Ch 2     Ch 3     Ch 4     Ch 5     Ch 6    

Chapter 1 – Early October, 2004

 

The massive chandelier billowed at her in incandescent gusts and she staggered at the top of the broad staircase.  She clutched the banister and closed her eyes against the glare.  Too bright—too bright.  Someone brushed her arm and said, “Are you all right?” the voice burbled in her ears as though under water.  She lashed out with her free arm.  “Lemme alone.”  Her tongue felt thick and the stairs below her rippled like a shallow waterfall.  She couldn’t make out the steps.  “Water, water everywhere,” she giggled.  She gripped the banister with both hands and skidded down the steps, her Cole Haan heeled sandals as capricious as roller-blades, to the marble floor of the lobby.  The penthouse bacchanal was already a vague memory of semi-nude bodies swaying to loud music amid tabletops of designer drugs.  She’d snorted and swallowed more than her share and maybe less than she wanted.  

The revolving doors looked to be just a few steps away.  She took aim and stepped toward them.  They seemed to recede from her.  “Damn you,” she whispered.  A terrible shock of pain traversed her lower back and she swayed.  Her knees buckled, forcing her to lean over and grab them.  A roll of dizziness swept through her and she was doubled over like that for a moment, then shook her head wishing the floor would stop.  She straightened, approached the revolving doors, tried to focus on them, but couldn’t see the opening.  The glass panels shimmered with the hot light of the chandelier overhead mixed with reds and yellows from the dark street just outside.  She reached out and fell forward into space, her dress tearing on something.  Her head smacked on the glass and she slumped to the floor clutching her bag.  Trying to rise and giving up, she crawled forward and pushed the revolving door with a shoulder until she felt the whoosh of cool night air.  Rather than clear her head, the air struck like sharp knives that cut into her exposed shoulders, arms, and legs.  She cringed and pulled herself up by the door’s leading edge.  She took a few breaths and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Before her, the pricey rides of the party’s Yupper-class crowd glistened with swirling shafts of light that hurt her eyes.  The parked cars floated above the street, moving, shimmering.  The gentle slope of the sidewalk suddenly became a frightening precipice.  It’s not supposed to do that.  She swayed, tried for balance, failed, and crashed into the gutter between an Audi convertible and a Mercedes coupe.  Her left cheek ground into the asphalt.  A warm trickle slipped from her forehead along the bridge of her nose to her lips.  Blood—she could taste it.  A sedan passed close to her head dusting her with grit.  Nothing hurt, but she couldn’t move.  Not a muscle.  “Fuck you,” she said to the exhaust pipe inches from her face.  The sound of young voices came to her in colorful waves.  The images wavered over her and she felt her Seiko watch and her diamond pendant necklace snatched away.  Strong arms rolled her over and dragged her into the street.  The voices shimmered into the darkness laughing.  Helpless, she watched the gleaming eyes of the dragon bearing down on her.

     

Becca woke with a start, her bedroom still dark.  Her headboard digital glowed 5:21 AM.  She rolled her head on her shoulders to shake off the dream—no, not a dream, she knew, a memory.  An ugly memory, real as pain. 

She swung her feet over the edge of her bed and looked down, careful where she put her feet.  Zoey sometimes slept beside the bed instead of under it.  Her hand pulled the cord of one bulb under the Tiffany shade and the room filled with warm muted colors.  She reached over to the side table to a small pile of clothing and pulled on loose-fitting drawstring pants, elbowed into her sports bra and a Grateful Dead tank-top, and jammed her feet into K-Swiss running shoes.  Zoey didn’t make a sound or a move from under the bed. 

Becca knew from experience that the only way she could shed the damned dream memory was a hard run.  She walked through the dark cottage and out the front door.  A broad stroke of yellow gold from the eastern horizon painted treetops to her right as she set off at an even pace across her front yard to the narrow street and down the hill.  She didn’t stop to stretch, it wasn’t as important as just running.  All she wanted right now was to get rid of those images.  I’ll start slow and pick it up on the return run.

A half-hour later she ran, heels slamming the pavement, heart slamming in time, the tops of her thighs burning in fierce protest.  Her breath came in shorter and harder gasps, her knees weakening more with each pounding step.  She could almost hear the slapping of pursuing feet behind her. 

Just a little farther...just a little...farther.  Oh God. 

She saw the cottage through the mist up ahead, just over that little rise.  She forced a last concerted burst, made it to the lawn, wobbled to a stop, and leaned over, hands on her knees.  She sucked air in short breaths, ignoring a wave of nausea.  A high-pitched scream came from behind the front door at the porch.  She reached into the Velcro key pouch on the hip of her pants. 

“Damn,” she exclaimed to no one in particular.  “I did it again.”  

She walked to the garage and opened the dilapidated barn-style doors, reached up to a nail overhead just inside, unhooked the spare key.  The old garage stood thirty yards from the house.  That was a real pain in the ass during the rainy season.  Probably a tool shed or maybe it housed a tractor in another life.  One of these days I have to raze it and build one closer to the kitchen door.  She returned to the front door, and opened it just a crack.  A small black nose poked out.  The phone rang inside and she threw one leg into the opening and stepped in to be attacked by a medium-sized, white Tasmanian devil twisting and yowling in frantic glee.  A cloud of white hair seemed to explode from its body.  

“Okay, Zoey, okay.  I know it’s time for breakfast.  Just let me get the phone.” 

Who the hell would call her at six-thirty in the morning?  Zoey, her Shiba Inu, whirled in circles at her feet as she hurried to reach the handset in her study.  She stumbled, trying to avoid stepping on the damn dog.  Zoey was a solace to her solitary existence but high maintenance.  A gift from her brother.  She wasn’t used to Zoey yet.  She caught her balance and punched the business line button on her two-line phone, wheezing out her name, “Becca Fleque.” 

A breathless voice, female, young, urgent: “You answered.”  The two words were shrill with evident surprise.  “God, can you help me?  I’m like in big trouble.  There’s this guy and he’s calling me and—” 

Oh boy, bad start.  “Slow down.  What’s your name?”

“Name?  Oh, sure.  Chastity—no—I mean, Sherry.  Sherry Henderson.  That’s not my stage name, it’s my real name.  They call me Chastity.” 

“Chastity,” Becca said in a reflective monotone, giving no inflection to the word. 

“Yeah—my stage name at the Kenya Club.”  A pause, followed by a meek, “Is that a problem?”

Becca winced.  The Kenya Club was a lowbrow strip club northeast of Seattle.  

“That’s not a problem in itself, but I don’t know if I can help you,” she sighed. 

“Why not?  You’re like some kind of a cop, aren’t you?  The bouncer at the club said you like helped his sister or somebody and you’re like some kind of cop.” 

“No kind at all.  And you caught me at a bad moment.  Look, are you in danger right this minute?”

“Yes, I mean, no...I mean, damn it, the creep just called again.”  Sherry’s voice was getting shrill again. 

From the voice’s syntax and articulation, she knew she was speaking with a very young woman, probably a teenager.  “Okay, somebody called you, right?  You’re not in any danger right this second?”

“Well, I—maybe not right this second.  Are you gonna blow me off, too?”

“Listen, Sherry, I need to call you back.  Can I do that?”

Panic in the voice.  “When?  When will you call back?”

“In a half hour.  That all right?”

“You’re not shitting me?”

Becca sighed.  “No, I’ll call.” 

“Okay.”  The voice receded from the handset. 

Becca yelped, “Wait.  Sherry?”

“What?”

“What number?”  The caller ID showed the unsatisfying revelation, unknown name. 

“Oh...yeah.”

 

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Chapter 2

 

Becca Fleque got the number from the teenager and pushed the disconnect button.  She stood holding the handset in the study, office now, of her six-room bungalow on Mercer Island.  Even in the cool Seattle morning air coming off Lake Washington, her sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt were soaked from the six-mile run.  She was still a little out of breath from the last mile sprint uphill to her door.  She needed to relax, take a shower, and check her email.  She kept her mornings free to work and think.  Ten-o’clock was the earliest she answered or used her phone.  But the bimbo, sorry, she apologized to the caller, sounded pretty freaked out.  The least she could do was call her back and tell her she couldn’t help. 

The phone in her hand started wailing.  Rude.  She hung it up without answering, kicked off her K-Swiss running shoes and stepped out of her sweats, leaving them scattered on the floor.  In her thong and sports bra, she stepped into the small bathroom.  There was still the faint odor of the fresh paint she’d applied over the weekend.  She admired her work.  The pale pink was a nice warm color compared to the institutional lime green she’d covered. 

A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her dishevelment.  Her hair was stuck to her face and shoulders with the sweat of her run.  Her smooth café latte skin glistened with it.  With a critical grimace, she stepped into the new shower and tub enclosure.  She’d run an extra two miles today to get rid of the guilt and shame of the dream—memory—whatever. 

As the water struck her, endorphins wore off and the tension returned.  She looked down at her breasts, her tight stomach, her long legs as the hot water from the black-market high-pressure showerhead flowed off her forehead and roiled down her body.  I could do that.  She blinked as the tantalizing thought of working in a topless bar danced through her consciousness.  God, I really need to get out more.  The hot beads of water struck with the stealth of gentle fingertips.  She slid down into the tub and stretched out.  The bar of Oil of Olay was at hand and she ran the soap up and down her down her stomach, her breasts, the tops of her thighs.  “Oh God,” she murmured with a helpless yearning.  She closed her eyes.  The soap dropped with a thud and she reached forward to lay her hands on her knees.  Then, relaxing, she drew just the tips of her fingernails along the insides of her thighs to her bellybutton.  The sensation brought goosebumps to her flesh in spite of the hot water.  She toyed for a moment there and let the fingertips of one hand drift leisurely up to a nipple and the other to her pubis.  Her knees fell apart as her index finger found what she’d always called her button, at first lightly, in a fleeting tapping motion, then moving slowly around it.  She shivered under the pelting water, desperately craving the release that was to come.

Zoey nodded off on the bathroom rug next to the shower.  Her head popped up at the first of several small gasps, then again at the sound of soft sobs. 

Twenty minutes later, dripping hair streaking the back of her camisole, Becca sat in front of her monitor.  The emails were typical; two from her brother, her Northwestern Pacific electricity bill, some unwanted porno and unsolicited spam, and several from two law offices for which she did investigatory work.  They all could wait.  She would clear the girl’s call first.  She had sounded scared.  But what young girl dancing in a topless bar didn’t get chased around by weirdoes?  She thought some sensible advice would be helpful.  Maybe give her a number of a cop she knew that might take a moment to check her out. 

From memory, she dialed the number.  She had a damn near infallible visual and aural memory.  It made her useful these days, now that she was working again.  Attorneys liked her descriptions of crime scenes, documents, numbers, all sorts of trivia.  At least I didn’t destroy that.  Her brother thought of her as Anne in Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, a woman who served as a Fair Witness.  Among other things, Basil Fleque was a sci-fi nut.  He once explained to her that in the story, Anne’s word in a courtroom was considered hard evidence.  Becca hadn’t read the book. 

The phone line continued to ring.  Nobody home? 

Although there was no call in reality for such services, she had a reputation in court as a good witness.  When she described a scene, she stated exactly what she saw.  If her descriptive detail of a building’s façade was excruciating, it stopped there.  She didn’t elaborate on who or what might be behind the façade, she hadn’t witnessed that. 

She hung up.  Wrong number? 

She nibbled on a leftover fast-food taco and punched in the number again.  Zoey lolled at her feet hoping for at least a bite or two.  In the months she’d had Zoey, she still wasn’t used to the dog’s bottomless stomach.  You’d think she was dying of starvation.  She dialed again. 

The phone rang several more times.  She was about to hang up when a voice answered.  “Yeah?”  The voice sounded like steel plate dragged over gravel.  

“I’m returning Sherry’s call.  May I speak to her?”

The voice coughed with a clearing of the throat.  “You the cop?”

“I’m not a cop.  I spoke with her a half-hour ago and told her I would call back.  Is she there?”

“Maybe.  You gonna help her?”

“Maybe.  You gonna find her?”  Becca mimicked the syntax with exasperation. 

“But you ain’t a cop,” the voice projected perplexed impatience. 

“Nope.”

A pause, then, “Just a second.” 

The phone went quiet for a good two or three minutes.  She was becoming annoyed at herself for wasting her time.  But she liked to keep her promises.  She waited, considering hanging up and trying again later.  

The harsh voice came back.  “She ain’t here, goddamn it.  Stuff ain’t here either.  Looks like the little bitch split.  She owes me a month rent.” 

 “Who are you?” Becca asked.  “Has she been getting threatening calls?  Could she move all her things in a half-hour?”

“Whoa, lighten up.  I’m Monica.  I tend bar at the club.  She needed a place to crash, I gave her one.  She could move in a heartbeat.  Alls she had was a satchel.  She had a family pic with her that she taped on the wall.  It’s gone, too.  That’s how I think she split.” 

My god, it’s a woman.  Or a transvestite.  Oh, well.  “What about the calls?  They came to your number.” 

“Yeah, and we don’t give this number to nobody and it ain’t listed.  There was some hard guy on her case.  Kept asking about her brother.  Weird shit.” 

“Oh?  Why do you say that?”

“Because this freak called at the same time every morning for the last week.  Right after we got home.  Just like he knew.  Asked her the same question—where was he, the brother, and did she have anything of his.  When Chastity—Sherry, I mean—kept telling him she didn’t have a clue where her brother was, he threatened her.  Said he was gonna cut her bad.  Told her exactly how.  She got pretty freaked out” 

“How do you know what he said?  Did she tell you?”

“I was on the extension the last couple of times the fucker called.  He was weird.  Sounded serious.  Spoke real clear.  Not like some trick or crackhead.” 

“Can you remember what he said?”

“’Course I can remember, I ain’t senile.  Guy told her every day she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he was going to cut another part off her.  Starting with her nipples, then her lips, ears, shit like that.” 

“Did she report this to the cops?”

“Yeah, they were here.  But they didn’t do shit.  They just kept looking at us with them hungry eyes guys get.  Like they want head or something.  Cops think it’s a crank caller, no crime, no case.  They didn’t do shit.” 

“Okay, uh, Monica, thanks.  What’s the number at the club?  Oh, and where are you?”

“Redmond.” 

“Redmond?” Becca said, her voice giving away mild surprise.  Redmond was one of Seattle’s more snotty, upper-class suburban townships on the east side of Lake Washington, home of the Microsoft campus. 

“Yeah, so what?  Don’t expect me and her to be living in Redmond?  Here’s the club number.  Maybe you can get her there.” 

Click.

“And maybe not,” Becca said to the dead phone in her hand.  Annoying, but Sherry Henderson’s fright seemed genuine.  If what Monica said had a shred of truth to it, Sherry might be in serious trouble.  On the other hand, hard to help if you can’t get in touch.  Despite what Monica said about the cops, most of them had pretty good bullshit detectors.  If they thought it wasn't worth pursuing, maybe it wasn’t. 

Becca gave Zoey the last bite of the cold taco and went back to the bathroom to dry her hair and apply a little light makeup.  Zoey scurried along behind just in case there was another bite left.  She had no appointments scheduled for the day and didn’t need to power dress but she liked to be at least presentable. 

With the dog lying at her feet, she surveyed herself in the mirror.  The image was acceptable.  Her hair, which she thought of as her best feature, fell in tawny, dark umber waves just past her shoulders.  Her natural skin tone was a color that women spent good money in tanning beds to achieve, a genetic gift of her Russian father and Aruban mother.  She’d never liked her face that much although others considered her striking, even stunning, whatever that meant.  She thought the lines were too sharp, not soft and feminine, but harsh and contrasting.  Her green eyes were okay, but rather than giving her elegance, their almond shape made her look feral.  At least she thought so.  Her lithe body was strong and firm.  But it had been too long without . . . what . . . someone who cared, damn it.  

A deep breath and mental shake later she muttered, “Not too shabby for thirty, hmm, Zoey?  Too bad no one but you has seen me like this for a year.” 

She exhaled a soft sigh laced with sexual frustration and slipped into black jeans and tucked in a beige silk Laura Ashley long-sleeved blouse.  She didn’t wear a bra around the house and didn’t need one.  Not yet, anyway.  Her good-sized breasts hadn’t begun to sag at all.  Consistent exercising helped that.  Some of her women acquaintances had asked her who her surgeon was. 

She sat barefoot at her computer to answer her emails and get to work.  Zoey slumped down next to her, watching.  Maybe there was a bite of something at the computer.  The phone rang.  She glanced at the caller ID and not recognizing the number, left it for the answerphone.  Her curt message said: “I’m in the office but not at my desk.  Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Oh my God,” a voice shrieked.  “Are you there?  You were gonna call me back.  Are you there?  Please be there.” 

Becca grabbed the phone.  “Sherry?  I’m here.  What happened?  Are you home?”

“No, no, I’m not at Mo...home.  I left.  I’m running.  I’m at a pay phone.  I don’t know what to do.  What?”

“I didn’t say anything, Sherry.  Where are you?”

“God, you gotta help me.  I don’t know what to do and I’m really scared.” 

“Tell me where you are.” 

“I’m at a phone in front of Bartell’s Drugstore.  I don’t know—it’s, Jesus, it’s at the intersection of—God, I can’t think.  He could be anyone.  I don’t know who he is.  God, what am I gonna do?”

Sherry Henderson gasped and sobbed at the same time.  She was either in real trouble or certifiable.  Considering what Monica had said, it might be the former.  Becca said, “Get a grip, Sherry.  You can’t do anything unless you get hold of yourself.  The drugstore; is it in Redmond?”

“Yes, yes, in Redmond.  It’s—it’s at Redmond Way and . . . and 170th Street.” 

“Then you’re about nine miles from me.  I can be there in less than fifteen minutes.  Can you wait for me there?”

“Do you know where it is?  You won’t get lost or anything?  I can’t just stand around.”  Sherry’s voice increased in pitch again.  “He could be anyone.  He might be walking up to me right now.” 

“Sherry, calm down.  What the hell happened?”  Sherry’s panic was contagious and she felt it, too.  “Never mind.  Don’t talk now.  I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes.  Go inside the drug store and stand near the cash register.  Pick up a magazine or something, but stay put.” 

Becca grabbed some sensible shoes and threw on a heavy knit sweater over her tank top.  She started for the door and Zoey ran to it striking an anxious pose.  “Oh, damn, you have to go out, don’t you.”  She yanked the leash from a kitchen cabinet handle and attached it to Zoey’s collar.  Couldn’t trust the dog without a leash.  Shiba Inus ran without provocation and refused to come when called.  Like a lot of men I know. 

Running with her to the chain-link enclosure she’d installed just for the dog, Becca put Zoey inside, unclipped the leash, and closed the gate.  Damned enclosure is as big as my house.  She ran for the standalone garage and jerked to a stop and ran back into the house for her car keys and ran back to the garage and leapt into her vintage ALFA Romeo Giulietta Sprint Coupe.  It was her pride and joy and a graduation present from her brother. 

The twin-overhead-cam engine purred as she threw it into first gear and sped down the curving road past pricey homes snuggled in Mercer Island’s rills and arroyos to the bottom of the island.  She headed east on the 90 past the little marinas to pick up the 405 north past Bellevue and the 520 over and up to Redmond.  She made good time in the early freeway traffic and shot into Redmond.  She had a moment of consternation when she arrowed down Redmond Way through the center of town until she spotted Bartell’s Drugstore on the right in a small shopping center with a Larry’s Market and a Cost Plus.  She parked in an open space away from the few cars clustered near the entrance.  Becca was sensitive about where she parked her car.  It was just seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning.  A lot of trouble to go through that early.  She wondered if the trip was worth it. 

Entering the twenty-four hour drugstore, Becca looked around.  There were a couple of soccer moms ranging in the aisles.  The young woman at the register looked at her with bright eyes, “Can I help you with something?”

Becca said, “I’m supposed to meet a young woman here.  I don’t know what she looks like but her name is Sherry Henderson.” 

The attendant’s expression turned sullen.  “You mean the freak?  She’s nuts.  She’s talking to herself and crying.  She said you told her to wait.  I hope you’re getting her out of here.” 

Becca scanned the aisles again.  “Where is she?  Is she here?”

“I think she’s in the back by the prescription counter.  Walk on back there, you’ll hear her before you see her.” 

She passed through the aisles toward the large sign that read Prescriptions.  True to the attendant’s word, Becca heard a plaintive voice blubbering in fits and starts.  She reached the counter but still couldn’t see where the voice was coming from.  She turned her back to the counter and looked right and left past the aisles.  Nothing in sight.  She followed her ears to the far right and walked toward the sound until she spotted a young woman huddled in a far corner between racks for toothpaste and laxatives. 

She was a mess.  Blondish hair knotted and snarled, makeup running in teary channels, flecks on her cheeks, the residue of too much mascara.  Pale and shaking, too.  Her dress code was what Net-Xers called Goth; black boatneck midriff top exposing a bellybutton ring, black jeans, long black leather vest that pooled at her hips, and black high-top Reeboks with the tongues hanging out.  The glint of metal and faux jewel piercings in too many places made Becca cringe.  The girl stared wide-eyed and unseeing as she approached. 

“Sherry Henderson?” Becca said in a gentler tone than she felt. 

Something snapped in the girl’s eerie silver gray eyes.  “Get away from me,” she screamed and leapt up holding her satchel in front of her like a shield.  “Get away.” 

Becca put her hands up palms forward in a submissive gesture.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pharmacist’s assistant lean over the counter to see what the yelling was about.  Maybe the register attendant had it right.  Was she just nuts or drugged up?  She gave it another try.  “Sherry, I’m Becca Fleque.  You called me.  I told you to stay here and wait for me.” 

For a tense moment, Becca saw sheer hysteria in the girl’s face.  Then, the face caved into a caricature of how Sherry Henderson might look at fifty, shoulders slumped in despair.  “Jesus,” the girl said, “I got a serial killer who wants to cut me to pieces and I get a fucking model?”

“At least you still have your sense of humor,” Becca said. 

Sherry stiffened, her chin jutting up.  “What?  You think I’m kidding?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Sherry.  And I sure as hell don’t know what you need.  Can you pull yourself together long enough to walk outside with me and get in my car?  Maybe I can help.” 

 

 

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Chapter 3 – June 24

 

The young man in his early thirties was afraid to meet the eyes of his interrogator.  He concentrated on wringing his hands in his lap.  He’d seen this man once before in the four days he’d been detained.  He didn’t like what he saw, and that image haunted him.  The man was tall and thin—maybe six feet but couldn’t have weighed more than one-fifty.  Gaunt.  Thin almost to the point of cadaverous.  Middle-aged.  It was hard to tell more than that.  His carriage denoted...what...power?  No, maybe more like terrible purpose, the kind of purpose that nothing would affect.  Uncompromising...yeah, that was more like it. 

The man sat before him dressed in a brown three-button suit that fit well.  Crisp olive shirt and a dark brown tie with gold highlights in a perfect Windsor knot.  The young man wasn’t a follower of fashion—he had no knowledge of designer clothes, but this man didn’t have a wrinkle or crease out of place.  The suit had to be custom-tailored.  His light brown hair was longish, too long for a typical businessman, and he combed his fingers through it with theatrical aplomb to sweep it back in casual waves off his forehead. 

The most striking thing about the man was his facial features—long face, high forehead and cheekbones, thin lips beneath a nose that was a little off-center, as though it had been broken and not reset.  A small gold earring like a thumbtack, the man’s sole item of jewelry, glinted from his left ear. 

The worst was his eyes.  Liquid brown—not solid, but a dark hazel—glittering.  The sort of eyes one associated with kindness and warmth.  The young man’s mother had had brown eyes that glittered with merriment and affection.  His father had called them puppy-dog eyes.  This man’s eyes weren’t like that; they were limpid orbs of domination.  He seemed to be calculating, detached, capable of weighing population kill-ratios on a global scale. 

The young man had no strength remaining to say anything.  He’d said it all already—his frightened complaints, his empty threats, his pleas for release, his screams of fear.  He didn’t understand.  The eyes watched him with unyielding attention. 

Detained.  Nice word.  A rude jape of the deep grinding fear that he would die here and no one would ever know.  He’d not been allowed to move beyond the walls of this hellish room.  It might have been comfortable if he overlooked the torture of his helpless confinement, his mind and body under total and absolute control.  For what? 

He’d left his cubicle at Dedrenn & Blauser a little late, just like he had a lot of other times, and gone to meet a friend, another programmer, at a local watering hole.  A quick Corona or two before going home to his and Molly’s apartment.  A man and woman approached him at the bar as he was paying up.  They followed him out of the bar and stopped him on the sidewalk and said they wanted to chat.  The woman took his hand...and he woke up...where?  Detained.  Molly would be frantic.  He always came home.  What had she done about it?  Did she call the police?  Did she report him missing? 

“William,” said the authoritative voice—deep, like an echo.  

William snapped from his reverie and risked one quick glance at the penetrating eyes of his interrogator.  “What?” he said, startled by the interruption from a hope of rescue. 

The man sat in the room’s only chair, a folding model, but ornate.  Those goddamned eyes wouldn’t let go.  “We seem to have reached an impasse.” 

“Wha...what does that mean?” 

“Hmm, yes,” the enigmatic man said with a subtle taint of sympathy in his tone. 

William felt bile rising in his throat. “I...I mean, you said you needed information that only I could give you.  You said it was in the national interest.  National interest?  Did you get what you want?”

The man leaned back in the chair, crossed his knees, adjusted the crease in his pant leg, and watched him through lidded eyes.  “No, William, we did not.” 

William shuddered in an uncontrolled wave of helplessness.  “But I’ve told you everything I can.  Even more than I knew I knew.  Jesus, that stuff you used on me doesn’t even exist.  Not yet, anyway.  I know enough about biotelemetry to know that you were getting information from me in ways that are way beyond anything in use today.  You’ve had me wired with stuff that I’ve never even dreamed of and I’m doing some of the most advanced programming on the planet.” 

And now, here he was, sitting on the bed with his captor perched in the folding chair before him.  He tensed, the fear circling below the surface like a shark.  He thought of...who?  Molly.  Yes.  There was a nagging fear he might not see Molly.  Why was that?  Surely he would see Molly again.  But...when? 

The man pinched his nose between his thumb and two fingers and squinted at him.  “You’re the object of considerable discussion, Mr. Caldwell. Our results have been less than expected and are, therefore, incomplete.  We require more from your continued practice.” 

The young man waited, afraid to move, afraid to hope.  A tremor of dread fled through him before being absorbed by a large sponge of complacency.  The drugs.  From the depths of his being welled a timid thought which he expressed: “Are...can I...you’re letting me go?”

Harsh eyes and the glittering earring answered, “In a manner of speaking.”

 

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Chapter 4 – June 24: 7:45am

 

Becca watched Sherry Henderson sway on her feet, fingers shaking as she adjusted the strap of her satchel over her shoulder.  She waited for the girl to collect herself, then reaching out to touch her elbow, nudged her into action.  They walked past aisles of candy and Independence Day decorations to the front door.  She moved ahead to open the door and scan the parking lot.  She was beginning to believe the girl’s story. 

The register attendant looked at them with a grim expression as Becca stepped outside holding the door open.  Sherry stopped just inside and pulled her satchel in front of her body.  The girl looked over Becca’s shoulders, then left and right. 

The attendant said, “You have to leave, miss.  You’re upsetting the customers.” 

Becca’s green eyes flashed at the attendant with feral intensity.  The attendant recoiled and shrugged. 

But her voice was soft.  “Come on, Sherry.  It’ll be all right.” 

As though being asked to walk through fire, the girl minced through the door.  Becca took Sherry’s elbow again and led her across the parking lot to the car and put her in the passenger seat.  She walked around the hood scanning the lot.  Settling herself in the driver’s seat, she closed her door and sat for a minute, hands at rest on the steering wheel.  What am I getting into?  

Looking straight ahead, Sherry said, “Can we leave?  Can we just get out of here?”

Becca started the engine.  “Do you have any place in mind?”

“No,” was the nervous reply. 

“We’ll figure something out.  I suppose Monica’s is out?”

Sherry lurched and squealed, “How do you know about Monica?”

“I called, Sherry.  I called you back as promised.  You’d already left.  I asked Monica what happened.  She gave me the short story.  It’s the main reason I’m here.” 

“I can’t go back there, Sherry whined.  “He knows I’m there.” 

“Right.” 

Not caring if Sherry caught the resignation in her tone, Becca eased out of the parking lot and went west out of Redmond trying to calculate her workload and how much time she could devote to the girl.  She kept thinking of Sherry Henderson as a girl, not quite yet an adult woman.  Too young and, moreover, too unsophisticated.  She thought Sherry might be of high school age.  Another runaway from the fields of waving grain.  She knew Sherry’s story would be depressing.  With an inner sigh, Becca picked up the 520.  At least her passenger’s breathing rate had returned to normal.  But she was quiet as death. 

  As she drove, Becca organized her thoughts as to how she would approach this girl.  Sherry Henderson was a wreck.  She didn’t want to have to adopt her to find out what had happened.  She needed to get answers fast and find a place that could help.  She knew of several centers that offered temporary shelter to beaten wives, abused children, and persons needing detox.  That might be the best thing.  She ran through her mental list of contacts. 

Glancing in her rearview mirror she considered the late model Mercury sedan that had been behind them for some time.  Not unusual, but maybe a little curious under the circumstances.  The big Grand Marquis pulled out and took a position right next to Sherry’s passenger door window.  Matching their speed—a sedate sixty miles an hour. 

“Sherry, put on your seatbelt.” 

Becca had installed heavy-duty three-point belts in the ALFA so she could drive in local sports car club events.

“They’re uncomfortable,” Sherry said.  

The big Merc’s windows were blacked with privacy tinting.  Becca couldn’t see a thing. 

“Put it on, Sherry.” 

“I don’t like—”

As much as she hated shouting at people, she did it now.  “Goddamn it, buckle up.  Now.” 

The ALFA couldn’t outrun the big V-8 Mercury but it could sure as hell outhandle it.  The Bellevue offramp was just ahead on the right.  An eighteen wheeler was right behind the Mercury.  She revved the engine and slipped the shift lever from fifth to third gear and pressed the pedal to the floor.  The ALFA’s engine screamed to eighty miles an hour in seconds and Becca surged over in front of the Mercury and shot down the offramp.  Not polite driving, but maybe the right thing to do.  The Mercury swerved as if the driver were startled but recovered and cut in front of traffic to follow. 

Yep, it was the right thing to do. 

She flew down the ramp, slammed the transmission into second gear, tapped the brakes, and drifted through the hard right onto the main thoroughfare, all four Pirelli tires squealing. 

“What are you doing?” Sherry Henderson shrieked in terror. 

Becca ignored her, concentrating.  She didn’t know the streets of Bellevue and would have to depend on instinct.  At a gas station just ahead, she tore to the right around a corner into a neighborhood of quiet townhouses.  The tree-lined street wound through trendy quadruplexes.  Just right, as long as it wasn’t a dead end.  In the rearview mirror, she saw the Merc plow around the corner fishtailing in pursuit.  Shooting ahead to the next turn and flying around it, she stopped.  Up ahead she spotted a sign indicating a sharp “S” curve and a speed limit of twenty miles an hour.  Perfect.  She slowed and waited for the Mercury to catch up.  Again the Mercury slewed around the turn behind her, the driver struggling to maintain control.  She stomped the gas pedal to the floor and ran the tachometer to over 7,000 RPMs, speed shifted into second, and screamed toward the switchback at fifty miles an hour. 

Timing had to be just right.  She tapped the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel, her foot still heavy on the gas.  The nimble Italian sports car drifted to the right and she tapped the brakes again for the violent switchback to the left.  The ALFA took the “S” curve with style and grace as if on rails, the Pirellis in full song.  The Mercury didn’t.  It sloughed off the road and slammed into a substantial tree.  The Mercury was done.  The tree was fine. 

Sherry sat in her seat making mewling sounds, feet jammed to the floorboards, satchel compressed between her knees, left hand stiff-arming the dash and the right welded to the “chicken bar” handle over the passenger door. 

Becca drove like the wind to toward any exit from the trap of the residential community she was in.  Ahead looked like a main intersection with a traffic light.  As she approached, a huge black SUV slewed out from a cross street into her path.  It blocked her way in no uncertain terms.  She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.  The door of the SUV opened and a man threw a leg out and casually swung a gun in her direction. 

“Hang on,” she shouted to Sherry and popped the clutch and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.  She slammed over curb, across the sidewalk and onto a wide swale of manicured lawn. 

“Where are these guys coming from?” she yelled.  It was a rhetorical question. 

Sherry didn’t answer.  She gripped the chicken bar like a lifeline while the ALFA violently negotiated a path between monstrous trees over slippery grass. 

The black SUV spun its tires and whipped around in pursuit as Becca accelerated down the main street toward the freeway onramp. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” Sherry shouted.  What—?” 

“Shut up,” Becca yelled.  She knew the ALFA couldn’t compete against the stronger engine and suspension systems of newer vehicles.  The modifications she’d made to the vintage ALFA’s performance would barely compensate.  She had only one possible advantage. 

The SUV was gaining when she heard the siren.  A glance in the rearview mirror showed blue and red lights of a police cruiser a block or so behind the SUV.  The traffic cop was in pursuit.  She tapped the brakes, downshifted, and drifted right around a tight corner past a strip center.  In her mirrors she caught a glimpse as the SUV took a left at the same time. 

The cop in the cruiser made a decision of which speeding vehicle to follow. 

 

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Chapter 5 – 8:00 AM

 

“You got her?  You better damn well have her.” 

Strunck said, “I had her, but . . .” 

“Whaddya mean, but?” 

“Well, Jesus, Wilkins, you had her before I did.  I was supposed to cruise in and make sure you didn’t have any trouble.” 

“You were supposed to stop her if I couldn’t, asshole.  What the fuck happened?” 

“I got stopped by a cop, that’s what.  She came out of that street like a bat outtta hell and we was screamin’ down the goddamned street at seventy miles an hour and a cop pulled in behind us and turned on his siren and shit and I took off in one direction and she went the other and the cop came after me.  What was I supposed to do—shoot the cop?” 

“Jesus Christ.  Where are you now?” 

“I’m standing here talking to you while the cop is writing me a goddamn ticket back at his car.” 

“You givin’ him the fake IDs and all?” 

“I ain’t stupid, Wilkins.  Sure I am.” 

“What a cluster fuck.  We’re gonna get shit for this one.” 

“I just did what you told me,” Strunck said. 

“What I told you was to make sure the fucking car didn’t get past you.” 

“Yeah, well, I guess you didn’t do so good, yourself, hmm?” 

“Who knew the bitch could drive like that?”  Wilkins said. 

 

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Chapter 6 – 8:00 AM

 

Becca whipped off the boulevard into a gas station with tires protesting and drove into the carwash kiosk off to the right side of the lot.  She put the transmission in neutral, engine idling in case she had to make another break for it.  The siren seemed to recede into the distance, hopefully following the black SUV. 

Her breath came in gasps and her hands shook.  Beads of sweat dripped into her eyes.  Her clothes stuck to her body like she’d jumped into a pool.  Had the cop noticed the ALFA ahead of the SUV?  If so, he, or she, might have radioed in for assistance. 

“Gawd, where’d you learn to drive like that?” Sherry said, her eyes glistening with excitement.     

Becca ignored her again.  Who was that and why were they following her?  How could anyone know she’d picked up Sherry?  She cringed at having no idea what had just happened and, further, no way of knowing. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen either of those cars before?” Becca said. 

“What?  Hell, no.  I never seen anything like it,” the girl said, recovering with an equanimity possible only to the young and foolish.  “You’re cool, girl.” 

Becca reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a couple of napkins she’d stuffed in for, well, moments just like this.  Not caring what her passenger thought, she wiped the sweat from her face and neck.  She waited.  No cop cars screamed into the parking lot of the gas station.  Apparently the cop had gone after the SUV—could have gone either way.  She started the engine and engaged the gearbox.  She was oblivious to Sherry sitting in the passenger seat as she negotiated the ALFA out of the station to the 520.  She was both exhilarated and frightened half to death.  She hadn’t had so much fun in months, but the adrenalin rush was wearing off fast.   What in the hell were the Mercury and the SUV all about?  Somebody clearly had her in their sights and there didn’t seem to be a lot of doubt they knew who she had in the car with her.  Okay, so what did that mean?  Who were these people?  The front plate was missing from the Merc—she’d looked—and she hadn’t had a chance to see the plate on the SUV at all. 

Sherry interrupted her reverie.  “You’re not taking me to the cops, are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  But that’s not my first choice.” 

“Oh my God, please don’t take me to the cops.” 

“Why not, Sherry?  What’s your problem with cops?”

Sherry struck a belligerent pose and turned to stare out the passenger window. 

Becca honored the silence for a couple of miles giving the girl some time to think in relative safety.  It might clear Sherry’s mind a little.  Hah!—screw Sherry—it might give me a chance to fake some semblance of emotional sobriety.  She’d just risked her goddamn life driving like a bat out of hell.  She smelled of fear and dried sweat.  At the same time, she wanted to find the girl some help.  She didn’t know enough yet to know whether to drop Sherry off at a clinic or a halfway house.  Maybe a witness protection program, she mused.  And she was nettled by Monica’s description of the caller’s threats.  Monica might be a little coarse, but she’d taken in a young girl and given her shelter from a hard place.  Monica seemed concerned about more than the rent.  She didn’t sound like she was making it up. 

“Sherry, I need you to talk to me.  If you don’t, you might as well get out of the car and take your best shot on your own.  You seem to have a guy who’s serious enough about getting information from you that he’s threatening to torture you.  That’s cop stuff.  They do that pretty well, actually.  So talk to me.  Why don’t you want to go to the cops?”

Becca looked over at Sherry as she spoke.  She heard a quiet sob and noticed the girl’s shoulders shuddering.  Maybe crying was good.  Letting it out.  What the hell was this all about? 

“Sherry?”

The girl turned away from the view out the passenger window and sat up straight in the seat.  She took a couple of deep breaths and wiped her eyes with the back of her left hand.  It didn’t do anything for her makeup.  Her right hand clutched the satchel like a life preserver.  White knuckles. 

“I got popped a couple times.  The cops like messed me up.  They like felt my tits and rubbed their hands in my crotch.  They laughed while they did it.  There was a woman cop with them.  She laughed, too.  I don’t want to go to the cops again.  Ever.” 

“You were arrested?”

“At the club.  I needed the money.  I did some blowjobs.  Twice, just twice.  They were undercover cops.  They let me finish them before they popped me.  I was like new and stupid.  It took me a while to learn who was who and the other girls were like too wasted to help much.  They thought I was too cute about the sex thing.  I wouldn’t let the customers—you know—,” Sherry paused, searched for a word, and gave it up.  She let out a breath.  “I wouldn’t let them fuck me.  The other girls said I thought I was like better than them.  Called me names, got on my case a lot.  Got me busted.  Cops think I’m just another druggie whore that takes her clothes off for anybody.” 

“Um hmm,” Becca murmured.  Life ain’t Kansas, Dorothy. 

“They don’t care.  They think I’m like all the others.” 

“Are you different from the others, Sherry?”

“That really pisses me off.  Jeez, you sound like them.” 

“How?”

“How what?”

“How are you different?”

Silence.  This was getting too hard.  

“Sherry, I don’t have time for this.” 

“I don’t do drugs, oh, maybe a little pot once in a while, and—” Sherry dropped her head and mumbled something into her satchel. 

I bet that satchel knows a lot.  She said, “I didn’t catch that.”  Maybe I should drop off the girl and take the satchel home.  Alarms went off in her head as she realized she’d made a subliminal decision.  Jesus, I’m taking this girl home.  To my house.  Oh boy. 

With her first show of any real grit, Sherry blurted out, “Damn it, I’m still a virgin.  I didn’t want to go all the way and I didn’t.  You think that was easy?  And they hated me for it.  Monica was the only one who ever like gave me a break.” 

So, the girl had moral limits.  Interesting datum.  “Okay, Sherry.  Look, here’s the deal.  I’m taking you to my house.  You can clean up and we’ll have some breakfast.  We can talk and you can tell me what’s going on with this caller and maybe the driver of that car.  Then I can figure out where to get help for you.  If you have a different idea, tell me now.” 

With mumbling dejection, Sherry said, “Your house is cool.” 

Sherry Henderson was a virgin in more ways than one.  Her social skills were prepubescent at best.  They drove in agreed silence accompanied by the purr of the ALFA’s engine.  Becca drove with one eye on the road ahead and the other on the rearview mirror, trying to get her mind around this Gordian knot of a runaway-teenage-virgin-stripper being threatened by a cutter for information about a brother.  Altogether, the circumstances were so implausible that they made an impact on her analytical radar screen. 

They approached Becca’s cottage near the top of Mercer Island.  There were people parking and entering the small Mercer Island Community Library that sat a hundred feet or so from her west property line.  Becca geared down and rolled into the dilapidated garage. 

She uncoiled from the ALFA while Sherry wrestled her satchel out of the passenger side.  Walking up to the house, Sherry exclaimed with subdued pleasure, “Wull dang, it looks like a Gingerbread house.  Do you have dwarves?”

Surprise.  Sherry liked her place.  At last, a redeeming virtue.  The girl’s eyes glittered with excitement as she inspected the cottage nestled amongst black cottonwoods and firs.  Becca’s rare visitors spoke of nothing but razing the structure and building a house of glass.  Something more contemporary, they said.  Something with style and grace.  Tight-assed yuppies, most of them.  She eschewed their comments with a smile and a few polite words, understanding they wouldn’t grasp her love, perhaps need, of warmer, more human surroundings. 

Sherry pointed and exclaimed, “Look, squirrels.” 

Becca eyes followed the girl’s.  Two squirrels gamboled on the fresh heavy redwood shakes of the roof that replaced the old mold-encrusted cedar ones.  That was a job.  No more pretense about my nails.  Damn mold was an inch thick.

Restoring the old house was a form of therapy.  She treasured the time working with wood and trim.  She learned as she went.  If she hired an artisan, she did so with the understanding she would get hands-on training.  She wanted to learn and was a good apprentice.  She never flaunted the social station that gave her the time and money to fix her mistakes.  The work gave her purpose with a tangible result and time to readjust after that crushing blow in Washington D.C.  She’d been damn near certifiable for almost a year.  Clinically depressed—meaning party time, drugs, legal and not, the whole bit.  If it hadn’t been for Basil...

“It’s real pretty,” Sherry said.

Becca blinked, shrugging off the recollection.  “Well, come on inside.”

She led the way to the open-stepped wooden portico and opened the unlocked front door with its scalloped trim and waved her guest in.  Sherry entered and stopped, struck by the quaint features and soft furnishings inside.  The right hand corner of the living room sported an old black pot-bellied stove and exposed chimney pipe that was the fireplace.   A soft fluffy restored couch with mahogany armrests at each end and claw legs carved with intricate artistry sat against the left wall fronted by a refinished coffee table with legs that matched the couch.  A La-Z-Boy recliner sat near the large carved beechwood armoire with glass-faced doors at the far wall.  In stark contrast to this tasteful grouping, three director’s chairs sat beneath the huge Colonial window to the right.  Simple earth tones prevailed and refinished antiques were placed for practical comfort.  Trade magazines and reference books lay open and stacked in scattered abandon. 

Becca walked to the left through an archway into a bright study.  Colonial windows starting at knee-height almost filled the two exterior walls.  She tossed her sweater over her high-backed executive swivel.

Sherry followed behind, impressed.  “Jeez, you have a lot of stuff in here.  Do you use it all?” 

The girl visibly relaxed as she inspected the modern Thomasville executive desk bearing a Tiffany table lamp and Siemens two-line phone system.  Extending from one side of the desk was a matching built-in tabletop with a black Dell desktop 21-inch plasma-screen monitor sitting next to a Dell Inspiron laptop computer and HP LaserJet color printer.  Low standing cabinets, again matching, ran the length of the windows on the other wall.  Shelves and two wooden file cabinets were a snug fit against the wall between the living room and the study.  A silent white fan with four fluted fixtures holding small halogen lamps spun from the center of the eleven-foot ceiling.  

“Every day,” Becca said.

Sherry dropped her satchel on the floor at her feet and looked up.  “I can’t even see where the walls end and the ceiling starts.” 

Becca loved the way the walls curved into the high ceilings throughout the cottage.  That feature alone made the rather small house seem much bigger.  A polished granite countertop separated the study from the kitchen. 

Sherry’s eyes misted.  “Gawd, this is amazing.” 

“Put your things anywhere and have a seat.  I’ll be back in a minute.  Just get comfortable.” 

Becca went back outside to put the leash on Zoey and bring her in.  Zoey was a committed house dog.  Weighed less than thirty pounds and still dragged Becca over the twenty feet to the front door, zigzagging with typical hysteria from side to side to check for unusual smells.  She choked herself in the process.  Did it every time.  “Yes, Zoey, we have company.”  Once inside, the overjoyed dog ran up to Sherry and peed on the polished oak floor.  Becca was ready with paper towels and a cloth dampened with Murphy’s Oil.  It wasn’t the first time. 

Sherry was delighted.  She leaned over and extended her hand in slow-motion to the dog’s upturned face before scratching behind pointed white ears.  Becca noticed the gesture and added a data point—the girl had experience with dogs.  Sherry asked, “What’s its name?”

“Zoey, and she’s a she.  Dumb as a stump but lovable, I’m finding out.” 

“She’s beautiful.  What kind of a dog is she?  She looks like a little white Husky.” 

“Shiba Inu.  It’s a Japanese breed used to hunt fowl—birds.” 

Sherry looked up with a sullen glare.  “I know what fowl means.” 

“Sorry.  Okay, then.  Relax for a minute while I change.  The bathroom is just behind that wall through this little hallway.” 

Becca didn’t need to change, she needed to think.  She passed through the short hallway over the heater grill into her bedroom and closed the door.  She flopped down on the edge of her bed.  Zoey scratched at the door and Becca stood to let her in and sat down again.  Zoey sat at her feet looking up.  Becca looked down and cupped her chin in both hands with her elbows on her knees and index fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose. 

“Okay, Zoey, now what?” Zoey responded with a muffled yip and stared at her from triangular eyes, a distinction of the breed.  “So help me out here.  What do I do with this kid?”  Zoey gave her undivided attention.  “Well?”  Zoey cocked her head, still listening.  Straightening her back and slapping the tops of her thighs, Becca said, “Good advice, Zoey.  If she’ll talk, I’ll listen.” 

 

© 2007, Copyright Michael G. Patrick, All rights reserved.