“You do, don’t you?”
“When Flora’s landlady, Mrs. Reichter, described the ‘building inspector,’ my first thought was the Stacey Summers abduction video. Not to mention, three months later, there are no leads, no additional witness statements, no new information in that case. You have to admit, it takes a particular kind of predator to pull that off.”
“You mean such as the kind of guy who would pose as a building inspector to copy a set of keys?”
“The idea crossed my mind. Plus, the front door of Flora’s apartment being left open, all the windows unlocked. It feels to me, whoever did this—he’s showing off. Bragging even. Which would make sense if this isn’t the first time he’s gotten away with something.”
D.D. arched a brow. She didn’t know exactly what to make of Keynes’s suspicions. Even if he was onto something, given how little they knew about Stacey Summers’s disappearance, linking Flora’s case to hers hardly helped them. What they needed was a detailed sketch provided by the elderly landlords downstairs. Then, they needed half a dozen witness statements tracking the perpetrator’s trek through the neighborhood, plus a parking ticket issued to the evildoer’s personal vehicle. Short of that . . .
D.D. turned toward the window again. “Is it possible we have it all wrong? Flora wasn’t kidnapped at all but simply broke under the stress of the past twenty-four hours and ran off?”
“No.”
“Because she wouldn’t leave her cell phone behind, or her personal computer, yada yada yada.”
“No, because she wouldn’t do that to her mother.”
D.D. sighed again. Everything about this case already hurt her, and she had a feeling it was only going to get worse. “I need to talk to Rosa. Both about her daughter, but also her involvement with the Summers family.”
“If I might make a recommendation?”
D.D. shot Keynes a look. “By all means.”
“I don’t think you should question Rosa just yet. If anyone knows about the family dynamics and the latest developments, it’s Pam Mason, the Summerses’ victim advocate. You want insights, speak to her first.”
Chapter 18
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO AVOID ABJECT TERROR?
How to fight nighttime chills, the fear of the bogeyman under the bed? How to sleep like an angel? Or walk down dark alleyways with a spring in your step?
Do you want to know how to be me?
First, you find the void. It’s a place everyone has, deep, deep inside themselves. That spot no one can touch. I have it on expert testimony that some find it through meditation or Zen retreats or the diligent pursuit of mindfulness. Let’s just say I discovered the void under different circumstances.
But everyone has it. A place where you stand in silence. A place that permits you to be untouched even in a crowded room. A place where you are utterly, totally, simply, terrifyingly alone.
Once you are there, no one can hurt you. And once no one can hurt you, you never have to be afraid again.
*
IT’S THE DARKNESS THAT GETS TO ME. I keep thinking that my eyes will adjust. That there will be a lessening of the gloom. But no. The pitch-black depths remain absolute. I hold out my bound hands time and time again to test; I still can’t see them.
I’m left in a land of sound and feel. So I put both to good use.
I don’t understand the purpose of the tethering chain connected to the handcuffs around my wrists. Best I can tell, I have full range of the room, so it’s hardly limiting access. Is it to keep me from bounding through a suddenly opened door? Racing toward the light? I don’t know, then force myself to put it from my mind. Motives aren’t worth worrying about yet. Tangibles are.
I explore the room. Nine steps form the width, side to side. Twelve long strides provide the length. Contents appear to be three items: A twin-size mattress, flat on the floor, covered in a simple cotton blanket. A standard-issue plastic bucket sans handle. And a coffin-size box.
I still hear breathing. Slow and even. In and out. In and out. It becomes the background noise for my endeavors. Like the sound of ocean waves, the rhythm of my heartbeat. I already hate it.
Windows. Three of them. With my fingertips, I can make out the trim. Two upon one wall, both modest in size. Singles, I believe you’d call them. Classic New England architecture. The larger window is on the wall across from them. Twice as wide as it is tall, its dimensions remind me more of a mirror. When I run my fingers along it, I feel cool glass. In contrast, the smaller windows across from it are textured and rough, as if painted or otherwise obscured. I try to scratch at the coating with my fingernails but can’t make a dent. So not residential paint, but maybe something more industrial such as powder coating or enamel. These windows must be outer windows, thickly covered. Hence my lack of light.
As for the larger, unpainted glass surface across from them . . .
I’m guessing that’s an internal wall. Which doesn’t make sense for such a large picture window. Unless, of course, it’s not a window at all. A one-way mirror? That’s what I’m thinking. I can’t be certain, of course, but why construct such an elaborate setting for his playthings if not to watch the festivities inside?
I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the lights come on. Blinding, disorienting. And the UNSUB (ask Samuel; that’s unidentified subject in FBI-speak) will take advantage of the chaos to check in on his charges.
Or maybe he’s watching even now. Military-issued night-vision goggles, anything is possible.
You must understand: Whatever demented thing you’re too scared to consider, that’s exactly what they’re already fantasizing about it. The big bads out there . . . Denial won’t help you. Suppression won’t save you.
Best to meet it head-on. Understand the enemy. Accept their depravities. Then find the void and soldier on.
Breathing. Still so relentlessly even. In. Out. In. Out.
How can she remain asleep? How can she not hear me bumbling around in the dark, tripping over the mattress, stubbing my toe against a wall here, the box there?
I can’t think about the coffin-size box. I can’t consider its possibilities, its contents. If I do, I lose the void. Because I’m good alone. I understand alone. I intended, always, forever, to be alone.
So the box. The fucking Darth Vader wannabe, not part of the equation. A totally unwelcome addition to my plan.
Is she drugged? That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. How else to explain unconsciousness lasting this long? Of course, I’m not sure how long this long has been. I fell asleep early afternoon. I woke up to an intruder in my apartment after dusk. And now?
I hate the damn dark. It’s disorienting.
I center my thoughts. I comb the room. Using sight and sound, which can be more helpful than you think.
Above the larger window—the viewing window?—I identify a high wall-mounted object. Smaller, soft, and foamy to the touch, it’s situated to the left of the smooth-glass mirror. A speaker, I’m guessing. He watches, and then, eventually, he’ll talk. Orders, taunts, whatever.
But sooner or later he’ll make himself known. And when he does, it’ll be all about him asserting control.
Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
I should use it. Roll it into the void, turn it into part of my separation. Like focusing on the wind in the trees, or utilizing the toll of a bell. I can’t fight it. I can’t change it. I can’t block it. Hence, use it. Make it one with me.
I hate the damn breathing.
I find myself standing over the box. Tracing its shape, noting the roughness of the edges. A crude job. I’d like to say I recognize the craftsmanship. But cheap pine boxes are a dime a dozen. I never learned if Jacob crafted his own or purchased it elsewhere. I never asked the question before, and I certainly can’t ask it now.