Transience (2 page)

The past tense of his words lit a fire of defiant rage.
 
She lashed out with every ounce of life left; kicking, clawing and biting.
 
He clamped down on her throat with both hands in a vice-like grip.
 
She felt her head swell, her eyes bulged in their sockets.
 
The dog had the rabbit in its jaws.

She clawed ferociously at his face, her fingernails tearing off at the quick.
 
He straddled her chest, his weight preventing her ribcage from expanding.
 
With her airways completely blocked, she went into a claustrophobic panic, nearly lifting him off the ground with heaving thrusts from her hips.
 
Her legs couldn't get any leverage, slipping in place on the slick wet ground.
 
Her lungs pounded for air as she began to lose consciousness.
 

She didn't want her last moments to be his horrible face.
 
But as he leaned into his work and squeezed, it was all she could see.
 
It was the first time he'd let her look at him fully, which confirmed he intended it to be the last thing she'd ever see.
 
Instead she defiantly focused on him real hard, staring into his eyes, studying every curve in his face, every detail as her body went cold.
 

As she went limp, the fight over, he relaxed his grip.
 
She twitched a few times, then fell silently still.
 
During the struggle, her long flowing black hair had tangled around his wrists.
 
He peeled the matted, blood soaked strands from his skin and examined his work.
 
He gazed at her olive flesh, her gentle face.
 

He took a few deep breaths and cursed himself for letting her get the best of him.
 
Had she made it less than a quarter mile further, she'd have reached the highway.
 
He got lucky.

A twig snapped nearby, standing him up straight.
 
He searched the endless trees for the source of the sound, scanning every direction.
 
He quieted himself, like a hunter in stealth mode, allowing the prey to reveal itself.

He waited a long time, listening, watching, until assured he was indeed alone.
 
Satisfied, he kneeled down beside the body and grabbed a few handfuls of mud from the soft ground.
 
Then some more, and soon he was digging a hole.
 

But someone
was
watching him.

CHAPTER 2

Victor Sandoval's eyes began to adjust to the intensity of the fluorescent lights overhead.
 
He'd been a guest of the cold grey-walled interrogation room of the Lansing Police Department several times now, and the intimidation factor was beginning to wear off.
 
He was only 19, but having grown up in El Salvador as one of four kids who often had to beg or fight if he wanted to eat, he'd seen his share of shit that makes you old fast — and as a result looked very mature for his age.
 

He sat calmly as Detective Jack Ridge paced a hole in the floor in front of him.
 
Jack had pushed aside the table between them, leaving him exposed.
 
As Jack passed in and out of the blinding light, Victor noticed how pale and lifeless the detective's skin was.
 
When Jack spoke, his voice was deep and gravel, almost sickly.
 

Detective John Harrington sat off in the corner behind Jack, his chair reversed, arms draped over the back.
 
Harrington was athletic, very muscular, with protruding veins on his biceps.
 
Went right from high school football to law enforcement.
 
He sipped his cold coffee and winced, waiting for Jack to say something.
 

They both waited.
 

Jack bent over the case file strewn out on a nearby table.
 
In the mix was an 8x10 photograph of Angelina Rosa — Hispanic, 18, beautiful — the words
Missing
superimposed at the bottom.
 
He jotted something down in his notes and turned back towards Victor.

"Tell me again.
 
Please," Jack asked.

Victor rolled his eyes and looked to Harrington, hoping he'd intervene on his behalf.
 
But Harrington wouldn't dare.
 
Jack had his reasons for dragging Victor down here again, that's all that mattered.
 
Jack had an intimidating way about him that demanded respect.
 
Maybe because he rarely smiled.
 
And no matter how much time you spent with him, you never really felt like you knew the man.
 
Jack was a leftover from an old breed.
 
A tough guy who refused to admit he was deteriorating by the minute.
 
Everyone in the department noticed.
 
No one said a word about it.
 

Victor shook his head, frustrated, speaking in a redundant tone as if reciting lines from a play: "She call me in the morning, say she gonna see about a job."
 

"She didn't give a name, description?
 
The kind of work?"

"I can't remember." Victor used extra emphasis to demonstrate that he really couldn't remember, adding hand gestures and opening his eyes wide to make his point.

"Think."

"Angelina, she do odd job, clean houses.
 
That's all."
 

"How long were you two dating?"

Victor held the top of his head and groaned as if maybe Jack had Alzheimer's or something.
 
"A year."
 

"And… that's the last time you heard from her?"
 

"Her father call me that night, ask if I see her."

"He still thinks you had something to do with it," Harrington said.

"I was working, you know where I was!" Victor stood up.
 
A stern look from Jack put his ass right back in the chair.

"One of your deliveries took over an hour and a half," Harrington added.

"I had a flat tire!
 
How many time you gonna ask me?" Victor put his face in his hands and, for a moment, Jack thought he might sob.
 
Not because he was guilty and they were about to break him.
 
Because he loved Angelina, and he realized he was probably never going to see her again.

Jack and Harrington conferred in the corner, quietly.

"We're spinning our wheels," Harrington said.

"I know."

"Right.
 
So how much longer we gonna do this?"

"Till he remembers something."

The thick metal door to the interrogation room opened; officer Jennifer Brown entered.
 
Jennifer's
brains, fiercely competitive nature, and sports acumen had made her one of the guys, despite her curves.
 
Harrington, when he found out she understood the two point conversion in football, was especially respectful.
 

She eyeballed Jack. "Captain wants a word."
 

Harrington pumped his eyebrows as Jack exited the room.
 

Victor turned to Harrington. "You guys don't know anything at all, do you?" Harrington got up, spinning his chair around with his muscular hand.
 

"Stay put." He followed Jack out of the room.
 

Captain Clarence Lafave — 52, short cropped hair slicked back with gel — stood in the hallway, arms folded across his chest.
 

"Why are you questioning Sandoval again?
 
I never cleared this."

"He was the last to see her alive.
 
There's still holes, details missing.
 
I'm trying to jar his memory."

"Jack, we have to call it a day."

"What?"

"The investigation will remain active as long as there are leads to follow.
 
There's other shit piling up that needs your attention."

"So we just sit and do nothing?
 
Why, because
she doesn't fit within some ethnic priority?"

Lafave looked sternly at Jack and shook his head
don
'
t go there
.
 
"It's been three months.
 
Until we have evidence a crime's been committed, her photo goes up on the wall with all the others.
 
We just can't allocate resources to every child that goes missing.
 
I'm sorry."

Lafave waited till he was sure Jack got the point,
then walked off, conversation over.
 
Harrington had a look of relief on his face, but erased it when Jack looked his way.
 

Jack entered the holding area adjacent to the interrogation room.
 
Harrington followed, leaning up against the wall, hands on his hips.
 

"We're gonna have to let him walk," Harrington said.
 
Jack peered in at Victor through a large two-way mirror.
 
Victor was muttering something to himself.
 

"He's irrelevant," Jack said.

"How do you figure?"

"Gut feeling."

Harrington grinned. "The last time you had a gut feeling I lost a hundred bucks."

CHAPTER 3

Nine year old Rebecca Lowell awoke shrieking at the top of her lungs.
 
She threw the blankets off her sweaty body, her flannel pajamas stuck to her moist skin.
 
Her wavy blonde hair was matted to her wet face and neck, beautiful blue eyes stretched wide and bloodshot.

She grasped at her chest, clutching it as if trying to keep her racing heart from bursting out.
 
She took a blurry look around and realized where she was, back in her bedroom, the nightmare receding — they were getting worse.
 

Her mother, Laura, threw open the door and raced to Rebecca's bedside, pulling her close, comforting her.
 
Rebecca flailed about, still screaming in panic.

"It's okay, I'm here.
 
Mommy's here.” Laura cradled Rebecca's tiny body in both arms.
 

"I can't breathe!
 
I can't breathe!" Rebecca was coughing and shaking, her skin hot and slick to the touch.

Laura gently rocked her back and forth, embracing her tightly. "You're safe.
 
You're in your own room, in your own bed, safe and sound."

These were the phrases the doctor had instructed her to repeat when these attacks occurred.
 
It was all part of the treatment.
 
But this was every night now, and Laura had deep black circles under her eyes to prove it.
 
It had gotten to the point where she would just lie awake in anticipation of the screams.
 

Rebecca sobbed as her nervousness was replaced by the comfort of her mother's soothing "shhhh" repeated over and over as she rocked her back and forth like a metronome, the same way she did back when she was a colicky baby.
 

Laura stared up at her worn reflection in Rebecca's dresser mirror.
 
She had short, brittle blonde hair, with a smoker's skin and teeth.
 
She was 27, but you'd guess 37.
 
Her eyes were set deep in their sockets from months without sleep.
 

"This isn't working," Laura whispered to herself.
 
Nothing was working.
 
None of the doctor's advice panned out.
 
No one had the answers when it came to helping her daughter.
 
She dropped her head, exasperated.

CHAPTER 4

Carl Rosa opened the door just before Jack's knuckle could hit wood.
 
"I saw you pull up," Carl said.
 
He took a step back, allowing Jack to enter.
 

Carl was of medium build, always clean shaven and wearing a collared shirt.
 
Life as an immigrant from Ecuador was hard; Carl always wanted to make a good first impression.
 
His apartment was small but tidy, the furniture modest, some of it personally handmade, uneven.
 
The kitchen table had two chairs and a small cracked white vase in the middle with no flower.
 
Decoration was sparse, which made the items tacked on the gray walls stand out: Angelina's school photo and a free calendar from Castro's Plumbing.

Jack noticed two stacks of fliers on the counter — one in English, the other in Spanish — next to some empty rolls of tape.
 
Missing person fliers for Angelina, made using the same picture that hung on the wall.
 
It had details of her age, weight, height, what she was wearing, and the date she went missing, July 21.
 

Jack stared at the word July.
 
He looked over at the calendar, turned to October.
 
It had a picture of a bright orange pumpkin sitting in a field of corn and straw.
 
Angelina surely had turned into a pumpkin by now, and would soon likely be making an appearance in a field somewhere or along the side of a highway.
 
It dovetailed into the unpleasant purpose for his visit.
 

Jack had assured Carl months ago he'd find his daughter.
 
He realized the moment the words left his lips that he'd fucked up — promising something like that in an effort to console a crying man.
 
Jack saw this visit not only as a professional failure, but worse — as a broken promise.
 

"Can I get you anything?" Carl asked.

"No, thank you." Jack stepped towards the kitchen.
 
Carl took a plate of crumbs left over from the sandwich he just ate and placed it in the sink.
 
He rinsed it, then turned around as if trying to find something to do next.
 
His anxiousness made it all the harder for Jack.