Connection, page 12
“This, too, shall pass,” floated to her on the breeze. “You’re alive...”
Julie nodded, still lost in the embrace. “I’m alive.”
****
Remmy gasped as she was suddenly wrenched back into the confines of the small study room in the library. The tiny window over the desk showed that the sun was setting. Remmy was startled again at the insistent knocking on the closed door.
“Excuse me? Is someone in there?”
Remmy pushed the chair away from the table and stood, her head pounding in that central spot of her forehead, but she didn’t care.
I’m alive.
“She’s alive,” she whispered, grabbing the doorknob and yanking the door open. The woman on the other side started at Remmy’s sudden appearance. “She’s alive!” Remmy grabbed the unsuspecting woman and hugged her, jumping them both up and down in a quick circle. “She’s alive!”
Remmy left the librarian staring after her as she ran laughing through the library and burst out into the cold night, where the snow fell on her heated skin. She breathed it in, eyes closing in appreciation. “Julie’s alive.” Her adrenaline surged at the realization, and she took off running into the night, a victorious hoot echoing in the stillness.
****
“Open up, little one.”
Disoriented and confused, Julie blinked several times. She was shocked to find herself in his bed, her right wrist cuffed to the drawer of the side table, her back against stacked pillows. Her left hand was unfettered, sitting in her naked lap. Looking up, she saw that her captor sat cross-legged next to her, a large dinner plate resting on his open palm. A cheese and ham omelet took up a good portion of the plate, and there were two sausage links, as well. Meeting his dark eyes, she saw the expectant expression on his face.
Without word or thought, Julie opened her mouth, allowing the forkful of food to be inserted. She chewed mechanically, grateful for the sustenance, even if it was another damned omelet. She could barely taste the flavors of the sharp cheddar mixed with ham and egg. Any joy she’d felt left her the moment she had come back to herself. She was shocked to see that it was dark beyond the closed curtains, the overhead bedroom light on. She wanted to ask him how long he had been at it, but dared not. All she knew was that she had an extremely sore ass.
Sergio took pleasure in feeding his prize. She accepted the food without question or fuss. He had enjoyed their encounter immensely, and from the soft smile that had been on her lips, he thought that perhaps she had too. He wanted to get her fed; he had plans for their night. He wanted to enjoy it. He watched as Julie accepted another bite, this time of sausage. He noted the way her teeth dragged the meat from the tines of the fork, pink tongue coming into play to pull it into the hot, wet depths of her mouth. He needed a few moments to recover from their first session, but he knew it wouldn’t take long.
****
Remmy wasn’t sure which movie she was caught up in—It’s A Wonderful Life, or Singin’ In the Rain— as she hurried down the flurry-filled streets, yelping and laughing her way toward the police station. She was thrilled to recognize Grace’s ugly, cop sedan in the parking lot.
The desk sergeant, who, according to her nametag, was Renee O’Reilly, looked up expectantly as she breezed inside the lobby.
“Can I speak to Detective Cowan, please?”
“In reference to what?”
“To the Julie Wilson case.”
The woman nodded and picked up the phone. “Grace, someone’s here about the Wilson case.” The officer nodded into the phone, then set it into its cradle. “She’ll be out in a minute.”
Remmy gave the sergeant her brightest smile. “Thanks.” She puttered about the lobby, absently reading public notices that had been posted on a cork bulletin board. After fifteen minutes of cooling her heels, she felt a presence behind her. Remmy turned. Grace looked dead on her feet, face drawn. “Hey, you not get any doughnuts today, or what?”
Grace smiled, mildly amused. “What can I do for you, Remmy?” She dropped her body into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
Remmy’s smile was nearly blinding. “She’s alive, Grace.”
Grace stared at her, dumbfounded. “How do you know?”
“She made contact with me this afternoon. She’s alive! Told me so, herself!” Remmy’s disappointment was obvious at Grace’s lack of enthusiasm at the news. “What is it?”
“Another woman has gone missing. In Burrow Key.” Grace sighed, resting her arm on the back of the chair next to hers. “I was there all day today.”
Remmy plopped down in the second chair. “Where’s Burrow Key?”
“Maybe twenty minutes from here.”
“And you think the cases are related?”
“I do.” Grace rested her head against the wall. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Remmy.”
Remmy thought about that for a moment. “Do you have a picture of the victim? Maybe I can help.”
“Not yet. The police in Burrow Key are working with us pretty closely, so as soon as I do, I’ll get with you, okay?” Grace slapped her hands on her thighs, ready to return to her desk. Her husband would be sleeping alone again. Though it was after nine p.m., she still had lots of work to do.
“Julie told me something that I can’t quite work out yet.” Remmy stared at her hands in her lap, looking through them as she tried to remember.
“What?”
“Something to do with...” She concentrated, squeezing her eyes shut. Suddenly she saw it all again. “The letter ‘R’. I don’t know, but that letter seemed to really upset her. Also something about forty-one...something. Shit!” She sighed in frustration and looked at Grace. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can remember. I just hope it helps do...something.”
Grace smiled, filing the information away in her memory. She patted Remmy’s thigh affectionately. “You’re a good egg, Remmy.” Groaning as she got to her feet, she stretched her arms high over her head. “Talk to you later.”
Remmy watched her disappear back through the Personnel Only door.
****
As the garage door buzzed shut behind him, Sergio climbed out of his van. He walked around to the side door, slid it open, then carefully removed the large drum and slid it across the cement floor until it was against the wall. He walked past his workbench, making a mental note to destroy the large container of liquid lye, too, just as he had the empty containers earlier that day. But for now, he was tired and wanted to get to bed. Work came awfully early in the morning after such a busy weekend.
Chapter Sixteen
As she entered through the front door, Grace pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The house was small, but well-kept and cute, with its own charm. The furniture looked to be all hand-me-downs, though it had been cared for. The ugly, avocado green color of the fabric was covered by red bed sheets.
“Tell me about the victim,” Grace said to the detective in charge.
“Cameron Sanchez, age twenty. She’s a junior at the college,” Detective Dick Robb read from a file in his hands. “Five feet, two inches, brown hair, hazel eyes. She lived alone, been in the house for a year. No known boyfriend, no known enemies, no priors.” Snapping the file closed, the twenty-six year veteran looked around the living room, rubbing the back of his neck with a large hand.
CSI had processed the scene the night before; telltale signs of their investigation were visible throughout the small house. Grace wanted a second look-see. Cameron’s was the first where there was an indoor crime scene, the others taken out of doors which made her wonder whether this case actually was linked to the others. The MO was just too different.
“This look anything like your case?” Robb asked.
Grace shook her head. “We’ve never had a home invasion with any of our victims.” She glanced at the robust detective, thinking he couldn’t be any more stereotypical if he tried: short-cropped, graying hair; hard lines on his face; and a long trenchcoat over his poorly-fitted brown suit. “What was found?”
“Not a goddamn thing,” he said, blowing out a long breath. He had been briefed on the cases that Woodland and the other counties were dealing with. Burrow Key was a small town, and this apparent abduction had left its residents shaken. “No fingerprints, nothin’.” He sighed out his frustration.
Grace nodded acknowledgement, deciding to take a little tour, unescorted. In the girl’s bedroom, she noted the scattered clothing, as though Cameron had stripped before getting into bed, leaving the day’s clothing to be picked up the next morning. Only the next morning had not come. At least not in her bedroom. The bed was left in disarray, the blanket nearly on the floor, the sheet and under sheet rumpled. All evidence of that was gone now. CSI had bagged the bedding and taken it for lab work to see whether any DNA evidence could be found.
The windows were all locked from the inside, and none of them were broken. The front and back doors were intact. As there was no evidence of a break-in, it was thought that perhaps the offender knew Sanchez. As Grace studied the back, she knelt down, groaning as her knees popped – an old volleyball injury. She looked at her pained reflection in the silver doorknob. She touched the cool knob with a latex-covered finger, wishing she could see who had touched it, who had reached out and turned it in the middle of the night. It was assumed the offender used the back door, as he would likely have been seen on the very visible front porch.
As Grace peered at the knob, she blindly reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and grabbed her reading glasses. Sliding them on, she looked closely at the knob. She could just barely see a sort of...residue. Maybe powder. She ran her fingertip over it, catching a few granules on the tip of the glove. Bringing it close, she could see that they were miniscule metal shavings. Reaching inside her pocket again, she brought out a flip-up magnifying glass, removing the glasses as she placed the magnifier over the keyhole. Just barely visible at the mouth of the keyhole were tiny markings—scrape marks.
“Son of a bitch picked the lock,” she said, sitting back on her heels. Pushing up with another groan, Grace looked out at the yard, tucking her magnifying glass away. Detective Robb joined her. She pointed back toward the door. “Picked it. She didn’t let him in, nor did he have a key.”
They made their way around to the front yard. Grace could see that tire casts had been made in the driveway and was satisfied that the investigation had gone well. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, she looked everything over, making sure she had missed nothing, retracing every room in her mind, considering every tiny little detail that she recalled, though it might not have seemed important at the time. Nothing.
Turning toward her car, Grace noticed something at the very edge of the grass on Cameron Sanchez’s property. Squatting, she used a single finger to nudge it further into view—cigarette butt.
“That’s old, Grace. Prob’ly been there for a week or more.”
Though she knew his words were most likely true, Grace felt something clench in her gut and she decided to run the butt in anyway. “You have anything? Baggie or envelope?” she asked, gingerly taking the butt between thumb and index finger.
His expression indicating that he was disgruntled that the visiting cop wasn’t listening to him, Dick Robb walked stiffly over to his car and grabbed a plastic evidence Baggie from the console. He watched as she placed the butt inside, sealed the Baggie, and pulled a Sharpie out of the inside pocket of her jacket.
“How much you got in that pocket, anyway?”
Grace grinned. “I don’t carry a purse for a reason, Detective.” Grace stood, marked the Baggie with date, time, and victim’s name, and slipped the marker back into her pocket. “If it doesn’t fit in a pocket, I don’t need it.”
Dick Robb chuckled. “Good to live by, I s’pose.”
“Well, I think I’m all done here.” Grace looked at Robb, her eyes asking if he needed her for anything else.
He shook his head, rubbing his neck. “I’ll keep in touch,” he said, heading toward his car.
****
Both of Julie’s wrists were cuffed to the bed. She knew it was daytime, though the curtains and blinds had been drawn on the windows before he left for, she assumed, work. Though dim, it wasn’t dark like it was downstairs. That was a nice change. It was also a nice change to be lying down, though she’d been there for hours. He’d made her sit on the toilet for about thirty minutes while he got dressed, then he brought her into the bedroom and bound her. She’d had nothing to drink since their omelet feast the night before, which sucked, but at the same time, she was grateful because she didn’t have to pee. She felt like a child, though; he’d stuck an open diaper under her “just in case”.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
With nothing else to do, Julie took a more careful look around the largish bedroom. The bed was probably a queen—she didn’t seem to be far enough away from him during sleep for it to be a king. On the wall directly in front of the bed was a tall eight-drawer dresser. She had watched him go quite often into one of the drawers—always the top drawer, which, given her small stature, was fairly high. His back was always to her, so she wasn’t able to see what he was messing with, but seemingly it was not always for clothing.
Atop the cherry wood dresser were a few knickknacks, a couple of bottles of cologne, and a picture frame. The strange thing was that only half a picture was showcased in the five by seven frame; the other half was torn away. In the half that remained, her captor smiled in front of what looked to be a wooded backdrop.
Eyes scanning further, she noticed there were no pictures or decorations on the wall. The walls, painted a plain white, were very clean. She had already noted much the same thing about the bathroom—no decorations, everything in its place, everything neat and very clean. The closet door was closed, so she could see nothing inside. From her vantage point on the bed, she could just barely make out half of what looked to be an upside down cross hanging on the wall. Though not religious by any stretch of the imagination, Julie, who had been conditioned to go to Sunday school every week at the Lutheran church downtown, was chilled by such an obvious hatred of religious dogma. Who is this guy?
Every time Julie was brought up from the pit, she’d been drugged, only regaining consciousness once she was already positioned on the bed, so she had no idea what the rest of the house looked like. She turned her attention back to the windows, damning the man for pulling the blinds. She would have done almost anything to see some sunlight. She had no idea why she’d been left upstairs, something that hadn’t happened after her other couple of stints upstairs.
That morning before he left for work, he’d gotten up and taken a shower, then padded back into the bedroom naked as a jay bird. She had groaned inwardly when she saw his excitement. He had un-cuffed one of her hands and brought it to his erection, warning her that if she did anything he didn’t like, he would kill her. It had taken an agonizingly long time for the bastard to finish, Julie trying her best to not grimace at the stickiness on her hand. She was grateful for the wet towel he used to clean her up. She was also grateful that he left her alone, giving her body a chance to recover. She was still sore from the marathon the day before.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes to try and sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Though he had decided to skip classes on this particular day, Patrick Rossum was basically a good kid. An eighth grader, he had only ever ditched school twice before, and that was when he and his dad had gone fishing. He was walking along a very familiar trail in the woods in which he’d grown up, just outside of Woodland. He carried the walking stick his grandfather had whittled from a fallen branch, which he had used for years in his hiking and fishing expeditions. The thirteen-year old had been overjoyed when it was passed down to him after the death of his granddad.
He stopped to eat the sandwich his mom had prepared for him, though she expected him to be eating it in the cafeteria at Woodland Middle School. He took a large bite of the peanut butter and peach jelly, cut in half, just as he liked it. His friends made fun of him because his mom still made his lunch and he didn’t eat the lunch the school provided. He shrugged it off. He loved his mom’s PB&J. Even when he made them himself, they never tasted as good.
He hacked at a couple of clumps of wildflowers, and the tip of his stick struck something hard. Figuring it was a rock, he kept going, chewing contentedly as he enjoyed the crisp day. The frost from a couple of days earlier had melted, but from the looks of the sky and the smell of moisture in the air, Patrick guessed they were due for their first good storm. Halloween was a week away, and that was typically when they got hit hard for the first time.
Patrick’s thoughts about the weather died away as he caught sight of something just up ahead, partially sticking out from underneath the dirt. Curious, he tapped his way toward it, using the end of the stick to push away fallen debris.
The freckles on Patrick’s cheeks stood in stark relief against the pallor of his face, his blue eyes widening to the size of saucers. Suddenly he wished he were sitting in Mr. Alfredo’s English class. His half-eaten sandwich landed in a pile of smelly goop.
****
Roman walked the two blocks from where he had parked his car, to the coffeeshop where he was due to begin working in seven minutes. Hands shoved into his heavy winter jacket, he was startled as a small army of police cars whizzed by, not one of them with a siren blaring. The police station was just down the street at the corner, so he wasn’t surprised. He was, however, surprised by the sheer numbers: one...two...three, four, five...six. Next came a van marked Coroner.
