Secure Location (22 page)

“Yes. He stopped for food. I asked him where he was living and he said that he’d moved to an apartment in the Valdez area.”

“Street?” Cruz demanded.

She shook her head. “He said he was getting lots of exercise because he was on the fourth floor.”

* * *

“
H
URTING ME ISN’T
going to bring Missy back,” Meg said.

T.J. shook his head. “I don’t care about Missy. I never did. I hated her. Always crying and getting all the attention.”

Missy had been a good baby. She’d hardly ever been fussy. And she’d idolized her big brother. Tried to follow him everywhere, be just like him. If T.J. wanted hot dogs for lunch, then that’s what Missy wanted.

He could do no wrong.

Except that one time. With a chill, Meg remembered walking into the family room, expecting to see T.J. and Missy watching a movie and instead, had seen T.J. with a toy gun in his hands, shooting Missy’s collection of dolls that he’d lined up across the room.

Missy had been sitting on the couch, tears running down her face.

Meg had gathered up the guns, put the dolls safely back on Missy’s shelves and told T.J. that he couldn’t ever do something like that again. She’d mentioned it to Gloria and the gun had disappeared by the next time she went over to babysit.

“You don’t want to go to prison, T.J. That’s what will happen if you hurt me,” she said. “It’s not too late. We can undo this.”

“I hated you, too,” he said. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. He started to sway from side to side. “You loved Missy more, just like everyone else.”

“I didn’t,” she said. She glanced past him. If she could get around the couch, she might make it to the door before he could stop her. “I’m sorry you thought that.”

He ignored the apology. “But I figured out a way to get both of you,” he said. He was swaying so fast, it looked as if he were rocking. “It was easy, too. I heard the doorbell ring and knew that you’d gone to answer the door. I wanted ice cream but I sure as hell wasn’t asking you for anything. I saw her sitting in her highchair with the marshmallows at the other end of the table. I wanted some. I ate one and she started to cry. I didn’t want you coming back so I gave her a bunch. She stuffed them all in her mouth. Her cheeks were full of them. She was stupid. Couldn’t even figure out how to swallow.”

He abruptly stopped rocking and started pacing around her in circles. “She started to turn blue. I knew I’d get the blame. I always got the blame for everything. So I loosened up the tray on the highchair, pulled her out and sat her on the table, next to the bag of marshmallows. Then I went back into the other room and started watching television again.” He lifted one corner of his mouth in an ugly sneer. “When the police came, you told them that I’d been watching television the whole time. You made it so easy for everyone to blame you.”

Meg put a hand to her throat, pressing down the urge to vomit. She hadn’t been careless. She hadn’t caused sweet Missy’s death. He had. All these years. All the guilt.

Leaving Cruz.

Being afraid to have her own child.

She had never been so angry in her whole life.

Or so determined. She needed to save her baby, save herself. And T.J. was obviously crazy. Earlier he’d been blaming her for all his family’s troubles when he clearly knew that he’d caused all the havoc. She didn’t need to convince him that she hadn’t done anything wrong; he knew. “I always hoped I’d see you again,” she said. “I had some pictures of your mother. Of her and you together that I wanted to give you.”

His head jerked up. She’d caught his attention.

“Where?” he demanded.

Given that he’d been in both her apartment and her office, those weren’t good options. “I have a safe deposit box at the bank. I keep all my important papers there.”

“Which bank?”

“The one across from the hotel,” she said. “I have the key in my purse,” she said. “Back at the office. Of course, it won’t do you much good. Banks are really strict about who gets access. If your name isn’t on the list, it doesn’t matter whether you have a key or not.”

He started to rock again. “How many pictures?” he asked.

“I don’t recall for sure. But I know there were several and they were really good shots. I think one of them was of your mom and you sitting on your front porch. Remember when you used to do that?”

He didn’t answer. Sweat was running down his face. Without saying another word, he picked up his phone. He pushed a button, putting it on speaker. Then he connected to directory assistance. “Fillmore Federal in San Antonio,” he said. While the operator was connecting the call, he pointed a finger at her. “Get them to verify that you’ve got a safe deposit box there or you’ll be dead before they hang up the phone.”

Meg swallowed hard. When the bank answered, she asked to be transferred to the safe deposit department.

“Hi,” she said. “This is Margaret Montoya calling. I’m a little embarrassed to be making this call but I relocated to San Antonio within the last year and opened accounts at two different banks. I also opened a safe deposit box at one bank but I can’t quite remember which bank.” She laughed nervously. “Would you be able to tell me if I have a safe deposit box at your bank?”

The woman at the other end chuckled. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who forgets things.” There was a pause. “Yes, Ms. Montoya. Your safe deposit box is with us.”

Meg looked at T.J. He was breathing so hard that it almost seemed as if he was panting. “Thank you so much,” Meg said. “What are your hours today?”

“We’re open until four,” the woman said.

“Thanks again,” Meg said, and hung up. Four. They closed in less than fifteen minutes. The ride from the hotel to the apartment had taken at least that. There was no time to get it today.

“We need that key. Damn it,” he added, as he slammed his fist into the wall. Meg tried not to flinch. She’d managed to get a tiny bit of leverage. She didn’t want him to realize that she was so frightened that she could barely breathe.

“We’re going back to the hotel tonight. And you’re going to get your safe deposit key,” he said. “Then tomorrow, we’re going to the bank. If you do anything stupid, a lot of people will die.”

There would be multiple opportunities for escape. She would find one and end this, before anyone got hurt because of her. She could not live with that again.

“Sit there,” he said, motioning for her to move from her chair to the couch.

She shook her head. “I can sit here,” she said.

“Move, damn it,” he yelled and he pointed his gun at her.

She got up. She would survive this. She would have to. Her baby’s life depended upon it.

She sat on the couch, near the armrest, and he crouched next to her. The next thing happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that she yelped when a cold, black steel manacle snapped around her wrist.

She looked down. Anchoring her in place was a thick metal chain connected to a bolt that was drilled into the old wood floor. She was trapped, like an animal in a cage.

Chapter Twenty-One

Meg bit her lip. She would not beg or cry. She would not give him the satisfaction. She would simply endure.

He surprised her when he backed away and pulled out the lone metal chair that sat at one end of the narrow table. He sat, his left side toward her. She watched as he picked up a gun, cradled it in one hand and gently rubbed it with a rag.

He didn’t say another word to her. Sometime later, maybe forty minutes or so, she saw one of his hands drift down below the table and he stroked himself through his pants. Her breath caught in her chest. She wanted to look away but she was frozen.

It went on for some minutes before he pushed back his chair and walked into the small bathroom. He shut the door but the wood was thin and the gap between the door and the floor significant. The sounds from the small room told the story.

A minute after he
finished,
the door opened. He didn’t look at her. He picked up the sleeping bag that hung on the back of the door, untied the strings, unrolled it onto the dirty carpet and lay down. He was asleep in minutes.

She had to pee but even if she could have gotten up, she didn’t think she would ever ask to use that bathroom. She would hold it until she exploded.

She couldn’t sleep. Not after what T.J. had told her. Everything she believed for years had changed and her mind was whirling.

Melissa Ann Percy. Everybody had called her Missy. And everybody had loved her, especially Meg. She’d been the little sister that Meg had always wanted. And whenever the Percys had called her to babysit, she’d jumped at the chance.

Mrs. Percy had always dressed her daughter like a little doll, in sweet dresses with matching tights. Missy’s blond hair had natural curls and she was forever losing the barrettes that Gloria insisted she start the day with.

A half hour before Missy died, Meg had run the bath water. It was the middle of July and Missy had been sweaty and dirty from playing outside. Meg could still feel the weight of the little girl’s body as she picked her up and swung her over the edge of the white tub. She’d soaped her up and Missy had giggled and squirmed and when she was all rinsed off, Meg had wrapped her wet naked body in a big towel.

She’d smelled so good.

Meg had dressed her in her favorite pajamas, the ones with little pigs running across them. And she’d brushed the tangles out of her hair. And she’d said yes when the little girl had begged for a treat before bedtime.

She’d been big enough to crawl up into her highchair and she’d raised her little arms, impatient for Meg to attach the tray. Then she’d grinned when Meg had pulled a bag of marshmallows out of the cupboard. They were her favorite.

Meg had given her one and watched her eat it. Then another. And then the doorbell had rung.

It was almost eight-thirty and close to dark. But she hadn’t been scared. Maiter wasn’t Houston, where Meg’s family had always double-checked to make sure their windows and doors were locked. It was the kind of place where kids slept out in the backyard in tents and teenagers hung around the park at night after the summer baseball game had ended, talking and maybe sneaking the occasional cigarette.

Everybody knew everybody. And while some teenage girls might have been bored in the little town, Meg had been glad that her dad had lost his job in Houston and they’d moved to Maiter. Otherwise, she’d have never met the Percys who lived across the street in the big white house. She’d never have met Missy.

She’d gone to answer the door and it had been Mrs. Moore, the woman who lived next door. The Percys had been collecting her mail while she’d been out of town visiting her mother and she’d come to get it. Meg had retrieved it off the big dining room table, chatted for just a minute, and closed the heavy door after the woman.

And then she’d gone back into the kitchen. And sweet Missy had been lying on the kitchen table, her lips blue.

Not breathing.

The open bag of marshmallows was next to her, with more spilled out on the table.

Meg had grabbed her, stuck her fingers in her mouth, and swept out half-chewed marshmallows. But she remained unresponsive. Meg had looked up and T.J. was standing in the doorway, between the kitchen and living room, his eyes wide. “Stay here,” Meg had yelled and she’d run out of the house into the night, the little girl in her arms, screaming for help.

Hours later, when it had all been over, and she’d been sitting at her own kitchen table, listening to the police talk to her parents, she’d heard them say “lodged in her windpipe, just like a cork.”

The small town, the one that she’d started to really like, was no longer friendly and welcoming. Because everywhere she went, she was the girl who let sweet Missy Percy choke to death.

But she hadn’t.

For years she’d relived every moment of that night, breaking each action into discreet moments. She’d heard the click of the tray snapping onto the highchair, hadn’t she? She’d only talked to the neighbor for a minute, right?

It drove her crazy.

In the end, she’d realized it didn’t matter. Missy was dead. The Percys had lost a daughter. T.J. had lost a sister.

She
had lost everyone’s trust. She’d disappointed the people who loved her most.

Now, she stared at Troy Blakely and felt as if she wanted to jump out of her own skin. She hated. For the first time in her life, she knew that she honestly hated.

Intellectually, on a better day, she knew that she might be able to reason that he was a sick man. Had obviously been a sick child. But she could not bring herself to feel sorry for him.

No. She felt sorry for his parents. At what point did they know that they had raised a monster? At what point did they stop thinking about their little girl? They never got to see her first day of kindergarten, her first high school dance, her college graduation. They never again got to feel her chubby arms wrap around their necks. They never got to kiss her good-night and stroke her soft hair.

Her own parents had suffered, too. She could still remember sitting on the top step in the dark, weeks after Missy’s death, listening to her parents talk in the downstairs living room. Her father had been loudest.
How could she have been so careless?
Her mother’s voice softer but no less filled with despair.
I don’t know.

A month later, after her father had lost his job, she’d tried to tell them how sorry she was. She’d cried and they’d told her that they still loved her. Her mother had patted her hand.
We will never talk about this again.

And she hadn’t.

But she had thought about it every day for the past twenty years. And she had grieved.

* * *

M
YERS’S TEAM IDENTIFIED
twenty-nine buildings that had four or more stories in the eight-block area known as Valdez. It was called that because it surrounded Valdez Park, where a small statue marked the contributions of some hero from the Spanish-American war. The park might have been nice at one time but now it was run-down, matching the apartment buildings that lined the streets. At least half of them had more than ten floors and six had more than twenty floors. It was a hell of a lot of space to cover.