by Gregg Olsen
Gloria Bergstrom was fixing coffee in the break room when Emily emerged from the basement. “The best little dispatcher in Cherrystone” as she called herself, was wearing a pretty black-and-white wool dress with a toffee-colored cardigan.
“You look lovely. Something special about today?” Emily said.
Gloria filled the coffee carafe with water and poured it into the coffeemaker.
“Not at all. Every now and then I dress up just to prove that I still can.” She smiled and Emily returned the favor. “Hey, you’re in mighty early today. What’s up with that?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Personal or professional?”
Gloria had a knack of cutting to the chase. She knew that Emily and Chris had gone through their ups and downs. Although Emily tried to keep a reasonably tight lid on her personal life, privacy was hard to come by in a small place like Cherrystone. Besides, during those ups and downs, Emily’s mood sometimes betrayed her need to stay professionally detached from those who worked for her. Working day in and day out, Gloria, however, had become family.
“Professional, thankfully,” Emily said.
“Crawford, of course. I’ve lost sleep over that one, too.”
Emily rinsed out a mug and watched the brown stream of fresh coffee fill the carafe. She explained how’d she’d gone into the evidence vault and how she’d seen the irregularities of the tearing on the nylon sleeping bag.
“Interesting,” Gloria said, trying to mull it over, but coming up empty. “But what does it mean?”
Emily poured her coffee and looked for a package of Equal. “The only explanation I can find is that the square of fabric that’s missing once held a monogram.”
Gloria, once more, looked mystified. “A monogram? Who monograms their sleeping bags?”
Emily gave up on the Equal and poured some sugar into her black coffee.
“Someone with a big ego and too much money, that’s who.”
Recognition clicked behind Gloria’s eyes. “Mitch Crawford?”
“Seems like the type to me. I’ll dig into that some more. See what Jason can turn up with embroidery shops around here.”
Gloria smiled and let out a laugh. “Oh boy, he’ll love that one.”
Emily laughed, too. Jason had expected a lot more out of police work than running around sporting-goods stores and embroidery businesses.
“This is the kind of excitement that never makes TV,” she said, disappearing down the hallway.
Chapter Fifty-two
Garden Grove
The invitation to be heard was almost too much. Michael Barton looked at the comment feature on Jenna Kenyon’s blog. He read what some of the other readers had to say.
Jenna! You rock! You are the most awesome consultant in the whole world. I don’t know what we would do without you and your advice!
—Cherie, BZ, Biloxi
Hey! If you ever come back to Huntsville, we have to hook up! You are smart, funny, and a blast to hang out with. Don’t forget your BZ sis Megan!
—Megan, BZ, Huntsville
I have some more ideas to brainstorm with you. I’ll send you a PowerPoint with the particulars! You know me, I love bullet points!
—Donatella, BZ, Bowling Green
Michael clicked the pencil icon that indicated he could leave a comment. A window popped open. The blank space stared at him. Yeah, he wanted to leave a comment. But what he had to say wasn’t going to be so upbeat. What he wanted to say could be traced back through his Internet provider or IP address.
He started to type.
Hi bitch! You think that you’re something pretty special, don’t you? You think that you’re so smart, talented, pretty. You’re a piece of garbage, that’s what you are. I’d like to use a dull knife and take my time hacking off your head from your bony ass body. I’d like to take dynamite and stuff it in every orifice and light the goddamn fuse. You’re nothing. You and your sisters think that you rule the world. But you don’t. I won’t let you. You’re indifferent to anyone who doesn’t fit into your predetermined plan. Bitch! Do you even remember Sarah? Do you ever think about her? Pretty soon you will. Believe me, it will be the last thing you ever think about!
He heard his wife stirring. Olivia was coming down the stairs. He minimized the window and opened another file. He looked up and smiled.
“Hi, baby,” she said, “it’s late. I want you to come to bed.” Her beautiful dark skin glistened from a bath. She smelled of the faintest hint of lavender. As she put her hand on his shoulder and tugged, her nipple protruded from the slit of her robe.
Michael looked in her eyes. “Hold that thought,” he said. “I’ll be right up.”
“You better. I’m a lonely girl.”
“I’ll power down now.”
Olivia disappeared up the stairs and he went back to Jenna Kenyon’s blog. He waved the curser over the box that said “post.” It was so tempting. He wanted so much for that girl to know that her fate was something to fear. Her future belonged to him.
He closed out the blog without saving it.
No need to warn her, of course. No need to get caught.
Chapter Fifty-three
Something was wrong and Olivia Barton could feel it in her bones. The first indicators were trivial, silly almost. She smelled cigarette smoke on Michael’s clothes and asked him about it. He said someone at work smoked in the conference room. She knew that was a lie. Human Solutions, like all California employers, offered a totally smoke-free environment. She figured he’d been stressed out and started smoking again. It pained her. He’d quit before Danny was born.
“I want to live a long life to take care of my boy,” he said.
Why are you smoking now? What’s going on with you?
As the uncharacteristic behaviors escalated, she began to worry. Worry turned into action. She knew that some wives pick their husband’s pockets hoping to find something that will indicate a love affair. Olivia knew something was awry with Michael, but an intimate physical betrayal was simply not at the top of her list. She sought more clues as to the changes in his behavior that she worried indicated a possible breakdown. Something was wrong. She wondered if there had been some trigger that had brought back problems long since buried.
She’d seen an episode on Dr. Phil about repressed memory syndrome and how childhood trauma is frequently revisited in adulthood. Sometimes a woman or man relives the incidents of the past that they’ve never quite resolved. They become stuck in dramas that quietly play in their heads. No one knows it. No one but the victim. Shame is a silencer.
The things that told Olivia that a problem was percolating were small but powerful. She remembered how she’d noticed on at least two occasions that Michael had stripped the bed of its sheets and laundered them. One time, he said he’d spilled coffee. Another time, when she detected the smell of urine, he said that Simon, the cat, had peed on the bed. It was possible, of course. But Simon never did it again. He went missing shortly after that.
All of that would have been believable if not for the obvious lie. She looked at the online report from the state of California that indicated how much money was drawn from their bank account for the Fast Pass, an electronic transponder that allowed access to carpool lanes and expressways for a fee.
“What’s with all the trips on the Fast Pass down to San Diego? You don’t have that region,” she said referring to his service territory for Human Solutions.
He looked at her, then down at the printout. “Nope. Must be an error. I’ve heard about a bunch of transponders that have sent screwed-up signals to the reader. Remember that article in the Times?”
She looked at him with blank eyes.
“We talked about it, Olivia.”
She searched her memory, but she knew that there had been no discussion. His insistence alarmed her.
“I guess so,” she said, finally. “I’ll call them tomorrow and straighten it out.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll do it
. I hate paying for something we didn’t use and I’ll let them know that we won’t stand for it. Stupid government computing systems. Jeesh, I’d like to consult for them and see if we couldn’t save the taxpayers some dough.”
His little rant satisfied Olivia until she caught him in what had to be a lie. It was a crumpled cash receipt for coffee from a San Diego Hardee’s restaurant. The date was the same day as the date on the Fast Pass report.
He had, in fact, been there. He had to have been. But why? Why did he lie?
There was something else that ate at her. When he arrived home from Dixon, he came with only one bag.
He’d left for Tennessee with two. The larger of the two was a garment bag that held three pressed long-sleeved shirts and a pair of suits—though, depending on the client, he usually only wore a suit the first day. The second was a smaller bag with wheels that held his socks, underwear, and shaving supplies.
“What happened with your bag?” she had asked, eager to get him unpacked and the suitcases put away so they didn’t hog the space of their small master bedroom.
“I must have left the other in the car.”
She knew that was wrong. “No, I just looked in the car. Empty.”
“Damn that airline.” Michael’s face started its slow turn to red. “They probably lost the other piece.”
Olivia wanted to ask how it was that he didn’t notice that he’d come home with only half of what he brought. But she held her tongue.
Something wasn’t right. Why invent a story? When concern morphs into fear, a woman revisits the things that bothered her only a little.
When he was sleeping she snuggled up next to him, spooning his back. She flicked the hair at the nape of his neck and looked closely at the row of small circular scars. There were five. They were in perfectly spaced sequence.
Dear God, what did they do to you?
Michael felt his wife’s touch and the warmth of her body and breath on his back. He rolled over and kissed her.
“I love you,” he said.
She whispered back the same words.
He rolled over and pressed his body against her, nuzzling her. He smelled, as always, of mint toothpaste and Irish Spring. He explored her body with his hands, whispering all the while how much he adored her. But as he did so, Olivia’s own interior monologue was at odds with the moment.
What happened to you, baby? What did they do to you? Why are you slipping away? Where are you going?
In the dim light of their bedroom she could see his handsome face as he made love to her, his eyes intense, his body taut and hard where hers was soft and smooth.
“I love you, Olivia,” he said, “I love you more than you know.”
“I love you, too.”
Again, the monologue that she had running in her head:
Tell me, tell me. Something’s wrong. What, baby, what do I need to know to make it better?
Later, when Michael fell asleep, Olivia went downstairs to the office and logged on to his laptop. She knew the password because he’d called her from the road one time when his laptop had failed and he needed to retrieve some client data from his backup computer, a Sony desktop.
“Sorry, honey,” he said, “But I’m in a bind. Do you mind?’
“Of course not.” They chitchatted for a moment about his trip as the computer warmed up and she asked for his password when the log-on prompt came up on the screen.
“OLIVIAMYLOVE,” he said.
She typed it in, smiling as she went.
“Nice password. I thought you might have used the cat’s name like everyone else.”
“I’ve used this password or a variation thereof from nearly the day that I met you.”
It was a sweet memory. But as she sat waiting for the screen to light up, she wasn’t sure how far she was willing to go to find out what it was that was troubling the man that she loved so much. Maybe some secrets, she thought, are best hidden?
Her heart rate accelerated a little when she heard the creak of the stairs, but it was a false alarm. No one was coming. With the light of the computer screen as the room’s only source of illumination, it took three times to get the password correct. She’d almost given up, thinking that he might have changed it.
The desktop picture was a familiar image, taken by a Japanese tourist at the Santa Monica pier as the sun started its dip toward the Pacific. The family stood in front of the carousel, their features washed with the golden light of the hour. It was captioned: The Bartons Get the Runaround. The image brought a quick smile, but it was rueful rather than joyful. Their perfect family was at stake.
Olivia dug in to his e-mail first, but found nothing of interest—though some sexually related e-mails from spammers gave her brief pause. She pulled down his list of favorite websites. Amid the stock report sites, the news sites, a half-dozen tech sites, and even a gardening web page, one caught her eye.
It was a blog written by a young woman from Washington State. It was out of the ordinary, for sure. Olivia couldn’t readily see why her husband would “favorite” something so far removed from any interest. For a second, she wondered if it was a porn site.
…the national office sent out an advisory, that I’m sure you have already read. I’m going to put it up on my blog anyway. It really bears special attention. OK? Click here and read the message.
Olivia moved her cursor and clicked. A pop-up window opened up with the following message.
The brutal murder of our Beta Zeta sister Sheraton Wilkes has devastated our chapter at Dixon University, Dixon, Tenn. Along with the heartache of a life taken from us too soon, we must also implore each of you to maintain a watchful eye over each other. We have four tips [4 Safety!] that we urge you to take to heart. Your continued safety will be a tribute to Sheraton Wilkes.
Always travel in pairs.
Always make sure that several people know where you are going and when you will return.
Always heed the midnight curfew.
Never be afraid to call campus security or 911 when you feel threatened in any way.
There was an explanation for her husband being on Jenna’s website, of course. Olivia remembered how the murder of the sorority girl had been on the news when he returned from Tennessee. She and Michael had discussed it. He seemed somewhat interested because he’d been there. It was the same connection she felt when she learned that a jetliner had crashed in the mountains of the Cascades—not far from where she’d grown up.
Sometimes you want to know everything when evil or tragedy comes so close.
Olivia looked at the time. Once again, the Internet had sucked away another hour. It was almost 2:00 A.M. She powered down and went back upstairs.
Whatever she was looking to find wasn’t there.
He could feel the covers move and the mattress give way as Olivia crawled back into bed. He looked at the clock. She’d been downstairs for more than an hour. He pretended to sleep as she settled herself back down.
What had she been doing?
Chapter Fifty-four
It felt like a small betrayal, but Olivia Barton had good reason for it. As the highway to Acton unrolled in front of her in a seemingly endless belt of blacktop and skid marks, she told herself that Michael would see that she loved him—if he ever found out what she had done. She planned to be careful, of course, so that they’d never have that conversation.
She couldn’t come up with any other way to ferret out her troubled husband’s past. State records for juveniles were sealed. She’d tried the “I’m a family member desperate to find my brother” ploy on a records clerk who snapped gum and told her that “they’re sealed for a reason and the reason is they don’t want anyone in those records.” She tried talking to Michael about his past, but he was evasive. Sometimes even dismissive, as if there was nothing there to really tell. He’d told her time and again that he’d moved on. She knew that to find out about his past, the time to do so was when they were first together.
Only in the
beginning of a relationship, she thought, can a woman make a stand and rummage around, gently of course, in the past of the man she loves.
When you marry him, you unwittingly shut the book and you accept him for all that he is. All that comes with him. His past. His family.
Two days before the drive from Garden Grove, she found Gwen Trexler’s phone number on an online phone directory. She took a deep breath and made the call.
“Ms. Trexler?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Did you used to be a reporter for the Sea Breeze?”
There was a short silence. Olivia could hear Etta James wailing “At Last” in the background.
“Yes, I was.”
“I’m calling about my husband, Michael Barton.”
“Come again? Barton? The name doesn’t ring a bell. I haven’t been down in Orange County for years. Finally wised up and got into PR.”
“He was the little boy you wrote about. They found him at Disneyland with his sister.”
Another short silence came from Gwen Trexler’s side of the line, but this one had more to do with instant recognition of the sad story of the two little kids, dumped by their mother.
“I’ve thought of those children forever. I wish I could have done more for them. Especially the boy, he was so messed up. I wish I could have helped more.”
Olivia wondered what the former reporter meant by that, but she let it slide. Over the phone wasn’t the venue for what she was after.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to talk to me?” Olivia asked. “You might be able to help now. I think he’s having problems. It might be related to what happened to him back then.”
“All right. I’m up in Acton. Got a pencil? I’ll give you an address.”
Olivia looked at the computer screen. “You still on Antelope Way?”
“Yes, I am. Nice work. You should be a reporter. That is if you want to give up your life for meetings, breathe in everyone’s smoke, have no money, get no respect…don’t I sound bitter?”
