Connection, page 5
Grace had been by Lambert’s house twice already, and had tried to call the elusive man several times. As she neared his house, she had the feeling she would be disappointed yet again.
Pulling into the empty driveway, Grace cut the engine and surveyed the seemingly empty home, reviewing what she knew about Ray Lambert. He was thirty-five and had been married twice. The first marriage lasted for three years, producing a daughter when Ray was seventeen; the second marriage lasted for five years, no children. He had a record of domestic abuse, and assault on the boyfriend of his ex-wife, though Ray had never done time.
Grace made sure her revolver was tucked in its holster, and stepped out of the car. She kept a careful eye out for the unexpected, something she had learned the hard way. During her first year on the job, a man had jumped out at her from an alley and nearly killed her. Three stab wounds later, Grace found herself in a hospital room, begging her captain to give her another chance. She recovered far more quickly than her doctors and peers expected, and had won her way back into the fold with dedication and hard work.
With a little bounce in her step, Grace mounted the three stairs that led to the front door. Making sure her badge was visible, she pulled the screen door open and knocked on the wooden door behind it. After three consecutive knocks that went unanswered, Grace was about to leave when she heard the locks being disengaged. The front door opened and a teenage girl looked out through the screen door with questioning eyes.
“Hello. I’m Detective Grace Cowan with the Woodland Police Department.” She held up her badge for the girl, who peered out at it. “Is Ray Lambert at home?”
The girl shook her head. “My dad’s in Florida.”
“When did he leave for Florida?” Grace asked, keeping her voice casual.
The girl shrugged. “A week ago, maybe.”
“Do you know why he went?” Grace withdrew a small notepad from an inside pocket of her blazer and clicked her pen to the ready. The girl watched the movements before returning her gaze to the detective’s eyes. Grace wrote down the girl’s explanation —her father had gone on a short vacation, taking his new girlfriend with him, and she had been checking on the house a time or two for him before she went back to school to start her junior year.
Grace left the residence ten minutes later, wondering why the surveillance officers hadn’t spoken to the young woman before. The daughter had also provided an explanation as to why Ray’s cellphone was not being answered. Apparently his carrier didn’t have nation-wide service. Regardless, when Ray Lambert came back from his sudden “vacation”, they’d be waiting for him.
Chapter Seven
A dripping sound was the first thing she became aware of. Something dripping, and not too far away. There was a constant pain in her head, mostly toward the back and a little to the left, by her ear. She tried to get a feel for her body, where she was. She realized she was very cold, something chilling the entire back of her body where she pressed against it. Was she naked? The sting against her butt and upper shoulders made her think so.
Suddenly Julie’s chin was grasped in a vise-like grip, her head turned to the right, making her throbbing skull scream in protest. She started when puffs of hot breath, smelling of garlic, assailed her face, making the eyelashes of her left eye flutter.
“Beautiful,” a voice whispered, sending more hot air washing over Julie’s face. She tried to open her eyes, but stopped with another groan. The action made her head pound even more. “Shh, shh,” the voice cooed, soft fingertips brushing over Julie’s closed lids. “Get some rest.”
Julie fell back into the blackness, the cold disappearing and the pain fading into peace.
****
Remmy looked up the imposing narrow staircase from the second floor to the closed door at the top. She wondered what her new place and new life would look like. Mounting the stairs, she ignored the squeak of the old wood under her booted feet, one hand reaching out to slide along the wall to keep her balance. The octagon-shaped window at the top of the stairs shone distorted colors down on her, the colored glass etched and random.
Remmy slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. The space was adequate. It was certainly larger than her motel room. With heavily slanted beamed ceilings, Remmy would have to remember to duck in those places. The front wall was lined with small windows, another octagon-shaped window, three times larger than that at the top of the stairs, located in the middle. It sent red, green, and yellow colors shooting across the hardwood floor.
All the way to the right, against the wall, was a kitchen unit complete with a small fridge, two-burner stove, and a sink. Cabinets lined the walls above the sink and stove. Just beyond that was a curtained off area, which further exploration revealed as the bathroom: toilet, pedestal sink, and a stand-alone shower stall.
Remmy turned her back to the bathroom and scanned the rest of the sparsely furnished space. There was plenty of room for shelves on the walls, plenty of room for a bed area and a living area. It was nice, and the rent was a bargain.
“What do you think?” Joan asked, suddenly standing in the open door.
Remmy glanced over at her. “Three hundred, huh?”
Joan nodded. “That includes your heat, electricity, anything like that. If you want a phone, you’re on your own, but all other utilities are included. And,” she held up a finger, “Doug can wire cable up here, too, if you want it.”
Remmy smirked. “That would require me to actually own a TV.”
“How much stuff do you have?”
Remmy patted the pack on her back. “You’re looking at it.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, there’s a thrift shop downtown, and I’d be more than happy to take you down there, if you want. Help you get yourself set up.”
Remmy sighed, thumbs hitching in the front pockets of her jeans. “I really appreciate all this, Joan, but I don’t have the money to do any of that right now.” She looked around the space wistfully. “Wish I did.”
Joan’s footfalls echoed in the empty room. She slung an arm around Remmy’s shoulders. “We’ll figure something out, kid. You game?”
“You sure?” Remmy said. Joan grinned with a nod. “Okay. You’re on.”
Later that evening, Remmy sat on her new/used couch, feet propped up on a scarred, but incredibly cheap, coffee table, watching her new television. She squirted some more of the sticky aloe into her palm, gently rubbing it over her badly sunburned face. She hadn’t thought that repaying Joan and Doug for her new furniture setup would be so painful. In all fairness to them, Doug had warned her to put on some sunblock before she went out to mow the yard and pull weeds. She hadn’t listened.
The deal had been made—Remmy would help around the house and yard for three months in exchange for the thrift store purchases. Looking around her new digs with something like pride, she was glad she had agreed. A bed—full-sized—all her own, with matching dresser, courtesy of the local Goodwill. She also had a small, two-person table at which to eat her meals, and a full living room, complete with a four foot high bookshelf and wooden TV stand to go with her couch, coffee table, and nineteen inch TV. It was even in color! If only she had known that a visit to a thrift store could be so fruitful. Though it wasn’t like she’d ever stuck around anywhere long enough to buy anything, and she certainly couldn’t lug a couch down the next nameless highway.
Everything she had done today, the work and promises, would maybe allow her to find some peace and happiness for at least three months. She swore to herself that she would not renege on Doug and Joan, two of the most decent people she had met in a long time.
Slopping more aloe onto her fried shoulders and arms, Remmy absently used the remote to flick through the channels, looking for anything interesting. Doug had to go to work, so he hadn’t run the cable up to her room yet, leaving only the five local channels for entertainment. She passed by Wheel of Fortune, stopping just long enough to guess three wrong letters, then moved on to find the evening news. She was about to flip back to the game show when Julie Wilson’s image caught her attention.
“...be reached, though police say they’ll keep trying to contact Lambert,” the news anchor said, glancing briefly down at her notes. “If you have any information on the whereabouts of Lambert or Julie Wilson, please call police.”
The gaudy music began, indicating a commercial break. Remmy gazed at the screen, but was no longer seeing it. Chewing on her bottom lip, she came to a decision.
****
Inside the small room furnished with only a small, square table and two chairs, Remmy stood in front of the two-way mirror and was looking into the smoky mirror, hands cupped around her face, trying to look through to the other side. She heard someone clear his throat to get her attention.
Remmy whirled around and saw a man in a dark brown suit standing in the doorway to the small room. She grinned. “I uh, I always wondered what was on the other side of those,” she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder toward the two-way.
“Well,” the man entered the room and closed the door behind him, “I hope your curiosity has been laid to rest.” He slapped his pad of paper down on the table and sat, glancing up at Remmy, nodding toward the chair across from him. “My name is Brian Wong. I’m one of the detectives working the case.” He grabbed his pen, removing the cap as he poised the instrument above the pad. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Remmy Foster,” she said, getting settled across from the curt man.
“Alright, Remmy. I hear you wish to talk about the Julie Wilson case.” He looked into Remmy’s face, studying her with shrewd, dark eyes. “Do you know Julie Wilson?”
Remmy shook her head. “Nope. Met her once, though.”
“Oh? And when was that?”
“Not long before she disappeared. She gave me a ride.” Remmy watched as the man scribbled some notes on the yellow legal pad. Hands clasped primly in front of her, she sat still, waiting for him to stop. After a moment, dark eyes met hers again, silently prompting. “I haven’t seen her since.”
Brian Wong sat back with a sigh. “So, what have you got for me that was so important for you to take time out of your day, and mine, to tell me? Cuz, I gotta tell you,” he tapped his pad with a finger, “this ain’t it.”
“You guys are going after the ex-boyfriend, right?” Remmy asked.
“We’d like to question him, yes.”
“Don’t bother.”
Remmy had stated this so matter-of-factly that it obviously got Brian’s attention. “And why is that?”
“Because he didn’t do it,” Remmy said simply, as though that would suffice as an explanation.
“He didn’t do it,” the detective repeated slowly, eyeing her. He took in her ill-fitting t-shirt, disheveled hair, and the torn jeans his gaze had flicked to before she sat down. “Look, Miss Foster, unless you can give me something to actually sink my teeth into, you’re wasting both our time here.”
“No, you have to listen to me,” Remmy said, leaning forward, one elbow resting on the table. “I’m telling you—it isn’t this Ray Lambert guy.”
Brian’s dark brows drew. “You said you don’t know Julie Wilson.”
“Correct.”
“Do you know Ray Lambert?”
“Negative, Houston.”
The detective’s gaze was so intense, so intrusive, Remmy began to feel uncomfortable. She noted that his focus seemed to stop on her hair, the wheels seeming to turn in his head before finally, he spoke.
“So, you don’t know Julie Wilson, you don’t know Ray Lambert, yet you’re telling me that Ray Lambert isn’t responsible for Wilson’s disappearance.”
Remmy nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Okay,” he said, setting his pen down and interlocking his fingers on the pad. “Look, Miss Foster—”
“Remmy.”
“Whatever.” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “I’ll call you Mother Theresa if you want, as long as you can give me something, anything, remotely concrete or useful.”
“And I’ll call you Columbo if you want, if you’ll pick up your pen and write down what I’m telling you,” Remmy said, her own hackles rising. Her gaze was steady as it held the detective’s for a long moment in a battle of wills.
With a heavy sigh, Brian Wong finally broke the eye contact and did as she asked. “Alright. And what makes you believe that Ray Lambert isn’t involved?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Brian let out an angry sigh. He threw the pen down and rose to his full height, fists resting on either side of his legal pad. “Listen, Remmy, this is a woman’s life we’re talking about here, okay? This isn’t some goddamn game I’m playing.”
“I know it’s crazy, but I’m telling you, Detective Wong, you’re going in the wrong direction. See, I get these visions—”
“Visions!”
“Yes. Visions. She’s in a place right now that’s cold, and she’s scared and confused. She doesn’t know where she is—” Remmy was on a roll, all her visions and the one dream she’d had rushing out of her in a torrent of words. She stopped herself, however, when she saw the look on Brian Wong’s face. Jesus, this guy’s a hard sell!
“I don’t understand ‘visions’,” he said.
Remmy grimaced. “Hell, buddy, I wish I understood ’em!”
“So, what, you see yourself as some kind of psychic? Some sort of Sylvia Browne?” The detective smirked, but Remmy didn’t crack a smile.
“I don’t know who that is, and no, I don’t.”
“You don’t see yourself as psychic?” Brian asked, voice dripping with doubt. At the shake of Remmy’s head, he probed further. “So, what is it like? You have some sort of TV show playing in your head or something? Is that what these visions are?”
“Well, typically it’s more like re-runs, like I pick up on older stuff. I don’t know, it’s almost like when someone is carrying around some pretty serious emotions—guilt, sadness, fear, whatever—from something that’s already happened, I pick up on it, and sometimes it’ll form an image in my head. But with this,” she shrugged, “it’s like live TV. I’m seeing things as they happen, feeling them.”
Brian tapped the end of his pen on the table. The doubt and condescension dripped from his gaze. “Well,” he said, slapping his pen down, “thanks for coming in. I’ll look into this cold, dark, foreign place. See what we can come up with.” Brian pushed back from the table.
Am I being dismissed? Remmy’s eyebrows drew together. “Alrighty, then.” She stood and exited out of the door the detective was holding open for her.
“If you think of anything else, give us a call,” Brian Wong said before turning toward his office.
Chapter Eight
Weeping. It was quiet, muffled, but weeping all the same. Julie blinked her eyes several times, opening them wide for a moment to try to get rid of a sticky residue that was acting like glue. The flaky “rocks” that seemed to be sifting into the corners of her eyes led her to suspect the gluey substance might be dried tears. This was the most awake she’d been in what felt like months, though she knew it must have been a smattering of days or weeks.
After a few moments of clarity, Julie took inventory of her situation: cold metal was wrapped around her wrists, which were held above her head, hands dangling over the shackles. She was standing, though her feet were separated by a foot of heavy chain, which clinked every time she moved. Her feet were bare, as was the rest of her. Something cool, yet not solid was beneath her feet. Dirt?
Julie couldn’t see much. It was very dark, but as her eyes slowly began to adjust, she could see the tiniest blue hue of light off to her left. From the small amount of light, she could tell that there was a tiny crack in the wall near the floor.
Hearing the whimpering again, Julie tried to peer through the darkness to her right. She could only see a dark shape against a velvety black backdrop.
“Shh, Roxie, it’s okay,” someone whispered from directly in front of Julie, whose eyes were now widened as far as they could go to try to pierce the dark.
“I can’t die here,” another woman’s voice said from the right. “I just can’t.”
Julie assumed it was the whimpering Roxie. She tried to open her lips, but winced as they cracked from dryness and lack of use. She licked her tongue over them again and again before croaking out, “Where am I?” The sudden silence made Julie even more uncomfortable. It was broken when the woman in front of her spoke.
“You survived.” It was a statement, not a question. “You’re in hell.” That got the whimpering started again. “Roxie, knock it off.”
Julie didn’t know anything about her two companions, but she couldn’t help but think the more talkative woman was being amazingly insensitive. “Is she hurt?” she asked after listening to the quiet whimpers for some time.
“Nah,” the still-nameless woman said with a sigh.
Julie chewed on her bottom lip, a habit when she was nervous. She grimaced when a piece of lip skin scraped off under her top teeth. Delicately spitting it out, she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on her surroundings. There was a dripping sound from somewhere nearby, a dripping she thought she remembered hearing before. And creaking, as though a house or building was settling in for the night. After a few moments, Julie realized she was hungry, and incredibly thirsty.
“Is there…” She cleared her throat as her voice cracked. She tried again. “Is there any water?”
“When he brings food, but he already did today,” the woman across from her said. “You were out, I guess.”
Julie allowed her mind to flip over this new information, trying to sort it all out, but her weakened, dehydrated state wasn’t making that easy. Her head also still ached, though it was fairly dull at the back of her skull now. Silence fell again, except for Roxie’s soft crying. Finally, Julie spoke again. “Where are we? Who is ‘he’?”
