Shattered

by Donna Ball

  “Son of a bitch,” said Case.

  “Right.”

  Case was silent for a long time. His face, profiled in the harsh light of the window that overlooked the parking lot, looked drawn and rough-shaven; they had all worked double shifts since Friday.

  Finally he said, “There's a lot of things about this I don't like, Deputy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sheriff looked at him. “We've got a child molester and a rapist running around our town during spring break. That's the number one thing I don't like.”

  “I'm having mug shots faxed over. That should be some help tracking him down. And we don't really know that he's in town. The florist said that the order was charged to a credit card, but my guess is it's going to turn up stolen.”

  Case heard him out patiently. “Two and a half years ago,” he said, “Guy Dennison's daughter takes off to see a concert in Tallahassee, and never comes back. Now we've got this convicted child molester calling up Dennison and asking him if he knows where his daughter is. That's the second thing I don't like. And I don't like it a lot.”

  This time when the sheriff looked up, there was a kind of dread resignation in his eyes. Long knew what he was going to ask before he said it.

  “I don't suppose we know where Saddler was the summer Dennison's daughter took off, do we?”

  Long swallowed, then nodded. “He was in Tallahassee.” That was the first thing he'd checked.

  Sheriff Case said nothing for a moment. “That,” he said at last,” is the third thing I don't like.” Then, “Get to work on tracking down that credit card. Start spreading those mug shots around when they come in. As of now, you're on this one full-time.”

  Long's shoulders straightened smartly. “Yes, sir.” He turned for the door, then hesitated. “Should I tell Dennison what we've found?”

  After a moment Case sighed. “No,” he said, “I will.”

  ~

  Chapter Eighteen

  They had taken refuge in the Tahoe from a brief cold downpour when Carol's car phone rang. Afterward, she would think a lot about the fate that was at work then. She and Ken had spent the morning walking deep beachfront lots, lunched at Michael's, and in the afternoon, wandered far and deep into the interior of the island, mostly on foot. She hadn't thought about the car phone once, nor had she remembered to remove it from the console and slip it into her pocket when they left the Tahoe.

  So as they hurried inside the SUV, laughing in the silly way people do when they unexpectedly become drenched, trying to wipe the water from their eyes and squeeze it from their hair, the squeal of the phone was an alien, intrusive sound. Carol had barely closed the driver's side door and was fumbling in her purse for the car keys so that she could start up the heater, and she answered the phone in an absent impatient tone that was due mostly to the fact that she was trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

  “Carol Dennison,” she said and made an apologetic gesture to Ken, who grinned good-naturedly and slicked his hair back with both hands, looking like an old-time mobster.

  The silence on the other end of the line hissed. Carol found the key and started to put it in the ignition.

  “You're—Kelly's mother, right?”

  Carol froze in place. The voice. The voice...

  “Yes,” she said, or thought she said, or perhaps merely whispered on the last of the choked-back breath that glided past her lips. “Yes.”

  “Listen, you've got to help her. She wants to come home, but she can't get out of here. He watches her all the time. She can't even call you anymore. She thought you'd be here by now. Why didn't you come?”

  No, it wasn't the same voice. This woman sounded older, stronger, more in control. The accent was different, the words more clipped. It wasn't Kelly. But it was someone who knew her.

  Carol's hand tightened on the phone. Her chest ached with breathlessness. “Who is this?” she demanded hoarsely. “ Who are you?”

  She was aware, very dimly, of Ken's growing still in the passenger seat, of his look of concern and interest. Mostly she was aware of the silence on the other end, and how long it seemed to drag on, although in truth it probably lasted no more than a couple of seconds.

  The voice returned, a little impatiently, “My name is Tanya. I'm trying to help you and I don't have much time—”

  “Who? Who are you?”

  “Tanya. Tanya Little. I told you that. The important thing—”

  “You know where my daughter is? You know Kelly?”

  “Of course, I know! I'm here with her, didn't I just tell you that? Look, I can't talk long. The last time he caught her on the phone he did something...” A catch in her voice. “He hurt her real bad.”

  “Who?” The word was screaming in her head, everything was screaming in her head, but when she spoke it out loud, it was little more than a strained croak. “Who hurt her?”

  There was a sharp breath and Carol thought the woman wouldn't answer, that she was going to lose her, but then she answered simply, in a flat, tight tone, “Him. He did.”

  Carol gripped the phone, focusing her strength. The windows had fogged with her breath and little rivulets of rain occasionally crawled snakelike down the outer glass. She could hear the thud of drops on the roof and the thud of her heart in her ears.

  She said, “Where are you? I'll come right now. Just tell me where Kelly is.”

  Silence. Rain pelted. The seat leather rustled as Ken leaned closer, propping his arm along the back of the seat. Carol barely noticed him.

  “Tell me,” Carol said intensely. “Don't hang up, don't stop talking to me. Just tell me.” Her voice was rising, desperation sharpened it to a near scream. “Tell me where my daughter is!”

  The voice grew smaller, more uncertain. She answered, “I can't.”

  “No, don't! Don't hang up, please—”

  But she was gone.

  Ken said, “Carol? What’s wrong? Is there something I can do?”

  Carol sat there, clutching the telephone to her chest, her breathing quick and light. A dozen things went through her head. She should have been home. She was supposed to have been home. If she had been home and the call had come there, she could have activated the machine and traced the call and they would know where Kelly was now. Or maybe not. Maybe this woman had nothing to do with Kelly at all. Maybe it was some kind of sick joke after all. Maybe …

  She said, “I, uh...” Briefly she pressed two fingers to one temple, trying to clear her head, trying to think. “I have to call the police. No. I have to go home. I...” She looked at Ken in helpless apology. “Something has happened. I'm sorry.”

  She was shivering now, the cold seeping into her bones. Ken took the telephone from her stiff fingers. His concern was genuine, but his quiet control was reassuring. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere? Has someone been hurt?”

  Carol took a breath. “My, um, daughter. She's been missing now for almost three years. Recently I started getting phone calls and—the police are investigating.” She thought that made sense. Maybe it made sense. “That call...” Still shivering and trying not to show it, she nodded stiffly toward the telephone he was replacing in the console. “This woman—she said she knew where Kelly was. That some man wouldn't let her go. That he...” Now her voice caught on a ragged sound that felt like a sob but wasn't, not entirely. “That he hurt her.”

  Ken's shock was almost palpable and it filled the car. She realized too late what her story must sound like to a stranger, one who had no responsibility for her troubles nor obligation to listen to them, and she tried to be sorry, but couldn't. She was too shattered and hurting and confused inside.

  “My God.” Ken's voice sounded as stunned as his face, a bit pale in the interior dimness of the car, looked. In a moment, he seemed to recover himself, though, and his hand covered hers in a warm firm squeeze. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  Carol swallowed hard, dimly surprised by how good it felt to say the words to someone, to tell the st
ory and not be met with suspicion or disbelief. She drew another long slow breath and Ken, with a gentle squeeze, released her hand.

  “It may turn out to be nothing,” she said. “But I should report it to the police. I'd better go home.”

  Ken glanced toward a clearing spot in the steamy side window. “The rain has almost stopped,” he said. “But you'd better let me drive, anyway. You still look a little shaky.”

  Carol knew she should argue, but she didn't have the strength. She smiled gratefully and turned over the keys to him as they got out of the car to change places.

  ~

  Chapter Nineteen

  He was over being angry, and he was smart enough to realize that sometimes things worked out for the best. He had been halfway up the boardwalk and she was up on the roof in her swimsuit—not a bad-looking woman for her age, not bad at all—and he knew what he would have done if he'd gotten in the house. Guy Dennison's wife? Oh, yes. He wouldn't have been able to resist. It was inevitable. Almost predestined.

  But then a car had pulled into the garage and its headlights had almost pinned him. He had swung over the boardwalk and onto the soft sand below and watched, cursing, as Guy Dennison himself got out of the car and walked boldly into the house.

  It had taken him a long time to talk himself into walking away from that one.

  But things had a way of working out. He wasn't ready to confront Dennison, not yet. He wanted him to suffer first, to worry, dread, and anticipate. He wanted him to feel safe and then realize he wasn't. He wanted him to fear waking up in the morning and going to bed at night. He wanted him to lose everything, piece by piece. Then he wanted to destroy him.

  It was only fair.

  The most vulnerable point of entry on a beach house was its windows. Destroying the view with bars was of course out of the question, and most of the time people didn't even bother to lock the windows, even in winter—perhaps especially in winter when the days were often warm enough to open the windows to the sea breeze. On a rainy gray day like this, no one was on the beach, and he walked casually and unobserved up the boardwalk and across the lower deck to a set of sliding windows. He popped the screen, slid the window open, and swung himself inside all in less than five seconds.

  There was no alarm system. It was amazing, how few people bothered with them on the beach.

  He knew she didn't keep regular work hours; that was part of the excitement. If she came in while he was there … well, that would be just fine. But if she didn't, that would be fine, too. All he wanted to do was leave her a little present.

  He took a casual look around the main floor, taking his time as he examined her possessions. Then he started up the stairs.

  ***

  John Case called Guy at four-thirty. Guy wasn't surprised at anything he had to say, but it still gave him a sick, tight feeling in the pit of his stomach. The worst part was when Case told him Saddler had been in Tallahassee when Kelly disappeared. It was like a shot of ice water through his veins and he thought, No, not possible. It couldn't be…

  But it was possible. Both Guy and the sheriff who had called the case closed two and a half years ago knew just how possible it was.

  When he hung up, he sat at his desk a long time, hands flat on the surface, eyes fixed on the telephone. He didn't want to call Carol. How could he tell her this?

  How could he not?

  Tammy answered the phone. “Beachside Realty.”

  “This is Guy Dennison. Is Carol in?”

  “Oh, hi, Guy. No, she had the office over the weekend. I think she was planning to spend the day at home. Do you want me to check with Laura?”

  “No,” he said. Laura was the last thing he needed. “I'll try her cell. If she checks in, have her call me.”

  “Will do.”

  Guy dialed her at home, his throat growing dry as he waited for it to ring. I screwed up, babe, he thought. I screwed up bad, and now there's a convicted rapist and child molester out there with your name on his mind … and Kelly's. Kelly. Even her name sent a twisting tightness through his chest that made it hard to breathe.

  Carol sounded strange when she answered, her voice hoarse and a little fuzzy, as though he had awakened her from a nap.

  He tried to keep the strain out of his own voice. “Hey, sweetie. Are you going to be there for a while?”

  “No, Guy, I'm not—”

  “It's important.” He gave up trying to sound casual. “I need to talk to you about something and I can't do it over the phone.”

  “Guy, something has happened.”

  Now he recognized the roughness in her voice as a high level of stress. His attention quickened, the alarm tightened a notch. “What? Are you okay?”

  A hesitation, then, “Yes. I just—all right, come on over. I guess I need to talk to you, too.”

  “I'm on my way.”

  ~

  Chapter Twenty

  Ken pulled into the circular drive before his house as she hung up the phone. “Are you sure you'll be okay to drive home? I don't mind.”

  Carol tried to smile. “Don't be silly. It's only a mile. I'm just—well, I'm sorry you got caught in this. I'm usually much more professional.”

  He put the car in park, but left the engine running. “I know that,” he assured her. “And listen, I know it's none of my business, but if there's anything at all I can do to make this easier for you, please let me know.”

  Carol thought he meant it. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s kind.”

  He sat there for another moment, smiling at her gently, until she felt compelled to say, “And we are going to finish that real estate tour, okay?”

  “You bet. Maybe next time we can do it by boat. I brought my Donzi down Sunday. Hope the weather clears so I can try it out.”

  She said, “These little squalls never last long. The sun will be out again tomorrow.”

  He smiled. “A good thing to remember.”

  That made her smile, too. “Right. And it's always darkest just before dawn.”

  “Right.”

  The moment was becoming warm, almost comfortable. She glanced away. “I should go. Someone's meeting me at the house.”

  He nodded. “I heard. I wish you'd let me drive you to the police station.”

  “It's the county sheriff who has jurisdiction out here, and his office is on the other side of the river. I'll call as soon as I get home and make them come to me.”

  He opened his door. “Drive carefully then. And you know if you need anything, you can call. I'm here for the duration.”

  Carol slid across the seat as he got out and took her place behind the wheel. “Thank you,” she said. “You've been great.”

  He rested an elbow on the open car door and looked down at her. “That's what neighbors are for,” he told her.

  He closed the door and watched her drive away.

  ***

  Carol's car was not in the garage when Guy pulled up, and he tried not to let that alarm him. She had told him to meet her here; she was probably just running late. Nonetheless, she had said something had happened, and from the sound of her voice it had been serious. He had no compunction about going up the stairs and using his key when he found the door locked.

  The first thing he noticed, when he let himself in, was the rush of cool damp air from an open window. That struck him as odd, because it wasn't the kind of day anyone would normally leave a window open. Then he noticed the screen was off, too. Then he was definitely alarmed.

  He called out her name, but didn't wait for a reply. A quick glance around told him she wasn't downstairs, and he rushed up the tower staircase.

  He emerged into the master suite and knew immediately something was wrong, even before his senses pinpointed what it was. First of all, the room reeked of perfume. It was Carol's jasmine scent, but it smelled as though she had broken an entire bottle and let it soak into the carpet. Directly across from him was the bank of windows that opened onto the upper deck, and the light that filt
ered through them was weak and gray. Centered on the adjacent wall was the white marble fireplace and directly opposite it was the king-size bed he and Carol had once shared. And that was where something was wrong.

  At first he thought Carol had merely been uncharacteristically sloppy. In all the years he had known her, she had never left a towel unfolded or a garment out of its drawer; she always kept her house in “ready-to-show” condition. It was completely unlike her to leave her lingerie scattered on the bed. Then Guy realized the lingerie wasn't scattered, but arranged in a distinctly obscene pattern atop the aqua bed cover. A pink silk underwire bra and matching french-cut bikini panties were placed to resemble the figure of a woman on the bed; a pair of shimmering black stockings and lace garters were placed to resemble legs with one ankle crossed over the other in a blatantly seductive posture.

  Repulsed and puzzled, Guy took a step toward the bed, then he heard something behind him. He had time to make a half turn and to fling up his arm in an instinctive protective gesture before the red-black pain exploded behind his eyes and he felt himself falling. He crashed against the bureau and heard glass breaking, saw a blur pushing past him. He struggled to hold on to consciousness, but lost in the battle in a wave of nausea and defeat.

  The last thing he thought was, Carol, don't come home now, Carol, run …

  ~

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Blood on the carpet. Blood in spatters on the stairs where he had fallen trying to get down, smeared on the hand rail where he had caught himself. Blood, it seemed, was everywhere. When Carol closed her eyes, she saw a whirling vortex of it and it was all she could do not to press her hands against her eyes and scream until it went away.

  Because what she saw when she opened her eyes was no better.

  “Damn it, he was here,” Guy was muttering to the paramedic who was trying to bandage his head. “I could have had him. I can't believe I was that close and let him get away.”

  The sound of his voice brought the harsh sting of tears to Carol's eyes, filling her with terror and gratitude and irrational fury. She had to look away from him, blinking hard and breathing slowly, to keep from bursting into sobs.