Come and Find Me (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

T
he printer under the table churned as, dot by dot, the freeze-frame image of the person crouched beside the black car took shape. When it was finally finished, Diana pulled the image off and stared at the dark blur on the ground.

“I can’t believe she’d get into a car with someone she didn’t know.” Diana pinned the printout to the bulletin board over Pam’s desk and stood back. “Well, whoever he is, he didn’t come out of nowhere. Where was he before this?”

Pam queued up videos from the four camcorders that had focused on crowd reaction and tiled the windows across her laptop screen. She ran them simultaneously at half speed, starting moments before Ashley disappeared.

The cameras moved through the crowd, showing individuals as they watched Superman’s flight. But Diana was focusing past them.

“There!” she and Pam said simultaneously, spotting a figure in the background, on the move. The brim of a baseball cap completely obscured his face. He wore a jacket zipped up over his chin. He seemed oblivious to the drama going on behind him as he crossed the square, moving steadily in Ashley’s direction with a sense of purpose, a shark cutting through the still crowd.

Then he glanced up. Sunglasses obscured his eyes, but for a split second the lower part of his face was visible and Diana could just make out a mustache and beard.

“You recognize him, don’t you?” Pam said.

“I don’t know if I do.” Diana brought up Aaron Pritchard’s Facebook page. “What do you think?”

D
iana called Officer Gruder. She paced up and back as she explained that she’d been combing through the Spontaneous Combustion video. She paused long enough to e-mail him stills—one of the man crouched alongside the black car and the other of the man moving through the crowd toward Ashley—and then went back to pacing as she waited while he opened the files.

“And you think your sister is inside that car, and this man—”

“His name is Aaron Pritchard. And he’s—”

“You recognize him from these?” he said, his voice without affect.

Diana stared at the pictures. Neither one of them showed enough detail to identify anyone. “He told me he was there. And she’d just dumped him, humiliated him in a bar full of patrons. He grabbed her, then he tried to make it look like she’d come back to her apartment. Did you get the surveillance video from my sister’s apartment building? Did you look at it? Did you—”

“I examined the surveillance video,” Gruder said.

Diana stopped pacing.

“I can tell you this,” he went on. “Your sister drove back to her apartment on Monday and she left about twenty minutes later, right before I got there.”

Diana dropped into a chair, and the room receded around her. “You’re sure?”

“We matched the plate numbers.”

“And you saw her coming into the building and leaving?” she asked.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“There’s a gap.”

Diana stood up. “A what?”

Gruder cleared his throat. “A gap in the footage. A power surge knocked it off-line for about thirty minutes. But we see her car pulling in. And when the power comes back, the car is gone.”

“How convenient,” Diana said. “Do you have any idea how easy it is to alter surveillance video?”

“The outage affected several buildings in that area,” he added.

“So all you really know is her car came back. But that doesn’t mean she was in it.”

“What else could it mean? And it’s not just that. Her mail was picked up. She changed clothes. There’s no evidence of a crime.”

“And that’s it? You’re done?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m not.” She hung up the phone.

Pam rolled over to the bookshelves and grabbed a bottle and two glasses. She steadied the bottle of bourbon between her legs, pulled out the cork, and poured an inch of rich brown liquid into one of the glasses. She handed it to Diana.

Diana knocked back the contents. It seared her throat, cauterizing a residue of self-pity.

Pam refilled Diana’s glass and then filled her own. She sipped thoughtfully as Diana told her what she’d learned from Officer Gruder.

“So you’re thinking that this man, whoever he was, has Ashley’s car, drove it over to her apartment, and tried to make it look as if she came home?”

“I know it sounds improbable. But at least that would account for all the facts, and it explains why she hasn’t called me or returned a single one of my goddamned messages.” Diana choked up and her eyes misted over.

Pam laid a hand on Diana’s arm. “We should eat something. Okay if I order a pizza? Salad too? Oil-and-vinegar dressing on the side? After dinner, we’ll go over everything, step-by-step, one more time.”

Diana nodded, swallowing the hard lump in her throat.

“Can you shut everything down for me?” Pam said, shifting her laptop to the table. She put the liquor bottle on the coffee table and rolled off toward the kitchen end of the loft.

Diana drank the bourbon in her glass and shuddered. One by one, she closed the video windows. There was nothing more to see.

“Pizza delivery in fifteen minutes,” Pam called out.

Diana corked the bottle. Two shots on an empty stomach and she was already feeling it.

Her OtherWorld session remained open. Nadia still stood frozen in the middle of Copley Square. Steady as a rock. Diana flinched when a message popped up.

GROB: Hey? U OK? How’s your sister?

She had no idea how to answer those two simple questions. Knowing it was pointless, she found her cell phone in her jacket pocket and, once again, called Ashley. By now she had her on speed dial.

The line rang once. Twice. Another message popped up in OtherWorld.

GROB: Let me know if I can help.

The phone stopped ringing in the middle of the third ring. There was silence on the line. Had she lost the signal? She took the phone from her ear and looked at the screen. Still connected.

Pam rolled over toward her, giving her a questioning look. She mouthed, “Your sister?”

Diana nodded and put the phone back to her ear and her hand over her other ear to block out sounds around her. For a moment, she thought she heard something—or was that just static? Then: “Mmmm. I . . .”

“Ashley?” Diana focused on the voice on the other end.

“He . . . uh . . .” Then: “Ooof.” And labored breathing. “Shit.”

“
Ashley!
Are you there? Are you okay?”

“This better be ’portant,” Ashley said. She said something else, slurred and indecipherable. Then: “Whosis?”

“It’s Diana,” Diana practically shouted into the mouthpiece as relief coursed through her. “Your sister. Remember me? Where are you?”

No answer.

“Ashley?” Diana shouted. “Can you hear me?”

“Shhhhh.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Looks like . . .” There was a grunt, like Ashley was trying to lift her head and look around. “. . . home.”

“Can you wiggle your fingers?” Diana asked.

She heard a
tap-tap,
like Ashley was tapping on the mouthpiece of the phone with a fingernail.

“I’ll take that for a yes. Do you know how long you’ve been there?”

“So freakin’ tired,” Ashley said.

“How
long
have you been there?”

“Mmmm . . . Home.”

“Right. You’re in your apartment.”

“Bing!”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Bzzzz.” Then a longish pause. Finally, a bunch of syllables that sounded like
“Saturday.”

“Honey, it’s Tuesday.”

“No. Uh-uh.” Ashley cleared her throat. “No way in hell.” Her voice was back. “Can’t be. What happened?”

“You met that guy Aaron at a bar? You remember breaking up with him?”

“I did? I did.”

“Yeah, you did, sweetie. Then you went to an improv event. Remember Superman streaking across the sky over Copley Square?” Diana wiped away a tear. She was so relieved.

“And Batman. ’N Lone Ranger.”

“And probably Tinker Bell.” Diana laughed, feeling giddy.

Ashley started to laugh too. “Ow, that hurts.”

“And what happened after that?” Diana said. “That was four days ago.”

“I . . .” Dead silence.

“Ash?”

A hiccup and a sniffle. Ashley was crying.

“I’m on my way over there right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Twenty minutes, max. Do—not—go—anywhere. You got that?”

Ashley didn’t respond.

“You’re going to wait until I get there, right?”

Finally Ashley mumbled something and Diana disconnected the call.

Pam rolled over. Piled in her lap were Diana’s jacket, her laptop, backpack, and the driftwood walking stick. “Let me know what happens. Here’s my phone number.” She indicated a Post-it note that she’d stuck to the laptop case. “Or just show up. Anytime. Day or night. And if there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Thanks. I’ll probably take you up on that.”

“And I hope you don’t mind, but I checked your computer. Made sure that there weren’t more programs broadcasting your whereabouts. I found a key logger and trashed it too.”

Key logger? That meant someone had been spying on her, capturing her every keystroke.

“There might be more, but I ran out of time. Someone’s really been messing with you.”

“Tell me about it,” Diana said. She kissed Pam on the cheek, grabbed her things, and flew out of the apartment.

She’s back. She’s back. She’s back.
Diana repeated the words, trying to make herself believe it as she sprinted down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator. She passed the pizza deliveryman on the way in. Opened the Hummer with the remote and jumped in. Started it up with a roar and peeled out onto the street.

Unleashed by bourbon and Xanax, Diana did everything she detested in other drivers. Tailgated and flashed her lights at cars poking along in front of her. Passed on the right. Revved her engine and leaned on the horn when the car in front of her failed to accelerate the instant a light turned green. Barreled through lights that had just turned red. Earned herself more than a few emphatic honks and expressive fingers.

Hey, bad behavior was rewarded—despite afternoon rush-hour traffic, she made what would normally have been a thirty-minute trip from the South End to the Wharf View apartments in under twenty.

Diana screeched to a halt in a visitors’ space in front of Ashley’s apartment building and got out of the Hummer. Between the old-fashioned street lamps, the high-beam spotlights mounted on the building, and a huge yellow moon that seemed to be rising right out of the Neponset River, the parking lot felt lit up like a stage set.

Parked right next to her was Ashley’s Mini Cooper. The side window had been left open. Diana peered in. Ashley was damned lucky that no one else had noticed the huge white purse, sitting there on the backseat in broad view, asking to be appropriated. Diana reached in and grabbed it before hurrying into the building.

The wait for the elevator seemed longer than the drive over. On the ride up, Diana shifted Ashley’s purse to her other shoulder. What was she carrying around in there? Cinder blocks? She peered inside. A copy of
Vogue
accounted for some of the weight. Also a quart-size container of hand sanitizer.

The elevator door opened and Diana trotted up the hall. She was about to knock on the apartment door when she realized that it was ajar.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
partment door left open? Purse left on the backseat of her car? Diana burst into the apartment. A quick glance told her Ashley wasn’t in the living room or kitchen.

She closed the door and attached the chain lock. Ran to the closed bedroom door and pushed it open. Inside, it was dark and smelled like steamed gym socks. She could just make out the bedcovers mounded over what looked like a body.

“Ashley?” she said, creeping closer.

Ashley’s blond hair was all that was visible. Her BlackBerry was on the floor by the bed, still on, apparently where she’d dropped it. A pile of clothes was on the floor.

Thank God!
Diana fell to her knees by the bed, overcome with relief. She’d been girding herself for another impossible loss.

She turned on the bedside lamp. Ashley winced. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Diana slid her hand under the covers and pulled out Ashley’s arm. She pressed her fingers against Ashley’s wrist. The pulse was strong and steady.

“Ouch!” Ashley pulled her hand away.

“Sorry, hon,” Diana said.

Ashley opened one eye. Then the other. She shrieked.

“What?” Diana said.

Ashley just pointed at Diana’s head. It took a moment for Diana to realize what she was going on about.

“So? I’m a blonde.”

“I guess. You cut it yourself?” Ashley’s eyes widened farther still. “You’re here? How . . . ?”

“Don’t you remember? We talked on the phone. Fifteen minutes ago. I said I’d come over.”

“You drove?”

“I can, you know,” Diana said. “I even have a driver’s license.”

“Sure you do.”

Diana ignored the sarcasm. “Are you okay? I’ve been so worried.”

“My head.” Ashley touched her forehead and grimaced. “Jesus, this feels like the mother of all hangovers.”

The old Superman theme started playing.

“What the hell is that?” Ashley asked.

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane . . .” Diana said, offering Ashley her BlackBerry. “It’s your phone.”

Slowly, painfully Ashley raised herself on one elbow and stared at the cell phone, which was lighting up neon blue.

“Don’t you remember?” Diana raised the cell phone the way the improv participants had saluted the hotel. “Copley Square?” She looked at the readout. “Lucky you. It’s Mom.”

“Don’t answer it. I’ll call her Monday.”

“Ashley, that’s next week. It’s Tuesday already.”

Deep furrows formed in Ashley’s forehead as her eyebrows came together.

The phone rang again. Diana answered. “Hi, Ma.”

“Diana?” A pause. “Did I call you? Because if I did, I didn’t mean to.”

“You called Ashley. I answered the phone. She’s”—Ashley shook her head a little too vigorously and winced—“not feeling too well. She’s hungover.” Ashley rolled her eyes. “Or something.”

“Or something?”

“She’s fine. Really. She’ll call you back, okay? Tomorrow?”

After a few more back-and-forths, Diana managed to get her mother off the phone. By then, Ashley was sitting up in bed.

“It’s Tuesday?” she said. “How could that be? Where have I been?” Diana heard the distinct note of panic in her sister’s voice.

She took Ashley’s hand. It felt cool and dry. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to reach you. I was here yesterday and it looked as if you’d come back. Do you remember coming back to your apartment? Picking up your mail? Changing your clothes?”

Ashley shook her head and raised her hand to wipe away a tear that trickled down her cheek.

“Hey, don’t cry.” That’s when Diana noticed the mottled bruise on the back of Ashley’s hand. “What’s this?”

“How’d I get that?” Ashley asked.

Diana ran her fingers gently over the tender spot, right where veins branched. “I don’t know.”

“I . . . I don’t know either.” Ashley shook her head and winced again.

Diana stood. She handed Ashley her purse. “I found this in the backseat of your car. You parked in one of the visitor spots in front of the building.”

“I didn’t. I never park there.”

“Well, someone parked your car there.” She set the purse in Ashley’s lap. Ashley just stared at it. “You want to check that everything’s still there?”

Ashley pushed herself up and rummaged through the bag. Found her wallet and checked the billfold. Sifted through the magazines and file folders. She drew out an oversize mailing envelope.

Ashley looked baffled. She tore open the seal and pulled out some papers. The top page was a form labeled
IN-PATIENT RELEASE
.

“Can I see that?” Diana said. She recognized the mother-and-child logo of Neponset Hospital. It had been one of Gamelan’s earliest clients.

Ashley handed her the sheaf of papers. The form on top began:

Patient Name: Ashley Highsmith

Ashley had been released from the hospital in this condition? What had the doctors been thinking? And why hadn’t someone called her? She was Ashley’s emergency contact.

Diana scanned the rest of the page. “According to this, you were checked in to the hospital on Friday night after eleven. Checked out yesterday morning.”

Ashley’s eyes widened. “Was I sick?” She rummaged in her purse again and came up with a compact. She opened it and looked in the mirror. “Am I sick?”

“You look fine,” Diana said, even though Ashley looked far from it.

She examined the rest of the hospital documents, trying to penetrate the thicket of charges. “They gave you blood tests. A CT scan. Echocardiogram. Intravenous therapy.”

Ashley stroked the bruise on the back of her hand. “So this—maybe it’s from an IV?”

“Here’s a doctor’s card. You can probably call and find out.” Diana showed her a business card stapled to one of the sheets of paper. “And look, this is an FAQ on trypanosomiasis.”

“What?” Ashley’s hand flew to her throat.

Diana read down. “It’s a kind of sleeping sickness.”

“Sleeping sickness? But how . . . ? Isn’t that something people get in Africa?”

“You weren’t in Africa.”

“Duh.” Ashley felt under her chin, like she was looking for swollen lymph nodes. Then she let her head fall back onto the pillow. “I may look okay but I feel terrible. Like my head is packed with wet wool.”

“Apparently you had the nonlethal variety. This says you might be somewhat disoriented for a few days. Your sleep can be disrupted for up to two weeks. It’s important not to get dehydrated.” Diana went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and brought it back. She handed Ashley the glass. “How on earth did you manage to contract sleeping sickness?”

Ashley sat up and took a sip. “How? Well—” She set the glass down and sat up taller. “Maybe from a hotel guest? I ran a wedding at the hotel. Last weekend. The bride was from Nigeria or South Africa, I can’t remember which. Or . . . on the plane? I read about how airplanes harbor all kinds of lethal stowaways. Rats with bubonic plague.” That thought seemed to perk her up considerably. “Disease-infected spiders. All it takes is one, hiding in one of those blankets.”

“There are no more blankets.”

“There are in business class.” Ashley finished off the water.

“Ashley, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Ashley sank back against the pillows and squeezed her eyes shut. “I remember . . .” She opened her eyes. “Dumping Aaron.” She smiled.

“He called to apologize.”

The smile grew broader. “He did?”

“Do you remember Superman?”

Ashley’s brow wrinkled. “Coming out of the hotel window. And a man came up to me.”

“Ashley, this is important. Did you recognize him?”

Ashley looked confused. “His face was kind of covered.”

“Do you think it could have been Aaron?”

“Aaron?” Ashley considered it. “No way. I’d have recognized him. This man, he acted like we were old friends. He thought I was—” She broke off the thought, her jaw dropping as realization kicked in. “He called me Nadia.”

“Of course. You were registered as my avatar. Ashley, do you have any idea what happened next? I’ve looked at videos taken during the improv event and it looks as if you walked off with that guy who approached you. You might have gotten into a car with him.”

“All I remember is being downtown. Superman’s in the air. That guy’s got his arm around me, which is kind of freaking me out. Then . . .” Ashley touched her upper arm. “Then . . . then nothing. It’s like the movie just stops. Except for nightmares.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

Ashley shuddered. “A long worm tracking slime up my arm. Headless talking Ken dolls.”

“So you don’t remember being in the hospital? Getting a CT scan? Getting released this morning? Driving your car back?”

“None of it.” Ashley picked up the sheaf of hospital forms and shook them at Diana. “Four days, I was out of it. Sleeping sickness! Go figure.”

A half page of paper fluttered to the bed. Diana picked it up. “You’ve got a script for Ambien here.”

“More sleep. Just what I need.” Ashley put her hand to her chest. Then her stomach. “Know what? I think I’m hungry. Starving, in fact. And what is that smell?” She sniffed her own armpit and made a face. “You think I can take a shower?”

“You feel up to it?”

Ashley swung her legs out of bed and Diana helped her stand.

“Whoa,” Ashley said, holding on to Diana’s shoulder.

“Want me to go in with you?”

Ashley gave her a horrified look. “Just give me a minute.”

Ashley steadied herself. Finally she pushed Diana away and headed for the bathroom. Diana started after her but Ashley put up her hand. “I’m okay. Really, I’m okay.” She left the room, crossed the hall, and shut the bathroom door behind her.

Diana put the hospital forms together and straightened the pile. She clipped the prescription to the top. Its letterhead read
COMPASSIONATE CARE MEDICAL, P.C.
with an address in Boston’s Back Bay. The list of physicians included Dr. William Kennedy—the doctor whose business card they had. But the physician’s signature scrawled at the bottom was not Dr. Kennedy’s. Instead, it began with what looked like initial caps
P
and
D,
followed by
B
and an indecipherable wavy line with squiggles. Diana skimmed to the top of the page where the partners names were printed. The only name the signature even vaguely resembled was Pamela David-Braverman, MD, known to her friends in OtherWorld as PWNED.