Misplaced Innocence (22 page)

It was enough to make him scream. A direction was not enough to go on. Arizona was a big state. The country was a big country. Who knew where they were now and where they had headed. Who knew if they had turned around at some point, or whether they had continued on in a car or changed transit at some point? If someone didn’t do something productive soon, he was liable to have a total breakdown.

Bill jammed the hat back on his head, unconcerned with the new wrinkles. Apparently he was about fed up with the proceedings as well. But there didn’t seem to be much else to do at the scene, and even the officers seemed to be losing focus, drifting toward their cars, stopping to have a cigarette too close to the active scene. He couldn’t bear to watch anymore.
 

“Let’s go ahead and get out of here, Bill. I don’t think there’s anything else we can do here.”

Bill stared out at the group of ambling uniforms. “No, I’d say there’s not.” He reached out a hand to clap Jared’s back and it was almost enough to ruin his tenuous grip on life.
 

Jared and Bill stepped away from their post, leaving the group to their work, and tried to imagine that something positive was in the process of taking place.

~*~

Hours had passed. Charisma sat in the dark, the quiet permeating every bit of her being. Her blindfold had been, thankfully, removed earlier. The tight cords binding her were pressed painfully into her abdomen, the pressure on her bladder almost unbearable. She had been trying to come up with ways to explain that she needed to go to the bathroom, but being gagged and bound greatly inhibited any communicative vocalization or gesticulation. She refrained from whimpering or drawing attention to herself in case the men believed she was being difficult and hit her again. But she finally realized she didn’t have much of an option. She was fairly certain no one had addressed the fact that at some point she would need to empty her bladder. Now was the time.

She cleared her throat the best she could and began. She started with, “excuse me,” but it came out more of a slurred “ehhhhhssssssmmaaaa.”

The men looked up at her from there respective corners. Frankie raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Think the bitch has something to say,” Freddie grunted.

Frankie gave a monotone grumble in response.

“Ahhh sehhh, ehhhsssmmaa, plleeehhsss.”

“What is she saying?”

“Don’t know. Take off her gag.” Frankie commanded, even though he was substantially closer to her. Freddie rolled his eyes, but complied. “Shut her up if she starts screaming. Whatever it takes.” His eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits. He reached around her, getting uncomfortably close to her face with his chest, taking his time as he pulled her gag free. His clothes smelled of beer and tobacco smoke and sweat. Like he just came from a pool hall. That could be the stereotype talking, but then again, she wasn’t making up the odor.
 

She felt her mouth liberated just as she thought the scent might make her sick and Freddie’s thin form retreated, although leisurely.
 

“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, looking down at her feet, running her tongue over her parched lips and taking a moment to stretch her jaw. The meeker the better, she figured.

“What?” One word. Direct. No way to stretch it out. Frankie certainly had an approach he favored.

She hesitated a moment, but desperation drove her forward. “I have to, um, use the bathroom.” The men looked at each other, clearly this occurrence had never been considered as a possibility.
 

“Hold it,” Frankie finally decided was the best approach. With a flair and a flip of the newspaper, he returned to reading.
 

“I can’t.” She was almost whimpering, even though she was trying her best to remain as practical as possible.
 
“I
have
been holding it.” Frankie looked at Freddie, who shrugged.
 

“Dominic’ll be here soon. We can talk about it then.”
 

“Sir,” she began, sickeningly sweet, sure if she didn’t get to a restroom soon she’d be sitting in a puddle. “I’ve been in the back of your van all day. Since then, I’ve been sitting here for hours, and if I don’t get to a bathroom soon, I think I might pee my pants.” Direct, right back at him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Frankie sighed, unfolding his lanky body from the chair. “Take my chair, and I’ll kill you.” He threw a glare at Freddie that convinced even Charisma that this was not a joke. Not that she could really see the point in killing someone over a chair. However, it was Freddie, and at this point she wasn’t entirely sure there was much of a reason not to kill the man.

He untied her from the chair, then leaned down to untie her feet.
 

“You try to run; I’ll kill you.” He said with that same expression. Everything was matter of fact. To illustrate his point, he pulled back one side of his dark blazer to reveal a holstered gun. Charisma nodded. Like she could even outrun this guy under the best of circumstances, let alone with her hands tied behind her back with yards of cord.
 

He ushered her down the smallest of hallways with one hand on her shoulder and one hand on his gun. She could see the telephone on the bedside table, and ached to be able to reach out and use it. So close and so far. Frankie paused at the door to the bathroom and pushed her none-too-gently forward.
 

“Pee fast.” He said, leaning against the doorframe and setting himself up for the show.
 

“Could I… have a little privacy?”

He considered for a moment, apparently decided that watching her pee wasn’t going to be all that exciting anyway, and turned three-quarters of the way away from her. “A little,” he begrudged.

Charisma would take whatever she could get. She stepped forward to the toilet, wishing she could slam the door behind her and have just a few minutes to herself in the hopes of regrouping. That certainly was not an option. In the mean time, she was going to have to figure out a way to get out of her pants. The restraints around her wrist were a pretty big inconvenience when it came to undressing. She sure as hell was not going to let Frankie help her out in that department.

“Uhh,” she began, but wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“What now? This isn’t enough? Let me guess, you need a damn tampon.”
 

“No, no, I just need… well, I mean, how do you propose I drop my pants when my hands tied?”

“Oh, well that’s easy. I’ll help you,” he chuckled, but there was a hint of eagerness in his voice that frightened and disgusted her.

“No.” She pushed back the panic. “I’m sure I can find a way without your help.”

“Hurry it up, then. Find a way,” was his only response. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting for her to fail, waiting for her to need him to help her undress. She pursed her lips and resolved to not let that be an option.

Charisma fumbled with the button and zipper and shimmied her pants down her thighs in a process that even she didn’t fully understand. Relief washed over her as she sat down on the cool toilet seat. She was thankful that she wouldn’t be spending the next undetermined number of hours in urine-drenched pants. She emptied her bladder and did the best she could with the toilet paper, unrolling half the roll before she got the length she needed, and as quickly as she could, pulled her pants up and refastened them. She leaned forward to nudge the toilet’s handle and heard the whoosh of the water rush down the pipe. She was already dreading the return to her chair and the return of the cords. Her skin burned from where the cords had bitten into her flesh. She let the cool water from the sink run over her hands and wrists, hoping that the water would help ease the pain and not encourage chaffing. Maybe she would even be able to stretch the dampened cords, save the loose space for later. Maybe, just maybe, there was the possibility that she could come up with a plan to get her out of this mess.

Until then, she would sit in the hotel room with nothing but time to think about what was coming next, and what she could do to avoid it.

Alex Lansing let himself drop into the wheeled chair in front of his computer and dragged a palm across his face. Every morning he walked in and sat down and thought about how he at least deserved a comfortable chair, one that wouldn’t leave him aching and ready to scream an hour into another one of his never-ending days. He kept saying he was going to run out and pick one up for himself, and somehow he kept ending up back in this one, faux leather, creaky wheels, lopsided chair that plummeted in whichever direction he happened to accidentally lean.

He raised a steaming cup of coffee to his mouth. He was an early morning regular at the local gas station because he couldn’t quite bring himself to shell out the money for Starbucks. Black coffee was pretty much black coffee. Every now and then he sprung for Dunkin’ Donuts, but only when there was a bagel thrown in. The bitter liquid washed down his throat and began to ease away the morning fog. It galled him to know he was just another caffeine addict, but then again, who wasn’t? He began to shuffle the papers stacked haphazardly around his deck so he could access his keyboard and mouse and booted up the computer. He had even come to hate the annoying sound as the computer came to life. Damn chirpy early morning computers.

He had a dozen new cases he was trying to get through, none of which had any promising leads and some of which he expected would never go anywhere further than his desk and never be resolved. That wasn’t including all the old shelved ones that had been temporarily abandoned until some more information became available to them. He tried not to think about how, for some of those cases, that information might not ever come in, and the binders full of information and victims would never be marked as solved.

He sighed again and pulled the receiver from its cradle. The red light was flashing. Messages for him to sit through. Great. Just another unpleasant aspect of his morning routine. He’d choose a fresh scene to this follow-up any day of the week – at least then he would feel useful, productive. He could never shake the feeling that these phone calls and messages were just keeping him from making progress somewhere else.
 
He hit the button to retrieve his voicemail and reached for a well-used pen. He was taking another sip of coffee when the message began. Just someone from AFIS about a hit in the system. His hand was poised to record the number and name on the pad of paper in front of him while his free hand reached out for the over-sized binder that held the information on his current cases. He fully expected the hit to be relevant to one of those neatly annotated pages.

He almost spit out his coffee when he realized it wasn’t.

~*~

Jared made his way through his house. He had no real purpose in his travels, up and down the hallways, in and out of rooms. He picked up and absentmindedly studied different knickknacks. He held glossy, framed photos and didn’t notice the picture. He had been doing it for hours and he couldn’t seem to stop.
 

Every now and then he would sit down on the sofa, maybe at the kitchen table, thinking that he had finally worked everything out of his system, that he would be able to stop the relentless pacing and activity and find a little peace. It didn’t work. He was itching to move two minutes later and he was coming to accept the fact that it didn’t seem likely to change.
 

Scruffy followed him around the house, brushing up against his legs, the same anxious energy coursing through her. She was as dedicated as he was and showed no signs of becoming tired or bored with their trek.
 

He couldn’t put the pieces together. He didn’t know when she had left his house. He wasn’t sure what had happened at her house. The only thing he was one hundred per cent sure about was that she didn’t go willingly. Everything else could have been staged, but she would never have left Scruffy sitting in the cab of her truck, just waiting. She was probably still worrying about her now, along with God knows what else, wondering if someone had come across her and rescued her from the heat of the day and the toxicity of the vehicle.

Jared tried to push out any thoughts of Charisma not being able to have those thoughts. He wasn’t really to a point yet where he was ready to imagine her incapacitated in any way – especially not permanently.
 

He had made his way through the house several times, taking the opportunity to do a thorough cleaning, when he realized his usefulness in the house had long since ebbed. He made his way outside, Scruffy at his heels, to walk the perimeter of some of his fences. If was going to be up and thinking he might as well be accomplishing something. Not that there was anything in those pastures, but hey, upkeep was upkeep.

The worst of the day had passed, but the sun still lit up the sky with its warm glow. He would need time to prepare for repairs, but for now he marked down all the posts that needed to be relaid, the rotten rails that needed to be replaced.

He had several cryptic notations scrawled in an old pad of paper when a dark car pulled up his drive. It wasn’t anything unusual, really, as far as cars go, but it was certainly not one he recognized, and he was filled with a sense of dread and expectation, trying not to hinge his hopes on people bringing him good news and trying not to anticipate the worst news.
 

The car pulled to a stop, and Jared was caught somewhere between wanting to stop everything and stare until he could figure out exactly what was going to come, and wanting to turn his head away and pretend he didn’t see it at all. He had just about convinced himself he could pull the latter option off when the heavy sound of the car door swinging shut jarred him away from the notebook and fence.

A man stepped out of the car, looking worse for the wear. Jared squinted against the dying sunlight for a better view. His hair was too long, almost shaggy, and he raked a hand through it. From the passenger side, a slender woman appeared, straightening her pencil skirt and not seeming to mind the layer of dust that was already settling on her leather pumps.