Eerie (3 page)

“Here, hold these,” he said, handing them to her.

Hailey took them without a fuss, setting them on her lap. She didn't really know what to say to a detective, so she just held on to his folders and looked out the window while they drove. Over and over, she picked up her sister's shoe in her mind, and as the scenery sped past, over and over she searched her memory for the critical clue that would lead her straight to Holly.

“Is one of these Holly's file?” she asked, surprising herself.

“They're . . . all . . . Holly's files.”

Hailey looked down at them.

“All of this?”

Toll glanced at the files, pressed his lips together, and sighed without answering.

He was holding something back. And if he was going to keep secrets, she was just going to find out for herself, so she opened the folder on the top of the pile and started reading.

“You told Uncle Pix you didn't have any information,” she said as she scanned the pages.

There was a ton of information—measurements from skid marks left in the parking lot, which they'd matched to a specific tire and wheel base. That narrowed their pool of suspect vehicles to seven possible models, three of which weren't even registered in the tri-state area.

“I told him I didn't have any suspects,” he clarified.

“You lied.” There were three names on a page labeled “Suspects.”

“Close that file.”

He made a quick grab for the papers and missed.

“Pay attention to the road,” she shot back.

She pressed herself against the window, reading as fast as she could as they pulled into the station.

There were also some flecks of paint recovered from a smashed utility box at the corner of the parking lot exit. Hailey scanned the lab report, which included a list of manufacturers that used that specific paint.

She deduced that the police should be looking for a white Ford Explorer with damage to the passenger side.

Detective Toll put the car in park and ripped the pages out of her hand.

“Don't go getting the wrong idea about the stuff you just read,” he chastised. “It's all preliminary. You shouldn't have read that.”

“You handed them right to me.”

“I didn't tell you to read them,” he said, getting out of the car.

Detective Toll hugged the folders to his chest with one hand and opened the door to the station with the other, motioning Hailey to lead the way. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Toll dropped his folders and vaulted over a tall desk to assist an officer who was on the floor, wrestling with the biggest man Hailey had ever seen.

A pair of handcuffs swung from the man's wrist as he landed punch after punch. He was on top of the officer with one hand squeezing the officer's neck and the other tugging on his service pistol, which, thankfully, was stuck in the holster, when Detective Toll pulled him off.

Hailey watched them wrangle the giant's hands back into a set of cuffs. Then she stared at the folders on the floor.

This is too easy.

She fell to her knees, scanning each page, committing them to memory. There were interview notes and lists of names and locations as well as photos from the pub and a few of Holly's shoe (foot and all), which Hailey quickly covered.

One folder was particularly interesting. It was darker brown than the others and stamped CONFIDENTIAL in big red letters. Most of the pages inside had several lines of fat black marker running across them, obliterating a lot of the text. A visible word here and there indicated the pages had something to do with the fire that had killed her parents.

She knew she'd guessed right when she uncovered some pictures of her childhood home.

She puzzled over them.

One photo showed the house before the fire and one after—both from the same vantage point.

That's weird
, she thought.
Why would they take a picture of her house
before
it burned down?

Holding one of the papers up to the light, she discerned the outline of an acronym through the magic marker:

D.O.P.P.L.E.R.

Footsteps. Someone was coming. Hailey gathered the folders, put her butt in a chair, and folded her hands.

When Detective Toll came back out—not over the desk, but through a magnetically locked door—he carried a binder and found Hailey sitting in the lobby like an angel with the papers straightened and submissively tucked inside their folders.

He eyeballed her suspiciously, and Hailey looked innocently back at him.

“Bit of excitement,” he said holding his hands out.

“Is everyone alright?”

“Mostly.”

She handed him the folders, and he actually counted them. Right in front of her. Did he really think she would take one, she wondered, half offended and half amused that he'd underestimated her speed-reading skills.

“Hailey, I have to make a quick call, and it's a mess in there,” he said apologetically. “Can you look through these mugshots out here for a few minutes? Make a note of anyone that looks familiar, okay?”

She nodded obediently as he waved a card in front of an invisible sensor. The door clicked open, and he disappeared inside.

As Hailey opened the binder, a television mounted to the ceiling in the corner of the lobby blared the morning news, which began with the channel logo flipping around on the screen with some bonging drums and a few dramatic notes from a shrieking horn. Enter the perfectly coiffed and annoyingly chipper morning news anchor.

Her voice was hard to ignore, and Hailey winced when she introduced their top story.

“Good morning, everybody. First up, a gruesome discovery in the parking lot of a local business last night has residents on edge, and just in this morning—a
second
local woman missing in as many days. Melissa has more.”

Hailey leaned forward, breathless.

“That's right, Megan, you'll recall that workers at the Hullachan Irish Pub, a favorite watering hole for many in this area found the bloody shoe of one of their waitresses in the pub's parking lot last night. Since then, no one has seen or heard from the owner of that shoe—Holly Hartley. And this morning, another 19-year-old girl—vanished. The search for both South Side women continues. Take a listen.”

The video cut to an interview with a woman wearing a suit and a badge, which hung from a lanyard around her neck.

“At this point, we have no reason to believe the two incidents are related—”

“That statement from the Pittsburgh Police only adds to the intrigue surrounding these vanishings.”

Hailey was nauseous.

She felt like a four-year-old, plugging her ears with her fingers in the middle of a police department, but she couldn't bear to hear anymore.

Another girl missing?

Staring at the mugshots in her lap, she listened to herself breathe. She counted twenty-seven intentionally loud breaths before Detective Toll finally poked his head into the lobby and motioned her in.

“Sorry about that,” he said, holding the door for her.

“Was it something to do with Holly? Or this other girl that's missing?”

Hailey pointed to the TV.

“No,” he sighed as he led her through the squad room. “News can't get anything right. This other
disappearance
they're chasing is a 20-year-old known drug user with a history of near-fatal OD's. She's probably passed out in a motel again.”

“Oh.” Did that mean they weren't looking for this other girl? Hailey wasn't sure if she felt more compassion for the drug user or relief that the police weren't diverting any energy from their search for Holly.

“Anyone look familiar?” He pointed at the binder.

Hailey shook her head.

Leading her into his office, Toll motioned her to a chair facing his desk, which was a good old fashioned mess, piled with papers and photos and folders and notebooks with yellow sticky notes everywhere.

He sat down and blew his cheeks full of air.

“So tell me about last night.”

“I already told the officer last night—there . . .it was . . .” Hailey sighed, her mind racing, her heart keeping pace. She shook her leg but resisted the urge to bite her thumbnail as she filled him in on everything from stuffing papers into the trash with Holly to preparing to dance.

“And then Mrs. Lash walked into the bar with Holly's cell phone—” Why hadn't she thought of this before? “Maybe Mrs. Lash saw who took Holly!”

Toll shook his head. “She didn't.”

Hailey's shoulders fell. “Where do you think she is?”

She wanted to know what he knew. She wanted him to tell her exactly when Holly would come home. She wanted him to say that they knew where she was, that she was safe and sound and just waiting for the police to come and pick her up and bring her home.

He said none of that.

“I don't know, Hailey.” He frowned. “We're working on it.”

“What have you got so far?”

“Not much. We've got a timeline and some physical evidence, as you know.”

Maybe she already did know as much as he knew.

“We're working on a suspect vehicle make and model . . .” Nope. She knew more. He obviously hadn't read the papers in his precious folders.“ . . .which we should have soon . . .”

Hailey couldn't stand it.

“You're looking for a white Ford Explorer with damage to the passenger side,” she blurted, and the detective's mouth fell open.

The clock on the wall ticked twice, before he closed it again.

He grabbed up his notebook and pen. “Did you see the vehicle?”

“No,” she said, pointing to his precious files. “I read the acceleration mark analysis and compared it to the analysis of the paint scrapings. That narrows your pool to one possible vehicle—a white Ford Explorer.”

“I left you alone for five minutes,” he said as he flipped through his stack of papers. “You read all that in here?”

“Didn't you?” she fired back. “And it was seven minutes.” This guy was never gonna find Holly.

“No,” he said, “I haven't read all this, yet. Just got most of it this morning on my way to your house.”

At least he's honest.

“What else did you read in these files that you weren't supposed to even look at?” he asked, annoyed but interested.

Just then a uniform knocked twice on his door and poked his head inside.

“Sir, we finished that analysis you asked for,” he said. “Looks like a white Ford Explorer.”

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, and he turned back to Hailey. “Well? Anything else you'd like to share?”

“Why do you have a file from our house fire?”

“I just . . .” He pulled the confidential folder from the pile and opened it. “This is every scrap of info we had that relates to Holly. This file is . . .what . . .thirteen years old?” He raised his eyebrows as he thumbed through it, and then he closed it again. “I'm looking at everything,” he said simply. “ . . .anything that could point us in the right direction.”

“What's DOPPLER?”

“Doppler?” He started flipping through the papers again.

“Never mind,” said Hailey. He didn't know.

Toll clicked his pen and put his notebook on top of the chaos that was his desk.

“Does your sister have any enemies?”

“No. Everybody loves Holly.”

“Boyfriends?”

“No.”

“Anybody you can think of that wanted to hurt her?”

“No.”

“Did she recently reject someone?”

“No.” Hailey was feeling less and less helpful.

“Did you notice anything or anyone out of the ordinary at the pub, maybe paying extra attention to her lately?”

Hailey racked her brain, but no one stood out. She shook her head.

Toll licked his lips. “Anything . . .
strange
been happening?”

What the hell?

“You mean . . .stranger than finding Holly's—” That sentence punched her in the stomach and stole her voice. There it was, like she'd just picked it up again. Her throat aching, Hailey bowed her head so Toll wouldn't see her tears.

“I'm sorry,” he said gently. He offered her a box of tissues and some water.

“You're gonna find her, right?” Hailey cried.

He dropped his eyes, drew in a breath, and looked directly at her. “I will personally keep looking until we find her, until the end of my watch on this Earth, I promise you.”

Chapter Five

Denial

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed!

How sweet their memory still!

But they have left an aching void,

The world can never fill.

- William Cowper, Walking with God

Hailey let herself into an empty house, half expecting to find this was all just an elaborate prank, half expecting to see Holly, intact and unscathed, sitting in the kitchen.

She wasn't.

But a note from Uncle Pix was:

Hailey,

We're at the pub. “Search Headquarters.”

Give us a call when you get home.

Love Pix

After making her obligatory phone call, she threw the note away and headed straight for her computer. She typed in “D.O.P.P.L.E.R.,” and several websites came up, but they all had to do with radar or ultrasound or weather.

She sat back in her chair. That fire happened thirteen years ago. Maybe DOPPLER was defunct. In any case, it felt like a dead end, and Hailey's leg was shaking again.

It was nearly 3pm, and the kitchen clock with its tick-tick-ticking was driving her mad.

She had to get out of there.

Search Headquarters seemed like the logical place to go. Surely her uncle had opened for a reason—maybe he thought Holly'd come back there!

Hailey grabbed her keys and bolted out the door.

That night, customers were in and out of the pub as usual. The regulars offered their polite support, and after a few shots of whiskey (apparently, the Hullachan was serving the fight'n kind), they offered to light the torches, grab the pitchforks, and go after the “jag-offs” that took Holly.

Hailey found the five brothers sequestered in the back room with a map of the city, a bottle of Michael Collins, and a bodhrán, which Dale drummed in perfect jig rhythm. She left them to it. While they compared notes, Frog—the pub's giant bouncer— swore up and down to Hailey he'd never take another night off. He stood, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes fixed on the door; Mrs. Lash prepared dinner, and Fin tended bar. Hailey waited tables, avoiding eye contact as she ran pints and plates.

Sometime around 7:00 p.m., the college crowd trickled in and business picked up. The lion's share headed straight for the bar, especially the ladies, most of whom came to Hullachan's on a mission to win a date with Fin.

They could have him.

Holly might've found him—how did she put it—“genuine and engaging,” but he was more like the big brother Hailey never wanted: slightly smug and more than a little overbearing. The one time she'd tried to flirt with a customer, Fin went all nuclear-Uncle-Pix on her and would've tossed him out, except Pix had beat him to it. Hailey never saw that kid again. The word “overprotective” always sprang to mind when Hailey thought of Fin. That and “man-whore.” But the ladies of Pittsburgh loved him and pretty much threw themselves at his feet, and that was just fine by him.

A lot of students drank a few beers then went home, but some would stake out a booth and study there all night, drinking cups of coffee and eating the free pretzels. Hailey didn't care who came to drink what, as long as they kept her busy. Every time she slowed down, the image of Holly's foot caught up.

She was at the bar filling a carafe of coffee for a regular bookworm when
he
stepped through the door.

It was a bizarre moment for Hailey, who'd all but given herself whiplash from spinning around every time the pub door opened. But this time, she did not immediately turn to look, because she already, instinctively knew who it was, which was indeed strange, since she'd never actually met
him
in real life. She'd only ever seen him in her dreams, but she could feel him enter the room like the heaviness before a storm. She recognized this feeling.

So, when she did turn in his direction, it wasn't to see who was there, but to acknowledge his presence.

In her dreams, he was always shrouded in a tranquil, shimmering light, a gladiator's silhouette under a cloak of moonlight. She had no idea what he looked like in real life.

But she did know he was an Envoy.

She also knew how crazy it was to think these things about a stranger who'd just wandered into Hullachan's, so as he moved through the pub, she moved to get a closer look. His face was smooth and clean shaven, and his tousled brown hair showed flecks of gold. Wearing loose blue jeans and a thin black sweater, which really showed off his physique, he strolled to a booth near the window, and like a prince who didn't give a damn, he sat with his back to her.

She needed to see his eyes. For the moment, though, she was perfectly content to stare at the back of his head.

Fin whipped her in the back with a rolled up a bar towel.

“Ouch!”

“Snap out of it,” he said, and Hailey thought she detected a note of jealousy in his voice.

The table the Envoy chose was still dirty from the previous patron, and Hailey rushed across the room to clear it. In all her nervousness, she knocked over a glass, which was still half-full of beer and backwash. It spilled across the table and poured over the edge, right into the lap of the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

“I'm so sorry!” She opened her eyes wide and blinked furiously to keep from crying. Quickly, she wiped at the table and to her horror, ended up pushing another wave of beer over the edge and onto his legs. Mortified, Hailey froze, not sure what to say or do and bracing for an epic cuss-out.

But he never flinched.

Instead, he lifted his head slowly, very slowly, and looked up at her. With eyes so black they took on a blue sheen, he smiled his forgiveness. Then very briefly, a vertical line of bright violet bolted across his right eye then his left. It happened so fast, Hailey wasn't even sure it was real.

He stared at Hailey, his expression soft, and his eyes . . .his eyes after the flash, so gentle.

For several seconds, Hailey stared into those eyes. Strange, how comfortable she felt, locked in his gaze, as if she were seeing a good friend after far too long apart. She wanted to hug this man, but she also wanted to smack him for staying away for so long. It was a complicated emotion, compounded by uncertainty.

Hailey blinked. The stress must be getting to her. This man was probably just another college student. It was nuts to think he visited her in her dreams . . .and maybe rescued her from a burning house.

Remembering the spilled beer, she blinked again.

“I'm so sorry,” she repeated. “I'll get you a towel.”

Still he said nothing.

Hailey dashed to the bar but felt her lip trembling and decided mid-stride to go blow her nose instead. Somewhere between her exhaustion and anxiety was an ugly cry waiting to erupt, but she wasn't about to let it happen over something as meaningless as a spilled beer. She just needed a moment to breathe.

Bowing her head, she diverted to the ladies room.

“I'm sorry, Fin, I'll be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she zipped past.

Fin grabbed a towel and strode to the booth. He did not offer the towel to the gentleman, who didn't so much as look at Fin when he reached the table.

“You're a long way from Alaska,” said Fin to the stranger, as he bent to collect a shard from the floor.

The stranger looked down at Fin.

In a smooth, slow, slightly British accent, he said, “As are you, Pádraig.” He bowed slightly then forced a quick cynical smile. “Taking the semester off?” he asked scornfully.

“Research project actually. For Dr. Woodfork.” Fin answered in a brash voice, standing as he spoke and taking care to avoid eye contact. He glanced toward the toilets then back at the table and sighed heavily. “What are you doing here, Asher? Come to check up on me?”

Asher tilted his head and squinted. “Are you really so arrogant? Your life is meaningless, and my business here has nothing to do with you.”

“Thanks,” said Fin, sounding even more snarky than usual. “How ‘bout I bring you a cold pint of ‘kiss my ass'?”

“Mind your manners,” Asher warned. “Or have you forgotten your debt to me?”

That deflated Fin, but only a little. “Fine,” he said. “Just . . .stop creeping out the waitress, alright?” He threw a look at ladies room again. “She's got enough on her mind.”

To Fin's surprise, Asher stood and turned toward the door, which encouraged him to beat his chest a little.

“In fact, stay away from the girls altogether, okay? That's why you're here, right? Morbid Envoy curiosity?”

Asher stopped mid-step, spun around, and put his face close to Fin's.

Fin struggled to avoid Asher's gaze.

“You forget your place, slave. Ever defiant, but you are no Guardian, nor will you ever be. You are far too selfish to be trusted with such a duty. And if Woodfork sent you here to protect the girls, I should inform him that you've failed.” Asher turned toward the door again, took a few steps, and then he stopped and spoke sharply over his shoulder.

“I see only
one
girl, Fin.” Asher's eyes erupted into an electrical storm, and Fin's face fell. He knew what that meant.

Holly wasn't coming home.