Under Abduction Page 4

  The man stepped ahead to where there was a chain coiled near the wall. When he picked it up, Anna saw a metal collar attached to the end of it. The other end was embedded in the wall. Anna instinctively cringed as he approached with the chain in hand, the links unfolding. She shook her head and backed away, but the woman was right behind her.

  “Now, this is nothing. It’s just our insurance policy on you. It won’t hurt and you’ll be free to move about the room and use the bathroom at will,” he said, sounding like a kind doctor alleviating his patient’s fears.

  She shook her head.

  “No, please. Let me go.”

  “Mommy,” he said, and the woman grabbed Anna’s right arm above the elbow and squeezed with surprising strength.

  Anna turned and looked into her eyes. She really hadn’t looked at either of them very much: She had been too terrified. This woman didn’t look to be more than thirty, if that. She had cold green eyes, a long nose with wide nostrils, and a thin mouth. Her dark brown hair hung limply over her ears and halfway down the back of her neck. Her forehead was peppered with pockmarks and there was a short but thick scar on her right cheek. She squeezed again, her fingers reaching bone, and brought her face close to Anna’s.

  “Don’t be a bad mommy person,” she advised. Anna felt the woman’s nails digging through the sleeve of her coat. She tried to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip, but it was like being caught in a pair of pliers. She stopped resisting and the woman eased her pressure. “Stand perfectly still,” she ordered.

  The man went behind Anna and snapped the thick metal collar around her neck. She heard it lock and felt the cold metal on her skin.

  “Perfect,” the woman said, gently pulling the collar up and down Anna’s neck. “It’s not too tight.”

  The man came around and cut the wire off Anna’s wrists. The blood rushed back to her numbed fingers.

  “I’ll get her ready now, Daddy,” the woman said to the man. “Go lock the outside door.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  He turned and left the room.

  “Take off your clothes,” the woman ordered. “Quickly.” She went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Anna shivered. She was taking tiny breaths now. The weight of the metal collar on her neck seemed oppressive despite what the woman had said about it.

  What happened next was beyond her control: She couldn’t help it; she couldn’t stop it.

  Without any warning she started to scream, a long, piercing, desperate scream.

  The woman turned and watched her for a moment, her face expressionless, perhaps even evincing boredom. Then she casually went to the bed, picked up the television remote, and clicked on the set and then the VCR. There was a tape already inserted. As the tape began to play she turned up the volume on a religious program so that it drowned out Anna’s scream. After that, she returned to the dresser and plucked a nightgown out of the drawer.

  Anna’s voice gave out; she gasped for breath and stared as the woman approached. The evangelistic preacher on the television set was screaming, “Praise God! Praise God!”

  “The quicker you get into your nightie, the quicker I can go prepare your supper and you can relax,” the woman told her.

  Anna shook her head.

  The woman slapped her face so hard and so quickly, it seemed to come from the air. The crack turned her head and her face stung. Before she could respond, the woman hit her with her left hand on the other cheek, snapping her head around the other way.

  “Praise God Almighty! Praise!” the television audience recited.

  Anna raised her arms to protect herself from another blow. The woman grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms down and brought her face up to Anna’s, so closely that Anna could feel her hot breath on her own lips.

  “Take off all your clothes,” she snarled, “and behave yourself. This is no way for a mother-to-be to act. Do it!” She threw Anna’s arms back and Anna reluctantly, sniveling and gasping, began to disrobe.

  “Good. Now that’s more like it.”

  She pointed the remote at the set and turned down the television sound.

  “We’re all going to get along just fine. I knew it.”

  Anna stood naked, her arms over her breasts.

  “Put on your nightie,” the woman ordered. As she did so, the woman gathered Anna’s clothing into a ball. “There are your slippers,” she said, with a nod of her head toward the side of the bed. “I’ll go now and get your dinner prepared. Just relax. I know it’s been a bit of a difficult trip.”

  “Please,” Anna said in a whisper. “My family will worry about me.”

  “What family? We are your family,” the woman said. “You know that, Anna.” She smiled and then she went to the doorway. After she opened the door, she turned back to smile again.

  “Welcome, Anna. Welcome to your new home and our birthing center,” she said and left, closing the door behind her.

  The evangelist droned on with his audience cheering and clapping in the background.

  6

  The sheriff’s station was bedlam. All the holding space and then some was filled with the Shepherds of God. State police, state investigators, and most of the local police on duty were there. Media people were crowding around the doorways and mingling in the parking lot. People were shouting questions, orders. Phones were ringing, radios cracking.

  Ralph Cutler, the sheriff, was in his office, his normally red-tinged cheeks an absolute scarlet. At fifty-seven he was hovering around retirement. His daydreams were filled with clear-running mountain streams stocked with trout. In these dreams the only sounds were the murmurs of the brook, the singing of birds, and the whir of his fishing reel. It was quite a contrast to the cacophony of hysteria that now raged around him.

  Ralph stood five feet ten with a small paunch that just poured over his wide black leather belt. He had curly dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows that looked like patches of steel wool pasted over his hazel eyes, and a shiny, bulbous nose. His mouth worked nervously at the corners, even when he was just listening, as he was now.

  The state police investigator was describing what forensics had done with the sharpened cross that had shattered Carla Williams’s breastbone and sliced her heart. Fingerprints were being lifted from the cross even as they spoke.

  “I want every one of those people fingerprinted,” said the state police investigator, a tall man with a military-style haircut who was pumping the air with his puffy right forefinger. “We’ll find out who threw the damn thing and charge the rest of them as accessories to murder. We’ve got to be careful here,” he added, and lowered his voice to say, “This is politically charged. I’ve already had a call from the governor’s office. Your county’s going to be on prime-time national news.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” Ralph said, and flopped into the worn imitation-leather chair behind his desk. The padding had long ago taken the shape of his buttocks. This was where his hemorrhoids had been born. He was as at home in the chair as a bird in its nest.

  Through his glass door Ralph saw McShane pacing like a member of the immediate family outside the operating room. Periodically the burly detective raised his head and fixed his eyes in Ralph’s direction. Ralph knew he had something on his mind, some complaint, some request. “Take a number,” he mumbled.

  The phone rang. It was for the state investigator. Ralph handed him the receiver and then went to the office doorway. “What?” he asked McShane.

  “I got something else brewing,” McShane said. “Woman disappeared in the Van’s Supermarket parking lot, left her groceries in the cart, car trunk open, her purse in the trunk, keys in the trunk lock, no sign of her at her home or at the hospital, and no one saw her leave the lot or anything unusual take place.”

  “Christ, like we don’t have enough to do here,” Ralph said, looking out at the commotion.

  “I just need you to tell me which way to go,” McShane said. “Stay here and help with this disaster or investigate this
disappearance?”

  “You sure this woman’s really missing?”

  “It’s been about four hours,” he replied after glancing at his watch. “I had to have her car towed off and still no word of her. Who the hell walks off, leaving their groceries and pocketbook like that?” He plucked the button from his pocket. “Found this at the scene. Might be off her coat. It could be some sort of forced abduction.”

  “Family?”

  “Except to call her place and get an answering machine, I haven’t done anything more than what I just told you. I tried to tell you about it at the clinic, but you were occupied.”

  Ralph raised his eyebrows.

  “Occupied,” he muttered. Then he thought a moment. “Okay, run it down and get back here as soon as you can. The state guys are taking everything over, but I’d like to pretend we still have some responsibility and,” he added, “ability. There’s a lot of media here and a lot on the way. If it is a kidnapping, I’ll call Reynolds at the FBI office.”

  “Right,” McShane said, smiling. In a bizarre way he was grateful for the woman’s disappearance: It got him away from this horrible mess. He hurried out of the station before Ralph Cutler changed his mind.

  He decided to follow the address on the checkbook and make that his first stop. He was familiar with the relatively new apartment complex and knew where the manager’s apartment was located. It was on the first floor, east of the pool. The name on the door read TOM ERNST. He pushed the buzzer and waited. A very thin woman who looked at least ten years older than her actual age came to the door in a faded pink robe. She gazed out at him with glazed, tired eyes. A cigarette emitted a stream of smoke that appeared to be going directly up her nostrils, but she didn’t seem to mind. She looked as if she ate smoke for breakfast.

  She squinted, even in the dull daylight, and removed the cigarette from her mouth.

  “Tom’s not here,” she said before he could ask anything. “He’s at the plumbing supply store, getting some toilet guts for an apartment.”

  McShane showed his ID. It straightened her posture but didn’t bring any more life to her hazy eyes.

  “You know Anna Gold in 216?” he asked.

  “I don’t know her. I know of her,” she corrected. “Tom speaks to her once in a while. What she do?”

  “She didn’t do anything. I need to find out about her, though. She seems to be missing. Left her car open in the supermarket earlier today, groceries still in the cart. Have you seen her by any chance?”

  “Ain’t seen anyone today,” she replied, “except Tom and now you.”

  McShane nodded as if he understood why she would stay locked away from people.

  “Do you know how long she’s been living here?”

  “About a year, I think,” she said.

  “Do you know if she lives with anyone?”

  “Don’t know for sure, but she rented alone, I know that. I think she’s a lawyer or works with a lawyer. Won’t swear to it, though. You better wait for my husband if you want to know anything for sure.”

  She looked as though she were going to step back and invite him in, but McShane had other ideas, and the prospect of waiting for the woman’s husband in that clammy apartment with this perfect model for every sort of “Before” shot was not inviting.

  “I’ll stop back,” he said. She shrugged.

  “Suit yourself,” she replied, stuck the cigarette back into the corner of her lips, and closed the door.

  McShane located 216 and dug into his pocket for the set of keys he had found in Anna Gold’s pocketbook. As he had anticipated, one opened the door.

  “Hello?” he called. He waited, listened for a response, and then entered. With my luck, she’s not missing, he thought. It’s some sort of mix-up and I’ll be held accountable for an illegal entry. The possibility caused him to move tentatively into the small apartment.

  It had the look of transience, sparse, with little identity. There were no pictures on the walls, no framed pictures of family or friends on shelves. In fact, it had the feel of a hotel room. Anyone could be living here, he concluded as he stood and perused the claustrophobic living room with its thin gray rug.

  He glanced through the kitchen door. A plate and a cup and saucer were on the counter. He checked it out. The residue in the coffee cup was cold. What looked like the crumbs of some sandwich were on the plate.

  He opened the refrigerator. You could tell a great deal about someone from what was in his or her refrigerator, he thought, playing Sherlock Holmes. Did the person rely on fast food? Was there more food than a single person needed? Did he or she like rich things, care about fat content, eat vegetarian? You could tell immediately if there was a child living or often visiting. This refrigerator said little because there wasn’t much in it. Elementary stupidity, Watson. After all, where had she gone? To the supermarket, right? he told himself.

  He went through the living room and into the bedroom. He looked into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and noted that the products were all for a female. Also, there was only one toothbrush.

  She lives alone and has no frequent male visitor, he concluded. He returned to the bedroom and opened a closet. Clothes were there; nothing to indicate someone was planning on leaving. Who would leave like this anyway: just desert her car and groceries? Only someone who wanted you to think they were abducted, maybe. That makes a lot of sense, Sherlock. Maybe the supermarket clerk oughta be doing the investigating, he thought, and laughed at himself.

  He went to the secretary desk and started to sift through the mail. All he found were the usual utility and credit card bills, no letters, no notes.

  He told himself this was the most anonymous person he had ever investigated. The dresser drawers contained nothing more than the basic clothing items. The jewelry was not very expensive-looking and the closet had nothing to knock your eyes out. In fact, McShane thought, this was a pretty simple, if not pathetic, wardrobe. He saw only two pair of shoes and a pair of sneakers.

  The driver’s license had indicated Anna Gold was twenty-six, old enough for someone to have been on her own for a while. Teenagers accumulate more than this. Wherever she came from, he thought, she didn’t bring much along.

  Where did she come from?

  He took out the wallet and sifted through it, noting what the supermarket manager had told him: The address on the driver’s license was different from the address on the checks. There was a Parksville address on the driver’s license. Parksville was a hamlet outside of Liberty, so if it was her previous address, it wasn’t too far away.

  He started back through the living room and paused when he saw the light on the answering machine blinking. He pressed PLAY and waited. Whoever had called first had left no message, but there was a second message.

  “Hi, Anna. I was just wondering if you were going to do anything special tonight or, should I say, see anyone special?” A short laugh was followed with “If not, call me and maybe we’ll do something. Toby told me The Pit’s been rocking. Lots of new hunks. I’ll be home all afternoon. Oh,” she added with a giggle, “just in case you don’t recognize my voice: This is Lidia. Bye.”

  There were no other messages. McShane returned to the secretary’s desk in the bedroom and searched the drawers. He didn’t find a Rolodex, but he found a small pile of index cards with names, numbers, and addresses. One had Lidia Ambrook’s number and address on it. He took the card and put it in his pocket, then flipped through the remaining cards. He really couldn’t tell anything from the other names and addresses, but one card caught his attention because it had only a telephone number on it. He recognized it as a cellular phone number too. Instinctively he took that card out and put it in his pocket as well.

  He gazed around the apartment once more and started to leave. Just before closing the door, however, he saw the mezuzah on the doorjamb. He had seen them before in the homes of Jewish people and knew that it contained some scroll and had holy significance. Yet, there was nothing else i
n this apartment to indicate it belonged to a religious person. He did recall the Jewish star on the compact case in her wallet.

  He shrugged to himself and closed the door. As he backed away he heard someone say, “What the hell are you doing?”

  He turned to see a tall, wiry man with disheveled black hair and a narrow face come walking toward him. He carried a small tool chest and a shopping bag and wore only a flannel shirt and dungarees despite the nippy, dank weather.

  McShane flashed his ID.

  “I know who you are,” Tom Ernst said. “Wife told me you was snooping about. How’d you get into that apartment?” he asked, nodding at Anna’s door.

  “Key,” McShane said holding up the key chain. “You’re Ernst?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The woman who lives here is apparently missing and might even have been abducted. What can you tell me about her?”

  Ernst put his tool chest and the bag down.

  “Nice lady. Lives alone. She works for the public defender’s office. What do you mean, missing?”

  McShane described the scene at the supermarket and what had followed.

  “This is strange,” Ernst said, scratching his head.

  “Uh-huh. Any boyfriends, relatives you notice coming around?”

  “I ain’t never seen a man with her. Sometimes I seen another young woman. I don’t snoop as long as they pay the rent on time and don’t do damage, but I know she’s got family in Parksville.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I don’t think they get along,” Ernst added quickly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “She don’t like talking about them.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t snoop—just read between the lines is all,” he said defensively, and picked up his tool kit and the bag again. “I hope nothing bad’s happened to her.”

  “Me too.”

  “Gotta fix a toilet down here. The old lady who lives in it will call me anytime, night or day, if I don’t,” he griped. McShane smiled.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said. “In the meantime, if she shows up, do me a favor and give me a call,” McShane said, and handed one of his cards to Ernst. Ernst took it, nodded, and walked off.