by Stevan Mena
CHAPTER 18
Jack's eyelids were heavy, closing like attracted magnets. He swerved, struggling to keep his car in the lane. He hadn't fully slept it off, his blood alcohol still unsafely elevated.
His cell phone rang. It was Harrington, surely checking to see what his ETA was. He let it ring and turned his attention back to the road. His Ford Taurus had crossed over the double yellow line again, this time headed straight into the headlights of a blue Dodge Charger. Jack yanked the wheel to the right, just missing the Charger's grill. The Charger swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and rocks with a squeal of rubber.
Jack's car skidded and fishtailed back across the yellow line.
"Jesus Christ." He checked his mirror to make sure the other vehicle was okay.
The road curved around a bend, then up a steep incline that caused his engine to jerk and moan, all cylinders grinding to climb the hill. As Jack reached the top and the road leveled out, he could hear the rush of the river. He passed under a train trestle that traveled west, just parallel to the water, criss crossing several times before it turned south towards Illinois.
Jack pulled up onto the shoulder. There were a dozen police vehicles, all with their lights flashing along the entranceway to a wooded area along the busy stretch of road.
Harrington was waiting for Jack in the darkness. A rotating light on the car beside him made his face appear and disappear in flashing bursts of red. To Jack's tired, watery eyes, the image was surreal.
"You look like you can use some coffee," Harrington said, conveniently handing him an extra cup he'd been holding onto. "Might be cold by now."
Jack took a sip and winced. "How far in?"
"About 300 yards."
Jack took a deep breath and prepared his body for what was sure to be a painful walk over uneven, slippery ground. The pain was always worse at night.
"Who found it?" Jack asked, clearing his throat.
"Terry and his people."
"The ones with the dogs?"
"Yeah."
Jack fell in line behind Harrington as the path narrowed, allowing room for others passing in the opposite direction — officers, forensics personnel, and volunteers who had helped in the search. They were being cleared out so detectives could do their job. Jack felt as if he was the last one to arrive. He weaved in and out as they crossed shoulder to shoulder. One bumped his arm, spilling cold coffee onto his sleeve. Jack grumbled an obscenity and tossed the rest in the bushes.
"Anything left for us to sift through?" Jack asked.
"Terry knows the drill, he's been watching it."
There were bright highway construction lights shining in the distance through the trees, creating gigantic shadows that stretched to infinity. As they drew closer, it lit up the entire area like a supermarket parking lot. Radios buzzed and squawked, men with shovels were knee deep into the earth. The whole moment seemed to play out in slow motion for Jack. All he could think about was poor Carl Rosa, and that horrible phone call he would soon have to make.
Jack abruptly stopped in his tracks. The area where they were excavating was directly beneath a large willow tree, split in two from a lightning strike; its trunk charred black. Half of its limbs draped limply across the river's edge, the tips of their branches submerged.
At that very moment, a loud booming freight train whistle screamed out, echoing through the cold night air. Jack took a moment to triangulate his position. Rebecca had described what this scene would look like almost perfectly. Jack subscribed absolutely zero credence to the notion of extra sensory perception, so the idea that Rebecca possessed any clairvoyant capabilities never even entered his mind. Still, the proximity of the location made it virtually impossible for Rebecca to have been able to witness a crime being committed here. The area was several miles from any path Rebecca might have walked to or from school. Her mother let her ride her bike around the neighborhood, but he'd seen how short that leash was. Nothing added up. So how was she here? Jack agreed with Leonard, she was remembering something. She couldn't have imagined it. This proved it. But… how? Just Coincidence?
Jack made the long slow walk up to the gravesite that had been recently unearthed. The chief medical examiner at the scene - a heavyset man with thick glasses and coarse gray stubble - approached him somberly.
"Female, 18-19. Body appears fully intact, impressive considering the conditions, length of time."
"Length of time?" Jack looked down at the cadaver forensics was carefully — meticulously — dusting and cataloging every inch of for evidence.
It definitely was not what he was expecting to see.
CHAPTER 19
The dawn began to dry off the early morning frost and moisture from the ground. It was warming up but Jack could still see his breath as he stared out across the river, his mind racing.
The forensics team continued their excavation, collecting clues and stuffing evidence into plastic bags. Most of the officers and volunteers had left.
Harrington stood behind Jack and leaned up against a tree, balancing his foot on the trunk. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling with a long, strangely suspicious huff, almost as if he was trying to make his presence known, get Jack's attention.
"Last year I took the boys fishin' up in Roanoke," Harrington began, "not a nibble the whole freakin' day. The kids were bored, driving me nuts."
Harrington took another long sip on his cigarette. Jack remained fixed on the river, and the morning sunrise.
"Finally, I'm just about to call it a day, when BAM! I hooked this Pickerel. Man, what a fight. I got it up out of the water, but the squirmy fucker snapped my reel. Can you believe that?"
Jack turned around, not looking at Harrington, still deep in thought.
"Sucker must have weighed 15-16 pounds."
Jack looked up at a news helicopter circling overhead. The wind from the rotors blew his hair in all different directions. "I have to make a phone call," Jack said. He started to walk back towards the road when Harrington stepped into his path.
"How did you know?" Harrington asked, his stance confrontational.
"Anonymous tip," Jack said quietly as he brushed past him. Jack had a few crazy questions of his own he wanted answers to. Harrington held his hand out, gently blocking Jack's way.
"Okay, but… what told you to have them search down here? In this spot? Lafave said you were very specific."
"Gut feeling," Jack said while looking at the burned willow tree. He brushed Harrington's hand away; he'd been interrogated enough.
Harrington took another dramatic drag on his cigarette, his words filled with smoke, "Just like that, huh? Maybe they should change your title to Jack Ridge, Psychic Detective?"
CHAPTER 20
Carl Rosa decided to take the day off because of intense lower back pain. He'd developed sciatica in his hip and leg, and there were certain days when even getting out of bed was a bitter challenge. When asked to describe the pain, he often compared it to having a root canal done on his spine.
When the phone rang, he debated whether or not to answer it. It was probably the warehouse calling to grill him on why he wasn't at work, tell him how shorthanded they were today — how replaceable he was — and that he needed to take something for the pain and get the hell down there. He decided to let it ring.
He clicked on the TV. A news report was being broadcast from a helicopter. The volume was low, he couldn't quite make out what the attractive female reporter was saying. The headline on the lower third of the screen read: girl's remains found near Twin Rivers.
For a moment, Carl forgot all about the pain in his spine. Numbness filled his entire body like one giant shot of Novocain. His heart began to beat faster, thumping so hard he could feel it in his neck.
The ring of the phone suddenly seemed louder, like it was screaming at him. He slowly got to his feet, so numb with fear he could barely feel the floor beneath. He inched towards the phone like a prisoner summoned for his execution, sens
ing his life now had a very defined before and after. Before this call, and after he heard the words on the other line.
His sweaty, shaking hand grasped the blue receiver and lifted the handset. He stared at it another second or two, then finally put it to his ear. Someone asked "hello" several times.
"Yes?"
"Carl? It's Jack."
Nothing would have made Carl happier than to hear his boss's high pitched, whiny voice at that moment.
"…Yes?" Carl said, trembling with dread.
"I wanted to call you personally before you heard about it on the news." Carl's heart sank, his eyes closed. He couldn't decide whether to pass out or vomit.
"Yes?" Carl whispered, sitting down in a chair looking out the window. He stared at the spot on the street below where, as a little girl, Angelina used to skip rope with her friends and sing songs. Tears dripped down his cheeks.
"We found the body of a young girl this morning."
"Oh God…" Carl wiped his face with his hand, going limp, trying to hold on, keep it together.
"We don't have a positive ID on the body yet, but I can tell you — we're almost certain — that it's not Angelina."
It took several seconds for Carl to resurface from his grief spiral. Color gradually returned to his face. The God he was silently cursing moments ago was good and merciful again. Hope lived for another day.
He dropped the phone, placed his hands over his face, and wept uncontrollably.
Jack heard Carl's phone hit the floor. He called out his name once, then hung up. There was nothing more to say.
Jack just couldn't shake the method of how he'd divined this victim's final resting place. But what was even more mind blowing was what the coroner had said. It was so startling, Jack had to ask him to repeat it:
The body they'd found had been dead at least 10 years.
It nearly knocked him over. 10 Years? Jack stammered mentally with the possibility that whoever killed these girls could have been operating right under their noses for that long. How many more victims could be out there, unrecovered? The scope of his investigation, the magnitude, had become elevated exponentially.
Immediately, Leonard's sessions with Rebecca, the details, became relegated to chance, a lucky guess. Jack didn't want to be dismissive, her account captured on that tape was bone chilling in its realism, he was reluctant to cast aside his gut reaction to what he'd heard. But the estimated date on which this victim apparently met her end made Rebecca's very creative imagination a moot point.
CHAPTER 21
Laura rarely slept anymore, so much as pass out from exhaustion. Even when she was out, she awoke several times, on edge, anticipating the inevitable outburst.
Rebecca offered nothing to make her feel any better. Laura didn't believe she was consciously harboring any secrets from her, despite what Leonard had told that detective. What a bunch of bullshit. Rebecca genuinely didn't know or understand who — or what — was preying on her.
There were moments during the day when Rebecca would say or do things that caused some eyebrow raising, but for the most part her outbursts seemed confined to nighttime. Yes, Rebecca was having issues at school, but those were isolated incidents. Right?
As ridiculous as what the detective had said was, until she had an alternative, sane answer for what was tormenting her daughter, she wasn't taking any chances. The bike, fixed or not, was out of the question. She would drive Rebecca to school for the time being, even though it would make her 5 minutes late for work.
Rebecca didn't argue.
Laura turned a corner, traveling up Connecticut Ave. There was an old church on their right. A man was mowing the small patch of grass in the front. Laura raised the windows — she was deathly allergic to cut grass. Rebecca watched the church go by.
"The statue is gone," Rebecca said.
"The statue?"
"Saint Francis. They took it down," Rebecca said with a hint of sorrow.
"Oh. That's too bad." Laura couldn't remember any statue having been there to be removed. Of course, Rebecca was a kid who paid very close attention to details. She could stare at something for a few seconds, then go home and sketch what she had seen as if developing a film negative. It didn't surprise Laura that her daughter might notice that the landscape revealed a slight imperfection when compared to yesterday.
But how would she know its name? They were Catholic, but she hadn't given Rebecca the opportunity to go to church or have her communion. She was baptized, but that was more of a ritual than anything else.
She also didn't remember taking Rebecca this way to school before… she'd told her to always travel along the side roads, not on a busy main road like this.
"Rebecca? You don't ride this way to school, do you?"
"No. I go down Atlantic, like you told me to," she said, as if wondering why she would even ask such a stupid question.
"Right. That's what I thought."
They reached the school. Laura stopped the car along the curb by the front entrance. Rebecca grabbed her book bag and scanned the yard for bullies, searching for the path of least resistance. She opened the door and stepped out.
"Have a good day, sweetie. Try to have fun, okay?"
Rebecca waved goodbye and headed inside. Tommy spotted her, altering his trajectory to ensure their paths would cross. He stuck his foot out as she passed by, but she didn't fall. Rebecca was ready and had steadied herself.
Laura wasn't ready, and bit her lower lip when she saw it happen. She put the car in park and was ready to get out to strangle the little shit when Rebecca turned at the top of the school steps, waving at her with a strained smile. Laura waved back, her mouth a flat line. Rebecca disappeared inside. Laura waited a few seconds before putting the car in gear, still squeezing the steering wheel.
Rebecca made her way through the hall, avoiding eye contact. A friendly voice penetrated her defenses and she looked up.
"Hi," Holly said. How brave to risk humiliation, Rebecca thought. She smiled back.
"What, are you friends with this weirdo?" Christina said. Held back in first grade, Christina was tall and as beautiful as she was evil.
"Are we friends, Rebecca?" Holly asked.
For a moment Rebecca wasn't sure if Holly was hoping she'd answer no just to bail her out, or if she was standing her ground, even sticking up for her. Holly also didn't have many friends, but from what she knew, Rebecca figured Holly couldn’t care less what the other kids thought of her.
"Yeah, we're friends."
Holly turned back to Christina. "I guess we're friends."
Christina made a face like she smelled something foul and walked away shaking her head. "Psycho…"
Holly walked with Rebecca to class. "Don't let those jerks get to you," Holly said. Rebecca nodded. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten that advice.
CHAPTER 22
Sam Cheung was considered one of the best forensic pathologists in his field. He had thick black hair and wore silver rimmed bifocals. He stood alongside Jack, examining the bones of the deceased girl. Sam pointed with a serrated blade to the area around the clavicle and jawbone. Jack leaned in.
"The hyoid bone was crushed. Here and here, see? Powerful hands."
The skull was tilted backwards, mouth open, as if frozen in a silent scream. Sam walked around the table, removing the tarp that covered the victim's lower extremities. He'd cleaned the excess dirt and residue from the cadaver. The bones had acquired a yellowish color from the years of decay.
"These marks on the fibula and ankle were caused by some sort of restraint, a wire. Lab's testing the residue." Sam pointed to each mark as he described them. "She pulled so hard to break free, it dug right through the skin, serrated the bone."
"Held captive?" asked Jack. Sam nodded.
"Same as the others." Sam lifted the foot of the victim. "There's trauma to the patella and feet. These indentations here were caused by being kept immobile on a hard surface for an extended period of time. The ulna and
radius in the right forearm were shattered, possibly from blunt trauma, a fall maybe."
Jack examined the remains, trying to envision what the girl once looked like. For a brief moment, he became introspective. He saw himself lying on that cold table, someone poking around at him. Only there would be no question what did him in.
Jack's eyes drifted over the bones. He looked at the pale flesh of his own hand, then back at the skeleton. Soon that will be all that's left of Jack Ridge.
He drifted inwardly long enough for Sam to notice. He cleared his throat and Jack looked up.
"You okay?” Sam asked.
"Yes, I'm sorry-" Jack said as he erupted into a coughing fit that echoed loudly in the cramped, white tiled exam room.
"Sounds serious."
"Continue.” Jack wiped his mouth with a folded handkerchief. Sam moved back up towards the skull.
"No cavities. These missing front teeth weren't from poor hygiene." Jack exhaled painfully.
"How long on an ID?"
"Still waiting on dental. If she's US, it shouldn't take long. If the caregiver's abroad, might be a few days, a week, maybe more."
"The coroner at the scene estimated she'd been down there possibly 10 years."
"Yes, at least that." Sam removed his glasses to rub his eyes, leaning on the table. "The years of decay make it hard to determine ultimate cause of death. But it doesn't appear to have been quick and painless."
Jack stared long and hard, his brain spinning. The press would want to know, first and foremost, the source of the information that led him to discover her remains. He had no answer for them. None that made sense anyway.
CHAPTER 23
Jack sat in his office and watched the clock; it was almost 11 A.M. He was so certain the body unearthed would be Angelina's, he'd made peace with the end of his tenure as detective while scaling that hill. When he learned it wasn't, it was like he'd gotten a reprieve. A second chance. It spurred him to work even harder, smarter.
