What Comes Next (12 page)

To stay alive, she knew the first had to prevail.

Context,
she told herself. Fit yourself into something you can understand.

She had never seen Patrick McGoohan in
The Prisoner
on television. She had never gone into a library to read John Fowles’s
The Collector
. She knew nothing of Barbara Jane Mackle and the news stories written about her, or the book or the subsequent television drama. She had not even seen the
Saw
movies that were popular with teenage boys who favored the combination of gore, torture, and naked breasts for entertainment, nor had she seen the more benign vision embodied in the film
The Truman Show
. Sir Alec Guinness sweltering in his corrugated steel box for refusing to order his officers to work beside enlisted men while building the bridge over the river Kwai didn’t exist for her. She knew nothing of the art, literature, or criminality of confinement. She had not owned a pet growing up, not even a goldfish swimming in a bowl, constantly pressing up against the glass measuring the limits of its world.

That she was a little like all of these was beyond her.

Even so, Jennifer had some instincts that she was not able to articulate but which gave her some strengths. She told herself that three times she had the guts to run away. This would be another chance as long as she fought off the urge to descend into terror. She breathed in and out slowly, calming herself.

She lowered her hands and touched the sides of the bed: a metal frame and a mattress. There was a rough cotton sheet—she pictured a stark white—on the bed beneath her.

All right,
she told herself.
Let’s see what we can touch.

Carefully, she slipped her feet over the edge of the bed and rubbed the floor with her toes. It was cement, cold to the soles.

That’s what a basement floor feels like,
she imagined. She half thought she was speaking out loud and wondered if her words tumbled through the small hole in the hood that had been cut for the drugged water. The lack of orientation made it hard for her to tell whether the thoughts that filled her head emerged through her lips. She
might
be talking out loud. She
might
not.

She moved her feet around to see if there were any obstacles. None.

Jennifer told herself to try to stand, and then repeated the command. She wanted to hear her own voice work. So she said softly:
“Stand up, girl. You can do it.”

Hearing the difference between words spoken and words thought gave her a little confidence. She pushed herself up to her feet.

Dizziness almost instantly overcame her.

Her head spun inside the hood, as if the blackness in front of her eyes were abruptly liquid. She staggered slightly, almost tumbling back onto the bed or collapsing onto the cement floor. But she was able to steady herself, and slowly her head stopped spinning and she could feel some control in her weak muscles. She wished she were stronger, like some of the weight lifting—obsessed athletes at her school.

Still breathing hard, she took a tentative step forward. She was holding her hands out in front of her. She could feel nothing.

She swept them right and left and her hand bumped up against the wall. She half turned and, using the wall to guide her, began to move crablike, feeling the flat plasterboard beneath her fingers. She could hear a rattling sound, which she understood was the chain around her neck playing out. She guessed it was striking against the bed stand.

Her knee bumped up against something and she stopped. Some of the thick smell of disinfectant penetrated the silken hood. Very carefully, she reached down and, like a blind person, ran her hands over the obstacle.

It was a camp toilet. It took her a few seconds to form a picture of what it was in her mind, but she could feel the seat and the supporting tripod. That she recognized it was only luck—her father had taken her camping when she was little, and she had made a particular whiny series of complaints about having to use something so primitive in the outdoors.

Now she was nearly overjoyed. Her bladder hurt and, with the recognition of what it was at her feet, it began to send sharp demanding pains through her stomach.

She stopped. She had no idea who was watching her. She could only guess that the rules allowed her to use the toilet. She did not know whether she had any privacy. She was almost overcome with a teenager’s sense of violation. Propriety fought against embarrassment. She hated the idea that someone might
see
her.

Her groin screamed. She understood she had no choice.

She positioned herself above the seat and, with a single abrupt motion, pulled down her panties and sat down.

She hated every second of relief.

At the monitors in the room directly above where Jennifer was confined Michael and Linda watched every motion she made. The awkward, blindfolded, tentative actions were delicious in their pace. They could sense ripples of intrigue and waves of fascination out in the netherworld of their broadcast. Without sharing a word, both knew that, for hundreds of people, watching Jennifer was going to become a drug.

And, like any good pusher, they knew how to maintain just the right balance of supply to meet the demand.

12

Terri Collins looked over at the old man seated in the corner of the living room and thought,
He can’t be the reason why I’m here.

Adrian Thomas shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. The detective had an unrelenting stare, one that implied something beyond skepticism. He could feel thoughts tugging him in different directions and he hoped that he wouldn’t get flustered, as he had when he’d called the police dispatcher. He replayed the few observations and modest details that he had in his head, like an actor preparing his lines. He tried to organize all these impressions into a coherent assessment of what he’d seen so that the detective wouldn’t simply think he was a confused old man, even if that was precisely what he was. When she turned away to face Mary Riggins and Scott West, Adrian stole a quick glance around, hoping that Brian was concealed in a corner and might give him some advice about how to deal with the policewoman. He would know what to say, Adrian was sure. But at that moment Adrian was alone—or, at least, he was unaccompanied.

“Mrs. Riggins,” Terri said slowly, “kidnappings are complicated crimes. Generally, they are either about ransom or else one estranged family member stealing a child from another.”

Mary shook her head, although she hadn’t been asked a question.

“Then there’s the third type,” Scott interjected with a nasty glare in her direction. “Sexual predation.”

Terri nodded. “Yes. Rare. Not unlike being hit by lightning.”

“I think that’s what you should be focusing on,” Scott said.

“Yes, but I’d like to rule out these others—”

“And waste time?” Scott interrupted.

She could tell that was the direction he wanted her to investigate. She just resented being forced into the position by someone she thought had been on the verge of sexual predation himself. She decided to turn the tables on him.

“Or maybe there’s some element of this that you haven’t been forthcoming about…”

Terri stopped, turning her stare over at Scott.

“Perhaps in your practice…” She started slowly but picked up a little momentum in her voice as the words tumbled out. “A patient maybe. Someone angry or disgruntled, maybe psychotic even… seeking to harm you and chose Jennifer as the means…”

Scott instantly held up his hand. “That is highly unlikely, detective. I am very much aware of
all
the issues my patients face and none of them are capable of that sort of thing.”

“Well,” Terri continued, “surely you have some…
cases
that have less than satisfactory outcomes?”

“Of course,” Scott snorted. “Every therapist who has any self-knowledge understands that they cannot be ideal for every patient. There are inevitably failures.”

“So it is not unreasonable to imagine that one of those less than successful cases might possibly hold some sort of grudge?”

She phrased the statement as a question, and then eyed Scott cautiously as he responded.

“It is unreasonable, detective.” He sounded very formal. “To imagine that one of my patients would concoct an elaborate scheme of revenge… no. Impossible. I would be aware of that much resentment.”

Sure,
Terri thought. She had to remind herself not to let her own opinions about Scott color her judgment. Nor should she let what she had gleaned from Jennifer’s computer influence the questioning. But inwardly she looked forward to asking those questions on some later day.

“Still, I might need a list of names from you at some point.”

Scott made a small dismissive wave. He might have been agreeing or disagreeing. Either was possible. Or neither. Terri did not expect him to comply.

She turned back to Mary Riggins.

“Now, family… how about your late husband’s relatives?”

Mary looked confused. “Well, my relationships with them haven’t been great but…”

“Has Jennifer been a source of conflict with them?”

“Yes. Her grandparents complain that I don’t bring her to see them nearly enough. They say she’s the only part of their son left to them. And I’ve never gotten along with her two aunts. I don’t know, but it seems like they have always blamed me for his death. But this hasn’t escalated to the degree…”

Terri noted that Mary Riggins did not use her late husband’s name.
David
. It was a small detail but one that struck her as odd. She took a deep breath and continued.

“I might want those names and some addresses as well.”

Terri hesitated then. She was looking for the foundations of a felony, and so far she had heard a few things that made her think there might be something hidden in the family that might create a framework for Jennifer’s disappearance—but not enough. She asked, “And ransom? I presume you’ve had no contact from anyone seeking money?”

Mary Riggins shook her head.

“We don’t have much. I mean, those cases, those would be businessmen’s sons or daughters. Or a politicians’. Or someone with access to real cash, right?”

“Maybe.”

Terri could hear some exhaustion in her voice. She thought this was unprofessional.

“Sex offenders,” Scott repeated, angrily. “How many live nearby?”

“Some. I will obtain a list. You know the chances that Jennifer was simply snatched from the side of the road by some unknown criminal—a serial killer or a rapist—are infinitesimally small? These random acts are really the stuff of movies and television…”

“But they do happen,” Scott interjected.

“They do happen.”

“Even around here,” he continued.

“Yes. Even around here,” Terri replied.

Scott had a smug look on his face. There was a lot, Terri thought, to dislike about him. She wondered how
anyone
could imagine he could
help
them.

“Students must go missing from the college and the university,” he persisted.

“Yes. These are kids with drinking, drug, boyfriend, or emotional problems. Invariably—”

“What about that girl, the one from the next town… whose body was found in the woods six years after she disappeared.”

“I’m familiar with that case. And the registered sex offender who was eventually arrested two states away and who confessed to her murder. I do not believe we’ve ever had a crime like that in our jurisdiction—”

“Not that you
know
of,” Scott interrupted again.

“Yes. Not that we know of.”

“But detective. Listen to what Professor Thomas says,” Mary broke in.

Terri turned back to the old man. He was looking off into space, as if he were someplace else. It seemed to her that there was a gray fog behind his eyes, a smoky substance that she couldn’t readily identify. It worried her.

“Tell me again what you saw,” she said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

Adrian told her about the determined look on Jennifer’s face. He told about the van that had appeared out of nowhere and slowed, shadowing her steps. He described as best he could the woman behind the wheel and the man who disappeared from view. He told about the brief pause, and then the tire-squealing departure. He mentioned the license plate letters he spotted. And finally he told about the pink cap left on the side of the street that had brought him to the street where Jennifer lived, to her house and finally to the living room. He tried fiercely to keep everything clipped and orderly, to make it sound straightforward and official. He did not utter any of the conclusions that the ghosts of either his wife or his brother had insisted he make; he left those to the detective.

The more he spoke, the more he saw the mother gaining in despair, the more he imagined the boyfriend was becoming enraged.

The policewoman, on the other hand, seemed to grow calmer with each added detail. Adrian imagined that she was like the professional poker players that he occasionally saw on television: whatever she was actually thinking was cleverly concealed.

When he paused, he saw her dip her head and review the notes she had taken. In that moment he heard a whispered voice.

“I don’t think you convinced her,” Brian said.

Adrian did not at first turn to the sound. He kept his eyes on the detective.

“She’s thinking it over, that’s good. But she just doesn’t believe. Not yet,” Brian continued. He sounded forceful and confident.

Adrian stole a quick glance to the side.

His brother was seated on the couch next to him. The young Vietnam grunt Brian had disappeared, replaced by the mature persona of the New York corporate lawyer that he’d become. His sandy hair had thinned a little, and there were streaks of gray—a distinguished color—touching the locks that flowed over his ears and shirt collar. Brian had always worn his hair long, not ponytail ex-hippie long but an antiestablishment unkempt. He wore an expensive blue pinstriped suit and a custom-tailored shirt, although his tie was loosened around his neck. Brian leaned back and crossed his legs.