Web of Lies (21 page)
M
ilt’s challenge slapped me in the face. How
dare
he state the situation like that! As if the two captives’ deaths could possibly be our fault.
Still, could I sit back, knowing what I did, and do nothing?
Jenna bristled too. “You are a jerk, Milt Waking.”
“Why should we trust you in the first place?” Dave demanded.
Milt shrugged. “We’ll set ground rules and I’ll follow them. For one thing, I’ll never reveal you as my sources.”
Jenna snorted. “Oh,
that
makes me feel better.”
“Hey.” Milt turned to her, defensiveness twisting his face. “I do come with some credentials, you know. You can’t be where I am in my business without trustworthiness. I protect more sources than you’d ever guess.”
Jenna glared at him. But I could have sworn I saw another spark. Almost as if on some level they enjoyed the spat.
“Mr. Waking,” Chelsea said, “what are you going to do if we don’t give you the drawing?”
He eased back against the couch. “Honestly? I have plenty enough information to start on-site reporting. A cameraman and rented microwave truck are here and ready to go. We’ll break the story on the air tomorrow morning. Plus, the producer for
On the Record
, Greta Van Susteren’s show, is very interested in featuring it tomorrow night. I’ll talk about the skeleton that was found. And your visions, Ms. Adams —
both
of them. I’ll talk about the two of you.” He waved a hand between Chelsea and me. “How the police refuse to run your drawing, even though it could help their case.” He paused, as if reveling in the thought. “That ought to turn up the heat on them. Public outcry might force the police to use it.”
A rock sank in my stomach. “So what do you need us for, Milt? You have what you want; go file your story.”
“No, I don’t have everything. I want the drawing.”
“You just told us your story would force Blanche to release it to the media.”
“But I want it now.
I
want to be the one to release it.”
Okay, this was
too
blatantly honest. There had to be major manipulation in here somewhere. “So get a copy from your ‘inside sources.’ ”
He sighed. “I can’t. Blanche has it locked up tight.”
Ah, there it was.
Jenna watched Milt, arms crossed and mouth firm. Dave focused in the distance, his businessman’s mind clearly calculating. Chelsea sat stiffly, cheeks flushed. “You are as devious as you ever were, Milt Waking,” she said. “I see where you’re headed. You mentioned
both
of my visions. You want a bargain, don’t you? If we give you the drawing, you’ll hold back the information about the oval window — a lead for the police that this evil man shouldn’t know about.”
I stared at Milt. “Is that what you’re thinking? You’d threaten to release crucial information that might tip off a murderer? That could save two lives?”
Jenna heaved toward him and punched his shoulder. “I ought to strangle you right now! We’re not — ”
“Wait a minute.” Dave’s hand shot up. He gave my sister a firm look. “Let’s just calm down. There may be two lives at stake.” He glanced around our group. “Milt, is Chelsea right about this? If Annie gives you the drawing, you’ll keep quiet about the window?”
The reporter’s head wagged. “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it . . .”
I could have kicked him. Jenna rolled a disgusted look toward the ceiling.
Dave’s jaw worked. He locked eyes with Milt. “You would compromise the safety of two innocent people just to get an exclusive?”
Milt held up both hands, all innocence. “The whole point of getting the drawing to the media is to
find
those two people. Think of the coverage you’ll get on national television! You give me the drawing, not only will I keep quiet about the window, I’ll start researching it myself. Believe me, I
will
find that house. I’ll tell you everything I discover, including inside information from the Police Department.” He cast me a meaningful look. “It’s got to drive you crazy that they’re not telling you much. Especially with your own life on the line.”
If I never saw this man again, it would be too soon. “I think you are despicable.”
“I agree.” Chelsea glared at him. “But there’s something far more important than our opinions.” She drew herself up with a sigh. “I don’t like this so-called bargain of yours at all. Fact is, Mr. Waking, you’re not the one in control. We don’t need to strike any deal with you just because it’s what you want.” She looked to me. “But Annie, I sense this is what
God
wants. I don’t know why, and as far as I’m concerned, He could have chosen anyone other than Mr. Waking to help us. But there you have it. I think we all need to work together from here on out.”
We all began talking at once. At first we could only argue. Then, over the next forty minutes — amid Jenna’s temper, Dave’s protectiveness, and Milt’s infuriating self-certainty — we somehow managed to forge a path toward wary agreement. I still could hardly believe what we were doing. I could only trust it was God’s leading. It
had
to be.
Technical details followed. Exchanging phone numbers. Copying the drawing for Milt. The minute it was in his hands, he veered toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” Chelsea motioned to him. “Sit back down. We’re going to pray before you leave.”
Milt gave her a leary stare, then shrugged. He lowered himself back to the couch.
We bowed our heads.
“Dear God,” Chelsea began, “thank You for bringing us together. Even if we don’t quite trust one another. Thank You for sending Milt here. Even if he is a royal pain.”
Jenna tittered.
“And for sending me another vision, terrifying as it was. Now we give our information and Annie’s drawing into Milt’s hands. Use him, Lord, as You did before, even if he doesn’t believe You’re doing so. Speak through him, guide his actions, and lead us to the answers. For You are the God of justice and truth, and we claim justice for these murders, and for all victims involved. Please protect us now, and Annie’s children. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Milt pushed immediately to his feet, raring to leave. “Great. See you soon.”
At the door he promised to call in the morning and tell us when the story would air. With a final lingering glance at Jenna, he escaped, victorious, into the night.
I closed and bolted the door behind him, then slumped against it. Dave walked over and held out his arms. I pressed myself against his chest, wondering what on earth we’d done and what would happen now.
Most of all, I begged God that our actions would save two lives.
S
even fifteen. The sun had set, pulling an oppressive dusk over Grove Landing. Soon we would face another night with Orwin Neese on the loose. In the great room, I glanced at the large array of rear windows looking out over glooming forest and shivered.
Erin and Kelly still hung out upstairs. I’d gone up after Milt left, asking them to turn down their music. Dave stayed, too worried to leave. He and I retreated into the TV room and shut the door. I huddled next to him on the leather couch, my brain squalling that we made the wrong decision. He tried to calm me, keep me focused on prayer. And pray we did.
When Dave left with Erin, I wandered into the kitchen, vaguely thinking I needed to make dinner. My mind still wouldn’t focus. Jenna shooed me out, announcing she’d cook something. Chelsea volunteered to help. Stephen arrived home from work, insisting that I tell him in detail what happened. Denying his request would only have belittled him. In his seventeen-year-old maleness, he saw himself as defender of our family. I told him everything.
He mulled over the information. “I want that reporter’s cell phone number.”
“Why?”
“Just in case, that’s why. You have it, Jenna has it. I’ll bet Dave even has it.” He paused, daring me to deny the fact.
I gave him the number.
Dinner tasted like sawdust. I ate by rote, ill-concealing my distraction. “Annie,” Jenna nudged me when I pushed back my plate, “go work on your project. It’ll get your mind off things.”
I didn’t argue. Besides, my office had only front windows, and out on the street a policeman watched.
Minutes later I stood before the skull, struggling to remember where I had left off — was it only three to four hours ago? It seemed like days. I gazed at the cut vinyl markers, remembering I’d dropped one when the phone rang.
There it lay.
Breathing a prayer for accuracy, I began gluing the markers onto the skull. Formal names of the points whispered in my head, remnants from my days of extra studying.
One — the supraglabella, center forehead . . . Two — glabella, center forehead between the eyes . . . Three — nasion, center top of nose . . .
With each marker I consulted a chart, then checked and rechecked its placement, taking care not to rush. Mistakes at this stage would throw off the entire drawing.
Time narrowed into a focused stream of concentration. Not once did I look up from my task.
When I finished the gluing, it was nearly ten. Neck muscles aching, I leaned back and observed my progress. Numbered markers protruded from the skull like the blunt ends of rubber arrows. The two eye sockets glared at me in violation.
Who are you, John Doe? What will you look like?
Hours of work remained. Positioning the skull, photographing, then the actual phase of drawing. With the day’s events still rattling in my head, I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Even the thought of trying frightened me — lying in the dark, my mind conjuring gruesome scenes.
Better to keep working.
As the night hours wore on, this forlorn skull would slowly morph into a definable face.
I stopped long enough to bid Chelsea and Jenna good night, telling them I planned to work late. Then I eased into Kelly’s room and sat beside her on the bed. She leaned her head on my shoulder. “Tomorrow’s Mike Winger’s funeral at one o’clock,” she said. “Remember, his mom works in the principal’s office? That’s gonna be real sad.”
“Yes, it will.” I stroked her hair.
“I wish I could go.”
“Why? You didn’t know him.”
“Yeah, but I know his mom a little. I’d do it for her . . .” She raised her head. “Do you really think the man who shot Mike has that girl and guy in some room with a bunch of spiders?”
I thought of Chelsea’s second vision. “I’m afraid so. But we’re doing everything we can to find them.”
Kelly shuddered. “I just can’t imagine it.”
Neither could I. But I clung to the belief that Neese would be caught soon. I had to believe Chelsea was right — God brought Milt here for a reason. God
was
in control, even in these terrible circumstances.
Lord, thank You for this assurance. Help me lean on it as I work tonight.
Back in my office I turned my attention fully to work, resting in the hope that tomorrow this nightmare would be over.
P
oom, poom, puh-poom-poom, chaka-laka-laka.
He jerked his neck to a rap tune.
Poom-puh-chek-chek.
Adrenaline flowed through his limbs. He felt good. Channeling the power, feelin’ it. No more dirt ants. No more voices from the past.
He was free.
Puh-puh-poom —
He halted, midrock, hand hovering over the terrarium. Better rein in the kick now, steady those fingers.
A bunch of hobo spiders hung out down in the glass crib. Big suckers, with long legs. A jar sat nearby, its vented top off. The jar stood about three inches high. Small enough to fit in his pocket.
“Here, itsy, bitsy spider.” Carefully he edged aside a damp wood pile in the terrarium. There sat one, hiding in a funnel web. With one finger he peeled back the top of the web. The spider scurried for cover.
He scooped it into a measuring cup. “Gotcha!”
He carried the cup out and over, like a helicopter airlifting a victim, and dropped the spider into the jar. Then sat back to consider it. How many should he collect? Five? Ten?
No need to cover the jar while he caught the rest. Hobo spiders were poor climbers.
Poo-puh-poom-poom.
His neck chicken-stretched a few more beats before he resumed his task. Spider number two — spotted, caught, airlifted, and dumped in the jar. Spider number three. And four. Five, six, seven.
Perfect.
Puh-puh-poom.
He screwed down the jar lid, placed the top back on the terrarium. Picked up the jar and held it close to his face. The spiders scuttled and tumbled over each other,
cramped in their close quarters. Poor things didn’t like the light.
“Don’t you worry.” He ran a finger down the glass. “Darkness is coming soon.”
The rap CD ended. In the sudden silence he could hear his heart pump. A good, strong beat, without fear.
He glanced out the window. Night had fallen.
Time to shimmy.
Jar in hand, he stepped into the garage. Sliding into his car, he punched the automatic door opener. The garage door whirred open. A satisfying sound, exciting. Could it be heard from the prison room in the basement? Would his captives’ heads raise at the vague noise that signaled freedom, even as their spider walls closed in around them?
He snickered at the thought.
Minutes later he drove a back road toward eastern Redding, headed for the highway that would take him to Grove Landing. No need for a map; he knew the way.
He’d been there before.
B
y midnight I’d positioned the skull and photographed it from front and side, using a digital camera. My printer spat out the eight-by-tens, its
click, whir
loud in the still house. I peeked out the drawn window blinds, peering up the culde- sac. I could see the vague shape of the policeman sitting in his car. I hoped he managed to stay awake.
It’s Monday. What will the day bring? Will they find you, Orwin Neese?
Carrying the two photographs to my dual boards, I taped one picture to each, lining them up so I could look from one to the other on a level plane. Then I covered each photograph with a sheet of vellum, taping it at the top only. In this way I could create my drawing on the see-through paper while still able to lift the vellum and reexamine the picture as needed. The skull sat nearby for further reference.
