by Donna Ball
That was generally the kind of question Carol held her breath waiting for. An award-winning architect—one who had already admitted he was here to pursue development possibilities—building his dream home on one of Beachside Realty's prime oceanfront lots could bring a dozen times the price of the lot in new business and free publicity. Not to mention the fact that, if she played her cards right, Carlton might be easily persuaded to trust exclusive listing rights on his development project to Beachside, or even consider going into partnership with them on other major development plans. The possibilities were dizzying, and Carol had made her reputation and her success by assessing and exploiting just such opportunities.
But when Ken Carlton spoke, Carol didn't hear him. Her attention was on the beach, where a young girl with long dark hair tied back in a pony-tail jogged by in a pink sweatsuit. For a moment Carol's breath caught and she thought ... incredibly, she thought...
But then the girl glanced in their direction, and there was no resemblance at all. Her face was too narrow, her eyes almond shaped, her skin dark; she was obviously of Asian descent. When Carol looked more closely, she realized the girl was shorter and plumper than Kelly and she wondered why she had ever thought there was a similarity.
Of course, as Laura had pointed out only this morning, it had been two and a half years. Carol had no idea what her daughter looked like now. If Kelly was still alive....
“Carol? Is that a problem?”
Belatedly, Carol registered his question and turned back to him with a smooth smile to hide her confusion. “Not at all. I was just trying to decide which lots you might like best. We have about a dozen beachfront listings now, but you might also want to look at some of the second-tier lots. They're bigger and even more private, and run about half the price of beachfront. Best of all, because of the building restrictions, you would always have an ocean view, even on second tier. Of course the second-tier lots are so lush with natural vegetation that they're practically pre-landscaped for you. That can be a real advantage with the price of landscaping these days, and you know how hard it is to get anything to grow at the beach.”
He made a thoughtful sound of agreement. “I guess there are strict building restrictions about tearing up the vegetation.”
“Some of the strictest in the state. We're on such a shallow little island here that the ecosystem is very fragile. Interestingly enough, the very sternness of the restrictions attract some of the most creative architects in the country. They like the challenge, I guess.”
He grinned at her. “You're quite a salesperson, aren't you?”
Carol replied modestly, “It's what I do.”
He said, “I might like to take a look at what some of those other architects are doing. Of course,” he added apologetically, “I've already taken up a lot of your time and I don't want to inconvenience you.”
“I've got all the time in the world,” Carol assured him. “Especially since you're taking this house, because I won't have to show it again. And if you decide to pick up a couple of lots on the side, too, all the better.”
He chuckled, once again favoring her with a smile that crinkled his eyes at the edges of his sunglasses. “I might just do that. I always liked this area.”
“It's a great place to build a part-time home,” Carol agreed, “or even raise a family.”
“You must work for the chamber of commerce in your spare time.”
She laughed. “Sometimes I think they should give me a cut.”
“Do you have children, Carol?”
The question caught her off guard and something must have been reflected on her face because he explained, “You mentioned something about raising a family here. I thought you might have children of your own.”
“Oh,” she said, without expression. “One daughter. She—um, she doesn't live with me.”
It was always uncomfortable, that moment of explanation, and Carol avoided it whenever she could. Carlton quickly sensed the shields she put up, and did not pursue the subject. In a moment he said, “Well, then. How soon can I move in?”
Carol relaxed. “As soon as you sign the rental contract. The house is ready for occupancy now.”
“It will take me a couple of days to get things together. Is the weekend okay?”
“Of course. We'll prorate the rent from the day you move in.”
“Great.” He glanced at his watch. “We could get the paperwork taken care of now and if you're free, I'd like to take you to lunch.”
“I was about to suggest the same thing—only the other way around. Taking clients to lunch is what I do, after all.”
“We'll argue about the check later. And I'll still want to look at some lots when I get settled, so don't sell all the best ones before next week.”
She said, “No promises. These are prime lots and they go fast.”
“Shall we go then?” He touched her shoulder lightly.
“Sure,” Carol said, and returned his smile. The day, she told herself, was definitely off to a good start.
But that did not help her get the memory of the voice of the girl on the telephone out of her mind.
~
Chapter Nine
The girl in the tower had lived a long, long time; longer than any of the others, longer than she deserved to live, longer, she sometimes thought, than she had ever wanted to. She had no way to measure the passage of days, or perhaps it was months or even years, so she could not say how long long was. Forever, or yesterday. It was all the same to her.
She was confused a great deal of the time, and she had forgotten a lot. She remembered almost nothing of the early days, and now she realized—in a dim uncertain way that she did not entirely trust—that the confusion and the lethargy were due to the drugs he gave her. That he still gave her drugs was almost certain, hidden in her food or in the bottled water that always tasted strange, but somehow they didn't affect her the way they used to. She could think more clearly now. And she was remembering.
She thought it all began when he brought her to this place. She wasn't even sure where this place was, but she knew she remembered it, or remembered things about it. She didn't like remembering. Most of the time it was a painful thing. It made her cry out inside for the things she remembered. It made her desperate and helpless; it made it hard sometimes to pretend. And pretending was how she survived.
At first she had screamed in the dark, alone and terrified in the small closed space. She had screamed and screamed until she became aware there was no one to hear her except the wind and the sea, and she had screamed still. She screamed giant silent puffs of air until finally she screamed the last of her spirit away and all that was left of her was a husky breath of air, like the remnants of her ruined voice. Sometimes, after that, she used to hear the others scream, in voices that never left her dreams, but she was never tempted to join them. No one had screamed here in a long time.
She thought about killing him. She dreamed of it sometimes and she awoke from those dreams feeling peaceful and quiet, believing for those first few moments of wakefulness that she had really done it, that it was over and she was free. She knew just how she would do it, too. With something sharp. She would hurt him like he had hurt the others. She would see the look of terror in his eyes just as she had seen the terror in other eyes, and then she would kill him. In her dreams she always killed him more than once, killed him even after he was dead because dying just once did not seem like enough.
She knew she would never do it, though. She knew she wouldn't because she had had chances—a paring knife left carelessly in an apple, a heavy tool put down within easy reach, a line cutter or fillet knife merely waiting to be tucked into the folds of her skirt when she went on deck—but she had never taken them. She would never kill him, any more than she would ever try to get away. And the worst part was that he knew it.
But things were changing now. She was stronger. Things made sense to her more often now; horrible, terrifying sense. But it was like cloud patterns:
If you looked at them long enough, pictures began to form, and it was better to see dragons than to see nothing at all.
Possibilities began to form when she discovered the telephone. It was a tiny thing, barely bigger than a credit card, and he carried it in his briefcase. When it rang, he unfolded it and spoke into it. It was amazing. He made calls from it. He spoke to people outside this place on it. For the first time she began to believe—really believe—that there were people outside this place, a world that existed apart from the one he ruled, and slowly, in bits and pieces, memories of that world began to come back to her.
It took many tries before she figured out how to work the phone. She kept pushing buttons, the same seven digits over and over again, and nothing happened, not even a dial tone. Finally she noticed the “power” button. When she pushed it, she got a dial tone, but still she couldn't make the call go through, and she was frustrated to tears. Before that day, it had never occurred to her that she could pick up a telephone and someone would come to help. Before that day it hadn't been possible, and how could she imagine what wasn't possible? Perhaps, early on, she had fantasized about freedom, about home, about escape, but those days were so very long ago, the possibility so dim and remote, that she could barely remember wanting it. Now, all of a sudden, the possibility of freedom was in her hands—she understood its potential, and she wanted it with such a blind obsessive intensity that she could barely breathe.
She did not figure out how to put a call through that first time.
How many days passed between his visits she had no way of telling, but on his third visit after she had discovered the telephone he brought lumber and tools and worked outside. But he left his briefcase in the boat. Two visits after that, he left the briefcase in the building with her. When she was alone, it took her a long time to work up the courage to open it, to take out the telephone. She hid it until he was asleep.
That time she noticed the “Send” button. And when the call went through, when the voice answered, it was as though something broke inside her and all kinds of memories came flooding through: memories too fast and full and furious to even be captured or understood, as though a door had opened on a galaxy faraway where another girl lived another life at twice the speed of light. And then she couldn't do anything but cry. Then, just when she thought she could remember what to say, could make the words that she needed come out of her mouth, he made a sound as though waking. She panicked, and she turned the phone off and put it away, but he hadn't been waking up after all.
She sank to the floor, hugging her knees and shaking hard, and she didn't think she would ever be brave enough to use the phone again.
What was strange, though, was that after that first time, after hearing that voice once, a lot of things began to become clear to her. She felt smarter. She even, in some ways, felt stronger. Sometimes she even started to make plans, but it was hard to hold on to more than one thought at a time, and when he was with her, all her thoughts went away and the world became small again.
Then she went outside again. She saw the house and she held on to that picture and it gave her the courage to take the telephone again, and push the buttons. And this time she knew what she wanted to say.
But ever since then she had been afraid, terribly afraid. She was afraid the machine that had recorded her voice would be used against her somehow, that he would find out, that she would be punished. Then she was afraid that no one would ever hear her plea, that the machine had swallowed it up, that no one cared and she had gone through all of this, taken such terrible chances for nothing. It was hard to think when she was afraid, impossible to remember. And the thing she was most afraid of was that she had forgotten something—something very important.
She didn't feel strong anymore. She didn't feel smart.
It was when she felt small and confused and helpless like this that she missed Tanya the most. Tanya was never afraid. She always knew what to do. She had taken care of them all. But Tanya was faraway now, her voice very small in the dark, and she could not help.
But there was the telephone. And he never bothered to hide his briefcase from her. That fact, in some strange inexplicable way, made her unafraid of him.
When she heard him coming, black despair did not fill her chest the way it usually did. Now she thought of the telephone, and her heart speeded, and it was easy to pretend.
When he saw her, he would smile. “Hello, precious. Would you like to play a game?”
She would smile back. “Yes. I'd like that.”
And then he would kneel down and open his arms to her, and he would leave his briefcase on the floor.
He would leave his briefcase on the floor.
~
Chapter Ten
Guy, along with everyone in the office who could come up with an excuse to stop by, watched as Deputy Long attached the trace-and-record device to his telephone. It was hardly state-of-the-art equipment—big and bulky and conspicuous as hell—but Guy was mildly impressed that St. Theresa County possessed any kind of surveillance equipment at all.
“So what you do when a call comes in,” Long was explaining, “and you think it's him, you just press this button here. That turns the recorder on, just like an answering machine, forwards the call to the police station, and starts a trace on the line. Of course, with the St. Theresa telephone system it's going to take awhile to trace a call, particularly if it's coming from outside this exchange, so you need to try to keep him on as long as you can.”
Guy said, “How long?”
“About three to five minutes.”
Long looked apologetic when he said it, and Guy nodded. Three minutes was a long time when you were trying to make conversation with a crazy person.
“I work outside my office a lot,” Guy reminded him. “What happens if he calls and I'm not here?”
“Your secretary should put him on hold, come in here and turn on the equipment. Then tell him she's looking for you. The trick is to keep him on hold as long as possible. I'll talk to her about it and show her how to use the equipment. What about your home phone?”
Guy reached into his pocket and pulled out the cellular. “This is it.”
“Well, we can't put a tap on a cell phone,” Long said. “And unless he forgot to block his caller i.d…” He finished with a small shrug. “Our best bet is to hope he calls the office again.”
Guy said, “What about my wife?”
Long noted the slip. “Ex-wife, you mean.”
Guy said impatiently, “I've only got one, and believe me that's enough misery for any man. I don't need to add to it by having her hurt by some nut who's out to get me. So is she in danger or what?”
“There's really no evidence that either one of you is in danger,” responded Long. “As I told you before, most telephone threats are just that—threats.”
Guy said, “Then why are you tapping our phones and investigating this like a crime?”
Long began to pack up the metal case in which he had transported the equipment and tools. He said, “When your daughter first ran away, your wife had you investigated as a suspect in a kidnapping.”
Guy frowned sharply. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
Long's tone was casual. “You just seem awfully worried about a woman who almost tagged you with a criminal record.”
Again Guy's tone was impatient, but his expression was alert and cautious. “I was the noncustodial parent. Carol thought I was hiding Kelly from her and she was hysterical. It didn't amount to anything.”
“No hard feelings, huh?”
Guy said, “I think I could probably help you out a lot more if I had even the smallest idea of what you were getting at.”
Long answered in an easy, almost convincing way, “I'm just trying to get a feel for the case, and the people involved. So there's never been a doubt in your mind that your daughter left home of her own free will?”
If there was a hesitation on Guy's part, it was barely noticeable. “
No.”
“And you haven't heard from her at all in the almost three years?”
“No.”
“Why do you think the man on the phone would bring up your daughter at all? How many people knew about the situation with her?”
Guy shook his head impatiently as he began to understand the line of questioning. “It was in the paper for God's sake. We thought she'd been kidnapped or had an accident. Carol started a poster campaign. Everybody knew. As for why he'd bring her up...” Guy shrugged. “For the same reason he brought up Carol. To make me nervous.”
“So you don't think your daughter could be involved in this in any way?”
Guy looked at the deputy for a thoughtful moment before answering. “These are the same questions you asked me yesterday, Deputy. Why is this starting to sound like an interrogation?”
Long answered, “I understand this is a tight-knit community, and you and your ex-wife have been a part of it for a long time. But I've only been here a year, and the only way I know to find out anything is to ask questions. I'm sorry if those questions make you uncomfortable.”
Guy started to form an irritated protest, but then he caught the watchfulness in the officer's mild, steady gaze. He fought with a wry grin, and for the most part, lost. “You're good,” he admitted. “Where're you from?”
“St. Petersburg, most recently.”
“Thought you'd opt for the peace and quiet of the Forgotten Coast, huh?”
“Something like that.”
Guy abandoned his interviewer's tone. He said, quietly, “When you lose a child—particularly when you don't know what you've lost her to, whether she's dead or alive—it’s hard to think about, much less talk about. Carol and I can't even talk about it without...” He ended the sentence with a frustrated breath. “Look, I can't answer your question. It didn't sound like Kelly's voice on the tape, but maybe I didn't want it to sound like her. Carol's so sure it is, maybe you should listen to her. She never did think I was much of a father.”
