * * *

  Laura was on her way into the church when her cell phone rang. When she saw it was Cameron, she smiled and stopped under a tree to take the call in privacy.

  “Hello, my darling. How’s your morning?” she asked.

  “Hectic. Another call came in the morning about a missing person. Someone else has been abducted, and we’re on our way back to the P.D. now.”

  The smile slid off her face. “Oh, no. Who was it?”

  “A dance instructor from Reston named Lionel Ricks. He had a studio in D.C. where he gave lessons. He disappeared sometime after eight last night.”

  “Wow. Yet another resident of Reston,” she said.

  Cameron frowned. That fact had already been noted, but maybe they were missing the obvious.

  Laura lived in Reston.

  “Yes, another one,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you to pay attention to your surroundings.”

  “I’ll be fine. There are more than a hundred people here.”

  “Still—”

  “I’ll pay attention,” she said.

  “That’s all I needed to hear. Love you most.”

  She smiled. “Love you, too,” she said. But as soon as their call ended, she called Nola.

  * * *

  Nola was in her art studio, working on a commission, when the phone rang. When she saw who it was, she laid down her brush and quickly wiped the oil paint from her hands.

  “Hey, Laura. How’s it going?”

  “Another person has gone missing. That makes four.”

  Nola groaned beneath her breath. The anxiety was getting to all of them.

  “This is maddening. I can’t believe this is happening again, and right here in our area.”

  “I know. Before, the Stormchaser team went to the killer’s chaos. This time he brought it to us,” Laura said.

  “Are they sure it’s Inman?”

  “I don’t know. But they have to operate under that assumption, don’t they?”

  “Yes, I suppose they do. Are you on your own? Are you scared?”

  “No, I’m still at the Red Cross shelter here in Reston with the people who were evacuated after the gas explosion.”

  “That was just awful,” Nola said. “Did you know any of the victims?”

  “I don’t know,” Laura said. “I don’t think they’ve even released a complete list of the deceased yet, because it’s been so difficult to confirm who was lost.”

  Nola gasped. “Good Lord. You mean...?”

  “Nothing intact,” Laura said softly.

  “How awful.”

  “Yes, it is. Anyway, I need to get back to work, but I can’t talk about this mess to just anyone, and I needed to hear a sane voice.”

  “I hope to God they catch the beast who’s doing this, whether it’s Inman or not. Call me anytime.”

  “I will, and thanks,” Laura said.

  This time when she hung up, she felt better. She made herself focus on the task at hand and hurried back into the church, for the time being pushing Hershel Inman to the bottom of her to-do list.

  * * *

  It was nearing four o’clock, and with so many children who’d been forced to evacuate with little more than the clothes on their backs, Laura had to improvise old-fashioned entertainment. Without their usual Xbox games and televisions, they’d gotten bored.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with four girls ranging in age from eight to twelve, showing the girls how to play jacks, when she saw a teenage girl walk in wearing a miniskirt and stockings, a turtleneck T-shirt and a bejeweled jean jacket. Her short brown hair was purple on the tips, and her eyes were red rimmed and welling with tears.

  Laura handed her ball and jacks to one of the children.

  “Here you go. You give it a try. Sorry, girls, I’m going to have to get back to work. Do you think you’ve got this now?”

  “We’ve got it,” one of them said.

  Laura smiled as she got up, brushing off the seat of her jeans as she went. The closer she got to the purple-haired teen, the more certain she became that the girl was on the verge of hysteria. She had a duffel bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other, and she was trembling from head to toe.

  “Hi, I’m Laura Doyle. What’s your name, honey?”

  “Lisa Welch.”

  “How old are you?” Laura asked.

  “I’m fifteen.”

  Laura frowned, hoping she wouldn’t have to call the police about a runaway.

  “Are you looking for someone, or do you need a place to s
tay for a bit?”

  The girl took a deep breath. “I had a fight with Mommy and Daddy, so I ran away from home. I just wanted them to hear my side, but they wouldn’t listen. I thought if I ran away, they would be so scared that when I came back they would listen to what I was trying to say. I bought a bus ticket to South Carolina. We used to live there when I was younger. But I didn’t stay. I just wanted to go home.”

  “Do you want me to call them for you?”

  Lisa began to shake harder. Tears were rolling down her face now, and her words were coming out in thick choking sobs. She held up her phone.

  “They didn’t call me. Even after two days, when I got scared and was running out of money, they didn’t call. I sent them a text, but they never texted back. I called and called, and no one ever answered. I thought they were so mad they didn’t want me anymore.”

  Laura was beginning to get an awful feeling. She knew, even before Lisa said it, what had happened. “Come, sit with me,” she said softly.

  Lisa took a deep shuddering breath and followed Laura into her office. The moment she sat down, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the horror of her reality was reflected through the tears.

  “I begged money from strangers to get enough to come home, but home isn’t there anymore.”

  Laura pulled a handful of clean tissues from her shirt pocket. “I’m sorry, honey. I am so sorry. How did you know to come here?”

  The girl swayed where she sat, too shocked to pay attention to gravity.

  “There was a guard where the street was blocked off. He told me to come here. I asked him if this is where the survivors were. He said there weren’t any. Is that true?”

  Laura cupped Lisa’s cheek, and then pulled her into her arms.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  It was Lisa Welch’s last straw. She moaned, and then threw back her head and screamed.

  Laura caught her as she collapsed, cradling Lisa’s head in her lap. The girl’s eyes were closed. Heartsick and in shock, she’d gone as far as she could go.

  Fifteen

  Laura called Child Protective Services. And then the media caught wind of the story and descended on the Wesley Methodist Church like locusts eager for the next big meal.