Girl With a Past (26 page)

I almost slapped my head, kicking myself
figuratively. “If only I knew what it was I saw in there. There’s
something that someone doesn’t want known.” Then I remembered
papers jammed into a pocket. “What’d I do with the papers that were
in my jacket pocket when I was shot?”

“Papers?”

“The ones with the photo of the gang on the
sofa, the one you folded in half.”

Steven shook his head. “I was a little
distracted concerning you at the time. I gave ’em to you at the
hospital. Pretty sure you left ’em in your room at Mom and Dad’s
house.” He smiled at me and said, “I’m hella glad you’re okay.”

My brother's eyes filled with tears. So had
mine. He turned his head away. I figured he was as uncomfortable
with the emotional moment as I was.

We arrived at Nancy’s cabin without me
coming up with the answer. “I’m gonna go for a walk and think about
this. You go tell Nancy her car’s back. See if she’s ready to head
home, ok?”

“A walk?” I don’t think that’s a good idea,”
Steven said.

“C’mon. Just along the lake. It’s all on
private land. Most of the places are empty. Nobody’ll see me. You
help Nancy get ready to leave.” I said.

“Yeah. Ok. But be careful.” He touched my
shoulder. “You have your phone, right? I’m gonna see about those
papers too. Maybe Dad can get a copy of the police file. I’ll call
his secretary.”

“Good idea. I hope you do better with that
secretary of his than I usually do.”

Steven gave me a thumbs-up as he headed into
the house.

50

I headed along the beach toward our
compound. We’re a mile or two past Nancy and Elliott’s place. A
walk would give me a chance to mull over the unanswered questions.
And perhaps I could re-connect with the feelings of safety and
security that our sweet cabins on the lake provided. Our lakefront
property had been passed down from my maternal grandparents when
they no longer wanted to use it.

Patches of snow lay in the shade. It was a
nice walk; the brisk air felt good. But I still didn’t get it. What
could the Zodiac file possibly have to do with someone shooting at
me and kidnapping Mom? The girl Jennifer: what was her connection?
There must have been something in the file that still mattered to
someone. But the Zodiac guy was dead. So it couldn’t be him.

There had been a note on one report, in
Dad’s writing, “Ask Tom.” What was niggling in the back of my mind?
The threatening letter in legalese, yes, but what else?

I arrived at our compound. Our place was
totally funky, with no pool or spa, small old cabins where the word
cabin was not a misnomer. This was home. This was safe.

The windows in both the living room and the
bedroom of the main house were lit from within. We’d left lights
on?

Our leaving at the end of Labor Day weekend
had been chaotic. Steven and I both had to be in class early the
next morning, and Dad was worried about getting caught in traffic
leaving the lake on a holiday. We had rushed to winterize––draining
water from the pipes so that they didn’t freeze and burst––and
otherwise prepare the cabin for sitting vacant in the cold. We
hadn’t returned during the winter, skipping our normal routine of
spending the Holidays there.

Had someone else used the place? Or maybe as
the lights-out-in-charge, I’d screwed up the job.

I didn’t have a key, but I knew where one
was. I went along the side of the main house, headed for the
boathouse. I caught a glimpse of a car in the parking area in front
of the boathouse, not in the usual parking near the front gate, but
hidden from view from the highway. Mom’s car!

I took another look at the main house. A
thin wisp of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney as though a
small or dying fire burned on the hearth grate. Mom!

With a burst of joy, I ran to the back
door.

51

Inches away from busting through the door,
the thought that I should be cautious hit me. I skidded to a stop
and looked through the window. The pass through from the kitchen to
the living room framed the sight of my mother––tied to a wooden
chair.

She was looking right at me, without any
sign of seeing me. Then, just once, she rolled her eyes to the side
warning me that someone was out of my line of sight.

Shit, that was close.

I crouched and rushed back to the boathouse
on my tiptoes. I crept under Dad’s boat and called Steven.

Damn. Voicemail, and he’s sketchy about
checking his messages. “Mom is tied up in the living room of our
main house on the lake. I’m hiding in the boathouse. I don’t think
I’ve been seen, but maybe––cause I wasn’t careful. Get help! Text
me back, I’m putting my phone on vibrate,” I whispered into the
phone and then I texted.
“I c mom tied up lake house ck vmail
get help”

I couldn’t think what to do next.

Dad would still be in court at this time of
day.

I was afraid to call 911 for fear that local
sheriffs won’t know how to deal with the situation without Mom
getting hurt, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had no idea how
many people were in the house or where they were.

I crawled out from under the boat. I was so
scared, so nervous; it was hard to calm down enough to slow my
racing thoughts, to think straight.

I decided to locate how many people were
where, and then call 911 with the info. I slipped through the
partially open garage doors and stole across the lawn to the bushes
under the dining room window. I saw the back of a large, brawny man
sitting on the sofa opposite Mom. If there was anyone else in the
room, I couldn’t see him.

I crawled to the bedroom window and looked
in. No one in there.

If there was no one in the bathroom, there
might be just one person watching Mom.

The bunkhouse, as we called the cabin that
consisted of four bedrooms and a bath, had high windows. All of the
curtains had been closed for the winter. There was no sign they’d
been disturbed.

I would check the main house one last time,
and then call. Still no sign of anyone else.

I hurried to the far side of the boathouse
and dialed 911.

My heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned
out the ring of the phone. “If this is an emergency please stay on
the line, your call will be answered in the order received . .
."

"Name?”

“Alexandra Nichols.”

“Nature of your emergency?”

“My mom is being held captive at our cabin
on highway––"

Out of nowhere a hand reached from behind
me, grabbed my phone, and flung it into the lake.

52

“Oh no!” I screamed and attempted to turn
around, but my arms were jerked behind my back.

I was shoved around the corner of the
boathouse, bounced off the front bumper of Mom’s car, and
manhandled toward the porch of the main house where I stumbled up
the stairs.

The brawny man inside jumped up, opened the
windowed door. I was pushed into the room and landed on my knees,
barely missing the open fireplace.

Mom screamed.

I screamed.

Two men growled.

I rolled over and saw a three hundred pound,
scary ugly man.

I cowered.

“Where’d ya get dat one? Hey, she’s da one
we shot. You didn’t kill her?” said the brawny man who’d been
watching Mom.

“Shut the fuck up. Tie’er up. I gotta make a
call.” The man who had thrown me on the floor slammed out the door
to the front porch. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying,
but he was definitely upset. Finding me here wasn’t a pleasant
surprise.

Mom’s captor pulled another chair in from
the dining room, shoved me onto it, and used a cord to fasten my
hands and feet to the rungs.

The other guy, the huge fat one, came back
inside. “He says just to keep’em here for another twenty-four. He’s
still pissed off.”

Whoever “He” was, both of these men were
afraid of him. I hated to imagine how awful he’d have to be in
order to scare barbaric bullies like these.

The two of them went out to the porch.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

She nodded. “Don’t talk,” she rasped. Tears
rolled down her cheeks.

She’d probably thought I was dead since the
thugs thought they had killed me.

We both strained to hear what was being said
on the porch, but we could only make out scattered words. Like
“dumbshit,” or “cocksucker” or “fuckup” or “supposed to get the
papers.”

Mom whispered, “Does anyone know you’re
here?”

“I left a voicemail for Steven.”

Mom groaned. She knew the chances of Steven
checking his voicemail as well as I did.

“I started to call 9-1-1.”

“They said they shot you.” Mom’s voice
cracked. She choked back a sob.

“I’m good.”

“They’re coming back,” Mom hissed through
closed teeth.

Fatty did not come inside. He hulked around
the corner of the house.

Brawny came into the room, heaved himself
onto the sofa. “Lady, why don’t’cha have a TV here?”

Mom was silent.

We had no TV because this is where we came
to get away from the world.

He fidgeted, picked up a three year old
Vanity Fair,
thumbed through a few pages, looked at the
photos, threw the magazine across the room in Mom’s direction, and
stared at her as though his boredom were her fault.

She wasn’t the reason he never learned to
read. If he’d been her child, he’d have been a reader.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a
pocket, fingered one out, and lit it. Poor Mom, no one was allowed
to smoke in the house. On the porch yes, but not in the house ever.
Even in the worst storm, smokers were expected to step outside.
What kind of a barbarian smoked inside these days?

Of course there were no ashtrays, but that
still was no excuse for letting ashes drop to the cushions. At
least, when he finished the cigarette, he flung it into the
fireplace.

“Whacha lookin at, bitch?”

I dropped my eyes to my lap. No point in
antagonizing the guy.

We sat in silence. Brawny’s eyelids slowly
closed, his head nodded, he snored like a grizzly bear.

Was it possible that my 9-1-1 call was long
enough to be any use?

Did Steven get the voicemail? Or the
text?

He must be wondering where I was by now.
What would he do? Would he have the same hesitation I did to call
authorities?

In retrospect, I realized I should’ve called
Detective Schmidt. He could’ve coordinated efforts to rescue
Mom.

Would Steven be smarter, calmer than me? I
hoped he wouldn’t come looking for me by himself.

My limbs were starting to numb. How had Mom
withstood days of this? Her eyes were closed. Her head nodded
forward. I hoped she was just asleep.

My mind raced with questions: I had no
answers.

Who were these two goons? They worked for
someone, who?

I’d heard the word “papers”. Did they mean
Dad’s file? There was something in that file that for some reason
was okay for Dad to see, but not for me to read.

There were the papers and reports from the
case file. The police had those too so I eliminated them as being
the problem.

There were notes from Dad, and the letter
from a law firm. I tried to remember the names on the letterhead,
but drew a blank.

Before I was shot at, while I raced across
the campus, something about this had become clear. I mentally
retraced my steps. I’d cut behind the Faculty Club to Faculty
Glade, passed still another bear statue . . . Bing! A bear, what
about a bear? I was afraid of bears, but so what?

I had sat down on a bench in the lawn
outside Kroeber and pulled a wad of papers out of my pocket:
including a letter and a note in Dad’s handwriting, “Ask Tom.” An
overheard conversation. Could I remember a conversation that had
taken place forty years ago, in another lifetime? I closed my eyes,
took several deep cleansing breaths, did my best to relax. I let my
mind float.

“
You asshole, why did you bring that girl
to the ranch? A complete stranger, for god’s sake?” Was that
Jamie’s voice?

Yes, I took several more deep breaths and
tried to forget who was in the room. Shit, could I even possibly do
this. I let my mind wander to the happy times in this room. More
cleansing breaths.

“
You didn’t mind havin’ her. Besides,
it’s water under the bridge. That train left the station. The
question now is, how the hell do we get rid of her? I found a guy
who’ll help us with our problem.”
I had been pretty sure at the
time that was Tom speaking.

“
What do ya mean?”

“
I met this guy. He’s nuts, but hell, if
he gets caught, he’ll get the blame.”

“
You told some guy you met drinking at
the Monkey Inn about our problem? Are you out of your fucking
mind?”

“
He’ll get the blame. He’s a low life, a
loser. We’d have complete deniability.”

“
What about our semen? Did you forget
that?”

“
So they get some blood types.”

“
Multiple blood types that all just
happen to match the four of us!”

“
She’s a whore. It happens. So
what?”

The big ape on the sofa grunted, snored
louder, and slid down toward a more prone position.

I came out of my reverie knowing that was
all I’d heard that day. Of course, back then, they didn’t have DNA
testing. No one could use DNA to tie criminals to their crimes.

Had they killed this Jennifer person?