Snake Skin (8 page)

"All summer she's insisted on wearing the
same clothes over and over. Black jeans two sizes too large, a
baggy black sweat shirt and a tanktop under it. And those ugly
clunky shoes you bought her."

"Dansko, they're called Dansko," Gerald put
in.

"Whatever. She did her own laundry, so I
told her as long as her clothes were clean I didn't care what she
wore. You have to pick your battles, right?"

"Those are gone? Didn't she have anything
else?" Lucy began to open the dresser drawers. Except for the ones
on top which were filled with underwear and socks—mixed together
and not folded, she was relieved to see, so Ashley wasn't a
space-mutant-neat-freak after all—the rest were empty.

"She took some things over to Goodwill a few
weeks ago. Said they didn't fit her anymore." Melissa peered into
the empty drawers, a wrinkle daring to dig itself into her botoxed
forehead. "Surely she didn't give them all away..."

"Oh my God—you have no idea what was going
on with your own daughter's life!" Gerald thundered.

"Shut up! It's not like you had a clue
either."

Lucy stepped between the two parents. "What
was the fight about? The one that made her run away."

"She wanted an advance on her allowance—five
hundred dollars. I told her no, but that I'd happily give her the
money if she told me what it was for. She wouldn't. We exchanged
words and the next morning she was gone."

"Is that what she told you?" Lucy asked
Gerald.

"She wouldn't tell me what the fight was
about. I fed her breakfast, took her shopping but she wasn't
interested in anything except those ugly damned shoes. Then I drove
her home to her mother's."

Why did Lucy have the sudden feeling that
Ashley was the most mature member of the Yeager family? "Did she
seem depressed, moody lately?"

"No," said Gerald.

"Yes." Melissa blanched. "Giving away her
clothes, do you think she could be thinking of killing herself? No,
never, she wouldn't do that to me." She sank onto the bed and began
massaging her temples as if she had a headache.

"We don't have enough information to decide
anything yet, Mrs. Yeager. Has Ashley's weight changed? Any new
friends? Arguments or falling out with old friends?"

Both parents looked blank.

"Can you give us a list of any of her
friends? In particular any close friends or boyfriends."

"I have her class list from school. She was
very popular. But we didn't allow boyfriends."

Lucy didn't comment on the mom's use of the
past tense. "I know these questions might be hard, but they're
important. Is she taking any prescription medication? Are her
periods regular? Any signs of drinking or drug use?"

Gerald looked away, shoulders hunched, hands
thrust deep into his pockets, marring the perfect lines of his
trousers. Melissa stared at the floor, entranced by the beige rug,
shaking her head again, her ponytail whacking the bare skin of her
neck like a scourge.

"No, no drugs or medicines. But it's been
awhile since she had her period—girls her age are always irregular,
though. That doesn't mean anything." She looked up. No one would
meet her gaze except Lucy. "Does it?"

"You self-centered bitch!" Gerald's attack
was sudden, cutting through the silence in the room. "Why do you
think she wore baggy clothing all summer? Why do you think she
wanted money? You turned our little girl into a whore just like her
mother and now she's run off to get an abortion!"

"How dare you call me a whore! You were the
one who couldn't keep his dick in his pants." Melissa launched to
her feet, hands held high, claws aimed at his face.

Walden, bless his heart, sidled to one side,
effortlessly catching her around the waist and pivoting her back
down onto the bed where she landed in a flutter of floral
chintz.

The Pittsburgh guy, Burroughs, came into the
room at a run, then stopped when he saw things were under
control.

"Agent Walden, why don't you take Mrs.
Yeager back downstairs and document her statement. Mr. Yeager, if
you wouldn't mind finishing yours with Detective Burroughs?" Lucy
made little soothing sounds, guiding the parents out. "We really
appreciate your help. Remember, nothing is too insignificant, so
take your time."

She shut the door behind them, savoring the
quiet. Christ, the room even smelled sterile. But somewhere in this
empty space existed the ghost of a teenaged girl. A girl who was
either taken or ran….and if she ran, did she run alone? Or did she
have help?

The itchy-crawly feeling tingling beneath
her skin told Lucy that whatever happened, Ashley hadn't been
alone. But she had no proof. Yet.

"All right Miz Ashley, come out, come out
wherever you are."

Chapter 7

Saturday, 11:28 am

Ashley woke for the second time. The first
time she'd been bouncing along in the dark, like on some kind of
weird roller coaster ride. She'd convinced herself it was only a
dream. A bad dream, but just a dream.

Wrong, dummy. It was a nightmare. Her worst
nightmare come true.

Her tongue stuck to the back of her teeth,
her lips were cracked, her head throbbed, pins and needles raced up
and down her arms and legs, she was ready to hurl at any moment,
and she had to pee. Her eyes were wide-open, but she saw nothing
but impenetrable black.

Had he blinded her? She blinked hard. Still
nothing. Then she realized there were no noises. God, what had he
done to her?

She tried to scream but all that emerged was
a tiny squeak. But she heard it, she could hear it. That small
triumph gave her the energy to take a deep breath, try to clear her
fuzzy brain. She choked on the rank smell—good God, what was
that?

Whatever the cause of the sickly sweet odor,
it was too much for her stomach to handle. She rolled over, onto
all fours, retching. Nothing came except the sour taste of acid and
a mouthful of saliva. That didn't stop her guts from trying their
best to kick their way from the inside out.

Finally the cramps and nausea passed. She
rested her head on the cool floor. It was smooth. Cement? No, not
cold enough. Her fingers traced over it, felt embossing. Small
squares or diamonds. Linoleum.

Thinking seemed to help the buzzing in her
brain, so she cautiously crawled forward, hands sweeping out before
her, exploring her new universe. Trying hard not to panic.

How had she gotten here? Bobby—she had gone
to meet Bobby. Oh God, had something happened to him?

"Bobby?" Her voice was a hoarse croak. She
swallowed and tried again. "Bobby? Anyone, is there anyone
there?"

Now she was screaming which only made her
head pound more and burned her throat. She had the feeling she'd
tried screaming the first time she woke, her throat felt
shredded.

She flailed forward only to be yanked hard
by one ankle. Flopping over, she stretched, patting her clothing,
reassured that other than her jacket missing and her pockets
emptied, nothing seemed disturbed. Wait, that was weird—her shoes
were gone as well. Above her sock on her left ankle was a thick
wire cable, the kind used when you tied a dog to a stake.

She wanted to scream again but instead
forced herself to examine the wire. It was cinched tight around her
leg, not even a fingertip could fit below it. A metal clasp held it
in place, fastened by a small padlock. Reversing her orientation,
she followed the cable back to its origin. A round pole, smooth,
metal, rose up from the floor.

Hauling herself up the length of the pole,
she stood. A wave of nausea and dizziness hit her. She grabbed onto
the pole, liking its cold against her forehead and cheek. It helped
to ease the headache.

Her clothing was soaked in sweat but her
teeth were chattering. Like she had a fever or something. Once the
vertigo passed, she stood on tiptoe, tried to follow the pole up.
And hit nothing. She tried to follow the wire, but couldn't walk.
The darkness was so complete and disorienting that without the pole
to hang on to, she fell. She couldn't even see her hand when she
waved it in front of her face.

Blind, she was blind—no, no, it was just
dark. A basement—but basements had windows, basements had sounds:
water pipes and furnaces and outside noises. All right, not a
basement. A soundproofed room with no windows. Like a vault.

She shuddered, hugging her pole. Or like a
coffin.

What if there was no air either? Maybe she
was using up all her oxygen, wasting it by screaming and crawling
around when she should be saving it?

Who cared?
A distant voice echoed
through her brain. If she was dead, she was dead. But since it
hadn't happened yet, no sense giving up. What if Bobby was lying
just beyond her, what if she was his only hope?

Emboldened by the thought, she dropped back
to her hands and knees and followed the wire out to its end,
measuring the dimensions of her prison. It stretched eight feet in
all directions, the pole at the center.

Maybe she was trapped in a storage unit? Or
she could be underground in an old mine shaft or abandoned swimming
pool that had been built over or a secret government lab like in
that horror film...Quashing the leading edge of her hysteria, she
continued forward. No signs of Bobby or any other living person.
Her hand brushed something plastic. A bucket of water that she
almost up-dumped. No cup or ladle. She dunked her face into it,
slurping the lukewarm, stale water as fast as she could. She
couldn't remember ever being this thirsty.

Next to the bucket she found a bedside
commode, like the ones at the nursing home where she'd gone to sing
Christmas carols last year. Better than wetting her pants. With her
bladder empty and her thirst slacked, she returned to sit with her
back against her pole, the new center of her universe, knees drawn
up to her chest, arms hugging herself.

She'd almost gotten used to the stench—as
long as she remembered to breathe through her mouth. But now that
she had time to think, she remembered where she'd recognized the
odor from.

It smelled like road kill.

Burroughs led Gerald Yeager downstairs and
outside to the patio. Figured it was best to get the mister as far
away from his blushing ex-bride as possible. He gave Yeager the
seat in the shade, all the better to watch his eyes without the
sunlight making the man squint.

Not that he was a suspect in his daughter's
disappearance. No, of course not. This was just a polite exchange
of information. Two guys shooting the breeze. While one of their
daughters could be a rotting corpse putrefying in a shallow
grave.

God, he hoped not. Last DB he'd caught was
past ripe and well into the creepy crawly stage, maggots squirming
all over.

He wasn't in the mood to be looking at no
dead kid's body today. In fact, he was seriously regretting
switching weekends with Jimmy Dolan, but Dolan had a family reunion
and Burroughs' kids, well, right now he wasn't exactly in the
running for father of the year.

He'd barely seen the boys all summer, had
claimed overwork, falling into a pattern of letting his ex keep
them even on his weekends. He loved his boys, he really, really
did—he just didn't have what it took to be a full-time father. Or,
according to his ex, a full-time husband.

Thing of it was, Kim was right. On both
counts.

What the hell was wrong with him? Same
question he'd been asking the better part of two years. He just
never seemed to find the energy to answer it.

When he'd seen Ashley Yeager's room it
looked perfectly normal to Burroughs. The barren walls, beige
decor, mass produced furniture and linens could have been his own
apartment.

Maybe that's why he'd stuck around. He felt
a kinship with the Yeager girl. Like she was sleepwalking through
days and nights filled with apathy, just like Burroughs. Until
finally she just couldn't take it anymore.

Pretty sad. The person he'd felt most
connected with in ages was a girl most likely dead.

"You need a drink or anything?" he asked
Yeager after giving the man a few minutes to stew. "Glass of water
or something?"

"No." Yeager's gaze kept darting back to the
house like he expected someone to interrupt them.

Who? Burroughs wondered. Ashley? That would
mean he was innocent. Or maybe the guy was guilty and simply
couldn't look him square in the eye.

"I'm just gonna take notes so I don't forget
anything, okay?" Burroughs pulled his digital recorder from his
pocket and clicked it on. Yeager didn't even seem to notice. "So
tell me about this photographer, Tardiff."

Yeager bristled, his body practically
vibrating out of the chaise lounge even though his face showed
little expression. But little was more than Burroughs had seen from
the man so far today. And what little seeped through the chink in
Yeager's mask was enough to tell him Yeager hated Tardiff. A
lot.

Good. A little bit of hate was good for
baring the soul.

"He's tried to wreck my marriage before,"
Yeager said, his lip twisted in a sneer. "Wanted to destroy my
family, take it away from me."

It?
Didn't he mean
them
?
Burroughs merely nodded sympathetically. Yeager kept talking.

"He's a big deal fashion photographer,
wanted to become known as an artist. Melissa was trying to make a
comeback after having Ashley, so they started working together.
Only he also wanted more artistic," Yeager slashed finger-quotes
through the air with the last word, "intimate photos. Not just of
her but of Ashley as well. Melissa never asked me, never said
nothing. Not until I saw them. Displayed in New York galleries,
made a splash. He slept with Melissa, too."