The Victim (5 page)

Anton chewed his lip and really thought about that one.

CHAPTER 5

March 16, 2003

Payson, Arizona

He ran out from the cover of trees into the clearing where they had made their campsite. How he found it, he wasn’t sure. He just ran. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was wet. He slowed to a jog before coming to a stop, leaning against the trunk of a pine for support. His chest heaved as he lurched forward, coughing violently.

The faint wail of emergency sirens could be heard, interrupted by the occasional
caw
of a red-tailed hawk doing loops above the treetops.

Twenty-six young men were strewn about, out cold on the hard ground in their sleeping bags, snoring off the late night. Sunlight slashed through the canopy of tree shade. Beer cans littered the campsite like mortar shells. The fire had petered out, the charred logs still smoldering, throwing off swirls of smoke. Little baggies, cigarette butts, and burnt ends of marijuana joints were scattered among the pine needles.

The three remaining RVs were a good mile away in the parking lot at the trailhead. They’d hiked in.

He unraveled his sleeping bag, flat and unused, nestled at the foot of a massive ponderosa. He slipped inside unnoticed, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.

CHAPTER 6

January 13, 2014

Parkland, Florida

Anton pulled into the residents’ lane of The Oaks, his gated community in Parkland, a suburban community in Broward County twenty-four miles northwest of Fort Lauderdale. He flashed an obligatory wave to the guard as he rolled through the opening gates.

The grassy median of the community’s main street was lined with sago palms that the HOA stringed with lights every year during the holiday season. The homes had a sameness to them—white stucco and Spanish tile with groomed lawns and trimmed hedges and brick mailboxes. There were bicycle paths interspersed with swing sets and monkey bars. The cul-de-sacs were used for afternoon roller hockey games. Canopies of bent oak trees shaded the winding streets.

He and Gina had chosen the planned community with its suburban homogeny and HOA nasty grams if the lawn got too long. A neighborhood where people said “hi” to whomever they passed on the sidewalk, regardless of whether they knew them personally. Where kids played touch football in the cul-de-sacs and stay-at-home moms took long morning stroller walks.

They couldn’t afford Parkland until Anton was out of the State Attorney’s Office and actually making decent money. Before they bought the place three years ago, they had lived in an apartment in North Miami Beach, the same one they had shared since before they were married.

He pulled his sedan into the driveway beside Gina’s white Lexus RX 350. Their home was a coral split-level topped with pink Spanish tile. The front lawn was neatly trimmed and the garden was full of fresh red mulch and blossoming white and purple pentas. Two queen palms arced over the driveway, their fronds ruffling as a chilly breeze swept through the street. A cold snap had lingered into the New Year. Anton got out of his car, pulled his sport coat tight around his shoulders.

It was almost seven. The street lamps cast pale circles of light onto the asphalt. A woman passed by walking a Shih Tzu, muttering a polite “hello” as Anton got the mail.

Anton walked into the house and was greeted by Samson, his ten-year-old Rottweiler. He knelt and scratched him behind the ears. The low din of the television echoed throughout the house.

“
Gina?”

“
Shhhh!”
he heard coming from the family room.

He knew what that meant. He lowered his voice. “When did she go down?”

He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his favorite leather recliner. Gina was parked on the couch, digging through a basket of laundry and folding it on the coffee table.

“
An hour ago.”

“
Should I wake her? It’s after seven. If she keeps napping she won’t sleep.”

Gina shot him a look. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. She was wearing the same sweats she had slept in. “No, don’t wake her. She’s been especially fussy this afternoon. She needs to sleep.”

“
She’s just cutting that top tooth,” he said, rubbing her shoulder. He kissed her on the top of her head. Her blonde hair felt coarse and oily on his lips, smelled like dried sweat. “She’s a little trooper. She’ll be fine.”

“
I hope you’re okay fending for yourself for dinner,” she said, folding one of Anton’s T-shirts and laying it neatly on the table. She reached in the laundry basket for two of his dress socks and rolled them into a ball. “I’m just exhausted. That okay?”

Anton said “fine” and went to the fridge—an obscenely large stainless steel Sub-Zero that they had charged to the Home Depot credit card. Twelve bottles of Coors Light fit snugly inside the door console.

“
Want one?” He quickly realized that her current regimen of meds might not mesh well with alcohol. “Sorry.”

He grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap. He drained a good third in one sip.

He hovered over the sink watching his wife dutifully attending to the laundry. Luisa, their cleaning lady, came once a week with her sister-in-law and the two of them did a bang-up job. But Gina insisted on picking up the slack during off-weeks. It was more a matter of pride than protocol. Before Charlotte came into their lives, Gina was on the fast track to making sales manager at the second largest IT firm in Fort Lauderdale. She was raking in $30,000 commissions each quarter. She even had a company car and a credit card for gas. While it was their mutual decision for Gina to stay home with Charlotte, she still longed for the satisfaction of bringing home a paycheck.

They had met at a party at the home of a mutual friend who happened to be in Anton’s section during his first year at UM Law. It was meant to be a first semester ice breaker but most of the conversations—like with all first-year law students—seemed to revolve around subject matter jurisdiction and the Rule Against Perpetuities.

They talked all night at that party. Their first date was the next afternoon. Within four months, they were living together.

He loved her. The girl that she once was.

Vibrant and fun-loving, looks that could turn heads. The girl who drank whiskey sours and could name the Miami Heat’s starting five.

He recalled their wedding day, how he had to make sure he saw her before the ceremony because he knew he would lose it at the first sight of her in her dress.

She was radiant in pregnancy, full-bellied, her skin aglow. Anton had never understood why pregnant celebrities graced magazine covers in the nude. But watching his wife undergo that transformation he realized how insanely sexy it was. He had never been more attracted to her.

Everything changed when Charlotte arrived.

Like most new parents, they welcomed their daughter with an equal mix of joy and terror. They quickly hammered down some of the basics of newborn parenthood, although the lack of sleep and vertical learning curve had them walking around in a befuddled state of consciousness. They were both exhausted, so sleep deprived they could feel it in their bones like a couple of heroin junkies trying to shake off the DTs.

She was a seven-pound six-ounce siren that ceased only to feed. Charley—that’s what they called her—had inherited her father’s appetite. The kind that used to stack Thanksgiving plates eight inches high. Gina nursed until her nipples were cracked and bloody.

The house was a testament to two sets of grandparents relishing in the firstborn. Gina’s parents drove down from Orlando weekly to assist with the preparations. Her father hung the shelves and assembled the crib. Her mother brought shopping bags full of Lilly Pulitzer onesies. Anton’s parents in Los Angeles had FedExed them Costco-sized boxes of diapers and wipes. They’d taken infant CPR classes. Facebook statuses were constantly updated.

They thought they were doing everything right.

In early May, the temperatures had crept into the low nineties with humidity so thick your sunglasses would become opaque the moment you stepped out of your car. Charley was three weeks old.

It was a mistake any mother could have made
, Anton told himself in the months to follow. He told her that, too, although she wasn’t buying it. Frankly, neither was he.

She had been dead on her feet, sore, carrying thirty-five pounds of excess flesh, her mind elsewhere. A dozen armfuls of groceries in the trunk of her SUV. Nonstop text messages dinging in her purse. Friends and families demanding new baby photos—now!

Anton had been working late and pulled into the driveway just after six-thirty. He hadn’t heard from Gina since three. He knew that she was running to Publix to pick up the week’s groceries.

Anton stepped into the house. Samson whined with protective instinct as he heard the door latch. He hopped off the couch, wagging his nub of a tail when he saw him walk in. Except for the low murmur of the television, the house was quiet.

Gina was seated on the couch, head back, sinking into the leather cushion, her mouth open, snoring loudly. He heard the deadpan crackle of the baby monitor. Charley must have been sleeping in her bassinet. Anton went through the motions of his after-work routine. He laid his jacket on the back of his chair, set the mail down on the kitchen counter, refilled Samson’s water bowl.

He went into the bedroom to change. He peeled off his shirt and pants, hung them neatly in the closet, and threw on a UM Law T-shirt and basketball shorts. He didn’t rush, just leisurely relished in some downtime. He peered over the edge of the bassinet to catch a glimpse of Charley.

She wasn’t there.

Had Gina moved her to the crib already? Charley wasn’t sleeping that well in the bassinet and they had discussed making the transition. Anton walked, didn’t run, down the hall to the nursery. He opened the door gently, softly twisting the knob, pushing it open so as not to antagonize the already creaky hinges. He expected to see her, swaddled, on her back, through the slats in the crib.

She wasn’t there.

He was crippled with panic. The world spun around him. He braced his hand against the side of the changing table. His heart jackhammered in his chest, in his throat. His hands and legs trembled.

He mustered up enough balance to sprint down the hall, scurrying into the family room to shake Gina awake.

“
Wha…huh? Whassamatter?”

“
Charlotte!” he screamed, flecks of spit pelting her face. Crouched in front of her, she appeared translucent in his welling eyes.
“Where’s Charlotte?”

She sat up, not bolting with alarm, but calm, albeit confused. She squinted, rubbing the tired out of her red eyes. She smacked her mouth.

“
Huh?”

“
Charlotte!” A primal scream, his voice projected from the pit of his stomach. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Gina, where the fuck is she?”

It hadn’t set in. Her blank expression didn’t yield one bit.

“
Who’s Charlotte?”

He grabbed her shoulders hard, shook her frantically. “
Charlotte!
”

“
Ohhh.” Gina nodded in realization. She smiled a tightlipped dopey grin and shimmied her shoulders into a comfortable position. She tilted her head back, nestling it into the groove in the leather, closing her eyes. She smacked her lips again. “She’s probably at school.”

She went back to sleep.

He stood up too quickly. Lightheadedness overcame him and he sat on the coffee table. He stood again, eyeing the room, listening for the faintest cry.

He saw the Publix bags on the kitchen counter, full of groceries. He checked the digital clock on the microwave. It read 6:33. He rifled through the Publix bags, finding a long receipt. He unraveled it and looked for the checkout time at the bottom, marking the moment when the transaction took place.