Shattered (10 page)

She sank to the floor, hugging her knees and shaking hard, and she didn't think she would ever be brave enough to use the phone again.

What was strange, though, was that after that first time, after hearing that voice once, a lot of things began to become clear to her. She felt smarter. She even, in some ways, felt stronger. Sometimes she even started to make plans, but it was hard to hold on to more than one thought at a time, and when he was with her, all her thoughts went away and the world became small again.

Then she went outside again. She saw the house and she held on to that picture and it gave her the courage to take the telephone again, and push the buttons. And this time she knew what she wanted to say.

But ever since then she had been afraid, terribly afraid. She was afraid the machine that had recorded her voice would be used against her somehow, that he would find out, that she would be punished. Then she was afraid that no one would ever hear her plea, that the machine had swallowed it up, that no one cared and she had gone through all of this, taken such terrible chances for nothing. It was hard to think when she was afraid, impossible to remember. And the thing she was most afraid of was that she had forgotten something—something very important.

She didn't feel strong anymore. She didn't feel smart.

It was when she felt small and confused and helpless like this that she missed Tanya the most. Tanya was never afraid. She always knew what to do. She had taken care of them all. But Tanya was faraway now, her voice very small in the dark, and she could not help.

But there was the telephone. And he never bothered to hide his briefcase from her. That fact, in some strange inexplicable way, made her unafraid of him.

When she heard him coming, black despair did not fill her chest the way it usually did. Now she thought of the telephone, and her heart speeded, and it was easy to pretend.

When he saw her, he would smile. “Hello, precious. Would you like to play a game?”

She would smile back. “Yes. I'd like that.”

And then he would kneel down and open his arms to her, and he would leave his briefcase on the floor.

He would leave his briefcase on the floor.

~

Chapter Ten

G
uy, along with everyone in the office who could come up with an excuse to stop by, watched as Deputy Long attached the trace-and-record device to his telephone. It was hardly state-of-the-art equipment—big and bulky and conspicuous as hell—but Guy was mildly impressed that St. Theresa County possessed any kind of surveillance equipment at all.

“So what you do when a call comes in,” Long was explaining, “and you think it's him, you just press this button here. That turns the recorder on, just like an answering machine, forwards the call to the police station, and starts a trace on the line. Of course, with the St. Theresa telephone system it's going to take awhile to trace a call, particularly if it's coming from outside this exchange, so you need to try to keep him on as long as you can.”

Guy said, “How long?”

“About three to five minutes.”

Long looked apologetic when he said it, and Guy nodded. Three minutes was a long time when you were trying to make conversation with a crazy person.

“I work outside my office a lot,” Guy reminded him. “What happens if he calls and I'm not here?”

“Your secretary should put him on hold, come in here and turn on the equipment. Then tell him she's looking for you. The trick is to keep him on hold as long as possible. I'll talk to her about it and show her how to use the equipment. What about your home phone?”

Guy reached into his pocket and pulled out the cellular. “This is it.”

“Well, we can't put a tap on a cell phone,” Long said. “And unless he forgot to block his caller i.d…”  He finished with a small shrug.    “Our best bet is to hope he calls the office again.”

Guy said, “What about my wife?”

Long noted the slip. “Ex-wife, you mean.”

Guy said impatiently, “I've only got one, and believe me that's enough misery for any man. I don't need to add to it by having her hurt by some nut who's out to get me. So is she in danger or what?”

“There's really no evidence that either one of you is in danger,” responded Long. “As I told you before, most telephone threats are just that—threats.”

Guy said, “Then why are you tapping our phones and investigating this like a crime?”

Long began to pack up the metal case in which he had transported the equipment and tools. He said, “When your daughter first ran away, your wife had you investigated as a suspect in a kidnapping.”

Guy frowned sharply. “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

Long's tone was casual. “You just seem awfully worried about a woman who almost tagged you with a criminal record.”

Again Guy's tone was impatient, but his expression was alert and cautious. “I was the noncustodial parent. Carol thought I was hiding Kelly from her and she was hysterical. It didn't amount to anything.”

“No hard feelings, huh?”

Guy said, “I think I could probably help you out a lot more if I had even the smallest idea of what you were getting at.”

Long answered in an easy, almost convincing way, “I'm just trying to get a feel for the case, and the people involved. So there's never been a doubt in your mind that your daughter left home of her own free will?”

If there was a hesitation on Guy's part, it was barely noticeable. “No.”

“And you haven't heard from her at all in the almost three years?”

“No.”

“Why do you think the man on the phone would bring up your daughter at all? How many people knew about the situation with her?”

Guy shook his head impatiently as he began to understand the line of questioning. “It was in the paper for God's sake. We thought she'd been kidnapped or had an accident. Carol started a poster campaign. Everybody knew. As for why he'd bring her up...” Guy shrugged. “For the same reason he brought up Carol. To make me nervous.”

“So you don't think your daughter could be involved in this in any way?”

Guy looked at the deputy for a thoughtful moment before answering. “These are the same questions you asked me yesterday, Deputy. Why is this starting to sound like an interrogation?”

Long answered, “I understand this is a tight-knit community, and you and your ex-wife have been a part of it for a long time. But I've only been here a year, and the only way I know to find out anything is to ask questions. I'm sorry if those questions make you uncomfortable.”

Guy started to form an irritated protest, but then he caught the watchfulness in the officer's mild, steady gaze. He fought with a wry grin, and for the most part, lost. “You're good,” he admitted. “Where're you from?”

“St. Petersburg, most recently.”

“Thought you'd opt for the peace and quiet of the Forgotten Coast, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Guy abandoned his interviewer's tone. He said, quietly, “When you lose a child—particularly when you don't know what you've lost her to, whether she's dead or alive—it’s hard to think about, much less talk about. Carol and I can't even talk about it without...” He ended the sentence with a frustrated breath. “Look, I can't answer your question. It didn't sound like Kelly's voice on the tape, but maybe I didn't want it to sound like her. Carol's so sure it is, maybe you should listen to her. She never did think I was much of a father.”

“Was it a bitter divorce?”

“Is there any other kind?” Then Guy frowned, annoyed with his own plunge into irrelevancy, and said, “The only thing I know is that whoever is behind this knows how to push my buttons. I can take care of myself, but he brought my family into it. I'm not going to have other people put in danger because of me.”

Long nodded. “Like I said, I don't think anyone is in danger yet, and most likely nothing will come of this. But it's best to be on the safe side. Have you thought any more about the 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' connection?”

“I haven't thought of much else.” Guy walked with him toward the door. “I figured it might have something to do with a story I've covered, but I've been in this business a long time. I can't remember every single story.”

“That's funny,” said Long.

“What?”

“It’s a nursery rhyme, something most folks would associate with their kids. But you think it’s related to work.” He opened the door and paused, looking at Guy. “You really don't want to believe your daughter is involved, do you?”

Guy had no answer to that. Long put on his hat, nodded to Guy, and left.

~

Chapter Eleven

B
y the time Carol got home that evening, her back was hurting so badly she could barely climb the stairs. After leaving Carlton in Laura's hands after lunch, she had spent the next three hours pushing through brambles and picking sand spurs out of her clothes, showing property to two rather unpromising prospective buyers. Midafternoon she had rushed home to meet Deputy Long, who wanted to install a tap on her phone and show her how to work it. His attitude, as it had been before, was condescending, and he left her with the distinct impression that, if her ex-husband had not been a reporter whose favor he wished to curry, he would have considered the wiretaps an unnecessary extravagance. He left her feeling furious, patronized, and uncertain. To offset her own sense of growing impotence, she spent the remainder of the day combing the island, leaving photographs of Kelly with realtors, shopkeepers and transient vendors who had already begun to set up booths on the streets. Between herself and Laura, they had covered all but the west side of Main Street and, of course, the seasonal lessors who hadn't opened their stores yet.

Every single query had been met with a blank look, and Carol had never felt more foolish, more tired and defeated, in her life. Maybe Guy was right, maybe the police were right. She was wasting her time. After all, if anything could be helped by circulating a few photographs, wouldn't the sheriff's department have done it already? Wouldn't the previous fliers have brought Kelly home?

Carol turned on the light and stepped out of her shoes, wincing a little as she shifted her weight from her right foot to her left and a spasm of pain grabbed at her waist. Even after all this time she couldn't get used to coming in to an empty house, especially at night. The bank of windows was like the eyes of a monstrous giant, giving back her own reflection in prismed fractions and distorted pieces. The sterile silence was unwelcoming, and seemed to overwhelm even the background sigh and splash of the surf. When Guy and Kelly lived here, there was never a silent moment; it used to drive her crazy, the noise they made.

She moved forward to draw the blinds over the beachside windows, and stopped, her heart leaping absurdly to her throat when the phone rang. Her eyes went quickly to the instrument and the ugly police machinery attached to it and for a moment she was gripped by a paralysis of indecision, of anticipation, dread, hope, and reluctance. Her phone rang all the time, eighty percent of her business was initiated through the telephone and there was no reason to believe that this call would be different from any other. That just because the police had installed a tracing device only hours ago, she might have a chance to use it with the first call—there was no reason to believe, none at all, that it might be Kelly.

Energy galvanized her limbs in a rush and she went quickly to the desk that held the telephone attached to the machine. Her finger was poised over the activation button as she picked up the receiver on the third ring and said breathlessly, “Hello?”

***

From the beach below he watched, his shoulders hunched against the wind inside his nylon jacket, resentment rising inside him like bile with each passing moment. It never failed to irritate him, walking down the beach and looking at the big gaudy houses that rambled over the dunes, each one of them representing an investment of a million dollars or more. Who the hell made that kind of money? Who the hell deserved that kind of luck? And the worst of it was, for most of those rich assholes the million-dollar piece of real estate was just a part-time residence, a weekend retreat, something they barely thought about until it came time to pay the taxes. Hell, most of them didn't even bother paying taxes.

Sometimes he'd walk for hours up and down the beach, looking at the big houses and wondering about the people who were in them, trying to figure out why they deserved everything and he ended up with nothing. Sometimes he'd walk right up the boardwalk and try the doors and windows, and sometimes—he himself was amazed at how often—a door was left unlocked or a window open and he'd just walk right in and make himself at home. Marble foyers, Jacuzzi tubs, expensive scotch, he was no stranger to any of it. He had to be careful though, and he couldn't enjoy his forays into the upper crust as much as he might have liked because the last thing he needed was to be hassled by the cops for small shit when he was working on something big.

He walked mostly at night, when lighted windows turned those expensive beachfront homes into fishbowls and their aristocratic occupants went about their business completely oblivious to any other life form, supremely confident that their money could protect them from anything. He liked to stand on the beach and watch them, taking a kind of scornful satisfaction in nothing more than the fact that they didn't know he was watching. He always ended up here, in front of the gray castle. He would have done so even if he hadn't known who lived there. Because it was bad enough to have to deal with the rich arrogant assholes who had more than they knew what to do with, but when the bitches started taking over ... well, that was when something had to be done.