by Rick Mofina
Reed put his arm around her, consoling her in the garden until he noticed a red patch on her baby fingertip. “Doris?”
“Oh.” She saw the tiny wound. “I must have pricked myself on a thorn.”
They went into the house. She got a bandage from the bathroom. Zach was playing checkers with one of the FBI agents. Reed retreated to his office.
He collapsed in his swivel rocker, his overtired mind swimming with a thousand thoughts as he slipped on his headphones to listen to the tapes again. It was something. He had to do something. The garage with Ann’s Jetta. That had to bring them closer. It was related to the robbery. Surely it would bring them closer to knowing. Or was it all in vain, as he had witnessed in other cases? Anguished families, praying, clinging, surviving for days, weeks, on threads, whispers, leads, hope, only to learn in the end that the victim was murdered within an hour and nothing they’d done had mattered.
Ann’s panicked voice floated into his ear.
“Oh God, please let me go!” Then the first abductor. “Shut up! I told you to shut up!”
Listening, Reed turned the chair to face a younger version of himself staring from the poster by the pile of old news articles Zach had been combing through. The words on the promotional poster speaking to him.
Did they get away with murder...?
He tried to remember, what was that series about? Several cases, all steeped in mystery, unsolved homicides. He spent weeks on each one, years ago.
Should he make a deal with God? Or would the price be more than they could all bear? Reed remembered their ordeal with Zach, his own horror near Coyote Point. Could he handle this? Fear and anger washed over him, as the detective in Reed grappled with the father and husband. The voices of the men who’d taken Ann pounded in his head until exhaustion took him.
Did they get away with murder...?
49
Ann Reed stared at the strange blond woman in the rearview mirror, feeling nothing as the sun slipped to the horizon and the highway rolled.
She’d run out of tears miles ago after they’d decided to let her ride sitting up in the backseat. Who would recognize her now? She couldn’t even recognize herself. And what did it matter on these hopeless, desolate back roads? Studying billboards and license plates, she tried in vain to determine exactly where they were. Texas? New Mexico? Oklahoma?
Her right wrist was cuffed to the door’s handgrip under the window. Her right ankle was cuffed to the bottom frame of Del’s front seat. The child-safety locks prevented her from opening the door. Her chains chimed with Del’s empty long-neck beer bottles rolling on the floor. His head was lolling against the headrest, mouth agape as he snored. John drove. Between the newscasts, which he kept so low she couldn’t hear, he met her often in the mirror. They never spoke. Silence passed with the miles.
Out of nowhere, a highway patrol car passed them. Ann didn’t see its markings. Had no chance to scream out as it disappeared in the distance along with her hope.
At that moment, she thought of Zach, how he felt when she took him in her arms. The smell of his hair, his soft skin. His kiss on her cheek. The way he liked his peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches cut into four. It was the same way she’d liked hers cut when she was his age. That’s how her mother had made them for her.
Ann remembered her mother’s smile. Remembered how they’d held each other so tight after Ann’s father died. How it took so long before her mother ever smiled again, the sadness never really leaving her eyes. Ann remembered how her mother had raised her alone, working at the Berkeley campus library. She used to love visiting her, sitting in the quiet next to her at her desk, doing her homework eating peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches cut perfectly into four. All of her life her mother had been her best friend.
Ann blinked at the farm fields rolling by and felt Tom’s small gift jammed tight in the toe of her shoe. Their anniversary was coming and she wanted this for him. Even though he drove her crazy, made her so angry, she loved him.
It was his wildness, his burning desire to chase what he wanted. He was fearless. Self-confident. But she never realized that what he pursued would take such a toll, almost cost them everything. Still, she loved him. His fury gave her the courage to chase her own dreams. She always believed her love for him could endure anything. She needed him and always would. The truth was that even though she wanted him to quit reporting, she feared his passion would be switched off and the sadness she saw in her mother’s eyes would surface in his.
Tom.
She felt his gift with her toe, thought of the warmth of his back next to hers in their bed. The way her name sounded when he said it. His smile. As the fields flowed by she ached for him, for Zach and her mother. What were they doing now? What did they know? Would anyone find her note?
Think, Ann. You’ve got to get away. Surely they’re going to kill you, then bury you like they did with the other woman.
Think. Escape. There had to be a way. All she needed was one tiny chance. One drop of luck. Was it out there? In the twilight, somewhere in the vast ocean of prairie where no one would hear a scream, or a gunshot?
The SUV slowed and took a paved side road to nowhere. Ann surveyed the area in the remaining light, looked behind at nothing. No cars. No signs. No buildings. John consulted a crisply folded map as fields of tall grass blurred by on either side.
Night was approaching when after a few miles John slowed the SUV to nearly a halt as he inched onto a dirt tractor-path of a road. A shovel and pick rattled in the rear. A dust curtain rose over their departure point, as if they’d left the earth.
The SUV toddled at low speed for at least two or three miles along a gradual downward slope that came to a river. John stopped. It was a beautiful and lonely spot. Rushing water sparkled. John began unloading things from the rear—sleeping bags, groceries he’d bought that morning at a truck stop, a couple bundles of firewood.
Del slept.
John opened Ann’s door, un-cuffed her, walked her to the front of the SUV where he affixed two sets of cuffs and a length of chain to the vehicle’s front tow loop. She could let her arm down while sitting on the soft grass with her back against the front tire. The night air was cooling.
John built a fire, guzzled some beer, and set out cans of baked beans, opening them, then setting them near the flames to simmer. He pulled out a bag of biscuits, nacho chips, napkins, soda, and a six-pack. After the beans were done, they ate in silence by the firelight to sounds of crackling wood, John’s beer, and Ann’s chains. Sparks flew to the stars.
When she finished, Ann wept quietly. John watched her, saying nothing. Doing nothing but drinking beer. After a few minutes a soft sound struggled from her heart.
“Please let me go.”
The snap of burning wood was her response. John stood, stepped back from the blaze until he was a mirage at the edge of the night. His silence magnified her fear. She wanted to scream at the pain they’d caused, the outrage, the violation. The horrible things they’d left in their wake. Her shoulders shook as her tears splashed on her hands.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why?”
Ann sniffed and nodded.
“You haven’t figured it out yet? Smart lady like you?”
She shook her head.
“You don’t know who we are or what we are?”
“No.”
“I’m the all-time loser and you’re my prize.”
“Please, I don’t understand.”
He crushed a beer can and opened another.
“Some people make mistakes in life.” John swallowed more beer. “And some people are life’s mistakes. That’s me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at you. Rich San Francisco businesswoman. Grew up in a nice family, went to college. Got married, had a kid. It’s in the papers. Big-shot reporter husband, nice house in San Francisco, everything going your way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I spe
nt nearly all of my life in prison. That’s the name this country gives to the place it keeps its mistakes.”
John finished his beer and opened another one. Ann lost count and grew worried. What was that flash of metal? His handgun?
“Everything going your nice little way.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what it has to do with…”
He stepped to her and drilled the gun hard on the top of her skull.
“It has everything to do with you.”
“No. Please.” The gun’s hammer clicked back. She shut her eyes.
“I could have taken anyone’s car in the jewelry store, Ann. But when I saw it was you, saw Tom’s picture in your wallet, I knew it was meant to be. I’d never have dreamed we’d meet like this.”
A long moment of silence passed.
“It was fate giving me my chance to right a wrong. When I saw it was you, everything changed. And now look at you. You’re so beautiful.”
He took another drink.
Ann sobbed.
“I don’t understand. None of this makes sense.”
“I know your husband. Tom’s the reason you’re here and he’s the reason you’re never going home.”
50
Tia Layne was on the phone in the San Francisco bureau of Worldwide News Now. The number she’d called had rung once, twice, before it was picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” a male voice said.
“Tom? Tom Reed?”
“Who’s calling? Is this—?”
“It’s Tia Layne. Don’t hang up.”
“I’ve told you no interviews.”
“Tom, you of all people should understand. Surely you’ve made calls like this at times like these?”
“What you did with that sheriff’s report was debased.”
“I apologize for that. I thought our information was correct.”
“It was dead wrong.”
“I took a journalistic risk.”
“You committed a crime.”
“Look, I apologized. And you’re going to get it in writing. Would you just remember that I’m also the person who tipped you to the garage in Excelsior?”
Reed said nothing.
“Tom, I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to help yourself.”
“All I’m asking is that you please consider giving us an exclusive on-camera interview about how you’re trying to find Ann.”
“No. And to imply I somehow owe you is sick.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I understand what you must be enduring.”
“You don’t know jack.”
“I’ve been reading about you. And I know this: if the tables were turned, you’d be doing exactly what I’m doing right now and you damn well know it. You know how the press functions.”
“And I know how you function.” Reed hung up.
Layne slammed down the receiver, then lit a cigarette, feeling her shot at one hundred thousand fade in her smoke cloud. Getting Reed on camera to talk about his private hunt for his wife was not going to be easy. Then again, nothing in Layne’s life was. She wasn’t going to give up. Not yet.
The aroma of onions and cooked beef diverted her thoughts.
“How’s it look, Cooter?”
“Not bad.”
Between bites of his gigantic grease-dripping cheeseburger, Cooter was working on the stuff they’d already shot for a piece on Reed, reviewing and cutting night shots from Coyote Point.
“Look.” Cooter chewed, pointing to the small video monitor where Layne saw herself at the shore saying, “Reed’s search nearly ended here when they—” The images accelerated as Cooter fast-forwarded to grainy night shots of drug deals on the street, cutting to Layne reporting from a menacing corner over the bass throb of a passing low rider, “From America’s mean streets, Reed—” Cooter froze on an image of Layne with her mouth open and eyes closed while he took another bite of his burger. “I have to move stuff around and work in the cop shooting but it’s not bad, Tia. What do you think?”
“It’s useless.”
“Why?”
“We don’t have Reed. We have to have him exclusively to make the sale. It doesn’t work without him.”
Cooter shrugged and worked on his burger.
“Just imagine if we had stayed on him.” Layne shook her head, thinking.
“What do you mean?”
“Had we followed him around we’d have stuff of him at Coyote Point, the police takedown with Reed and the drug gang. I mean, can you imagine the power of those pictures?” Cooter nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “It’d be tough to be that close to him, or even anticipate what he’s going to do. Even the police don’t know.”
“We got to think of a way.”
“Why?”
“A top crime reporter, a Pulitzer nominee, searching for his wife, kidnapped from the streets of San Francisco in a heist that left a cop dead, a woman’s corpse in the desert, body parts in Arizona, Reed in pursuit and nearly killed by drug dealers.” Layne stubbed out her cigarette, shaking her head. “It’s a world story and it’s worth one hundred thousand to us if we can nail it. That’s why.”
Cooter popped the last bit of his burger into his mouth and shrugged. Layne got up from her desk and began pacing.
“This story is far from over. It can only get better. Reed’s not going to let up until he finds his wife,” Layne said. “We can’t afford to miss his next step, whatever it is. We have to be there.”
Cooter sucked the remainder of his soda from his plastic cup, thinking.
“How are we going to do that, Cooter? He doesn’t want to cooperate. He doesn’t want us near him. The police don’t want us near him. There has to be a way for us to do this.”
Cooter wiped his face, then burped.
“There is, Tia.”
51
Molly Wilson nearly fell, stepping from the shower in her apartment at the edge of Russian Hill near North Beach. Her home phone and her cell phone were ringing. Wrapping herself in a towel, she hurried to her living room.
It could be the paper, but she prayed it was one of her police sources.
Wilson had to know what the hell was going on with the investigation and Tom Reed. Earlier that day, she’d seen him at the garage in Excelsior. But Sydowski had refused to tell her much, so she called every cop she knew. She went to her home phone on the table at a bay window and grabbed it.
“Hi, just hold on.”
Her bag with her cell phone was on a chair next to the table. She pulled it out, pressed the talk button.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Missed the call. Damn! She felt water drip down her back from her damp hair as she went to the other phone.
“Sorry, hello.”
“Molly, it’s Todd at the paper, sorry to bother you at home.”
“What is it?”
“A caller, some woman, wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“She didn’t say. She just wanted to talk to you.” Wilson was running late to meet a police friend from the lab.
“Put her to my voice mail.”
“Tried that, she wants to talk to you.”
“Take a message, Todd, I’m running late.”
“She won’t leave any information. She insists on talking to you. I’ve got her on another line. Can I transfer her to you?”
“Don’t give out my home number.”
“I won’t, can I transfer her?”
Wilson glanced at her watch.
“Yes.”
“Here we go.”
San Francisco’s lights twinkled. Wilson could see the Golden Gate.
The line clicked.
“Hello,” a woman said.
“Hi, this is Molly Wilson.”
“You’re the reporter at the San Francisco Star who sits right beside Tom Reed?” Her voice was rough, husky but sober and coherent. Mid-thirties.
“Yes. But I’m running late.”
“I’ve
got a message for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s actually a message for Tom Reed.”
“Look, I don’t have time for this. Why are you calling me?”
“You sit beside him, right? That’s what your office told me, right?”
“I sit beside him.”
“Then police aren’t running a tap on your line.”
The caller had Wilson’s full attention. “Who are you?”
“No police.”
“Excuse me?”
“You got to swear no police, or I won’t give you the information and Reed will never know.”
“Never know what?” Wilson grabbed her bag. Where’s the tape recorder?
“You protect sources?”
“We protect sources. What’s the information?”
“If police are involved there’s no information.”
“Damn it! What’s the information?” Wilson managed to find a notebook and pen. “We get a lot of crank calls. What’re you talking about?” She couldn’t find her cassette recorder but began scrolling through the function menu on her telephone answering machine. “Could you wait a minute? I was on my way out and you got me tangled up here.”
“I’m calling from a stolen cell phone, the call went first to your sports department then transferred to news, then you.”
Wilson found record conversation, activated the key, and a bright red indicator light began flashing.
“What sort of information do you have?”
“The kind that has to be delivered in person to Tom Reed, so he knows where it’s coming from. But no police.”
“Yes. No police. Just Reed.”
“It’s got to be very soon. Take down these instructions.” Wilson took notes and read them back, wondering if this was a ransom call, a crank, or the real thing.
“Look, you have to tell me, so I can tell him. Is this about Ann Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Is she all right? Where is she? Is she hurt? Are you with her?”
The line went dead.
