The back door burst open and Anne saw the back of a jacket that read MEDICAL TRANSPORTATION SERVICES, and then a college-age man backed out, pulling the metal gurney that carried McCallum’s bagged body. Anne held the screen door open for him as he and another man moved the body out onto the stoop.
“Find him,” Archie said to Claire, handing the yearbooks back to Anne so that he could get to his cell phone. “Arrest him. He’s our guy. Get a warrant to search his house. And get some uniforms over to Susan Ward’s apartment. Now.”
The transport team cleared the stairs and began wheeling the body down the slim cement path that led to the driveway. The wheels made a cruel grating sound on the concrete.
Anne glanced down at the top yearbook. In the margin next to a photograph of a young man was a scrawled message from one of McCallum’s students: “Hey, Mr. M. I’m outta here. Have a great life.”
CHAPTER
43
S usan awoke with a start to the smell of gasoline. The odor was so strong that it reached down through the ocean she was under, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her to the surface of her consciousness. She came to with a start, but it was so dark that it took her a few moments to realize that her eyes were open. Her hands and feet were bound. She sat up and hit her head on something hard just above her. The impact sent a shock wave of pain through her skull and she sank back down into a lying position.
“Paul?” she said. Her voice came out in a whimper.
The room lurched. Susan was caught off balance and rolled back against a wall. It wasn’t so much the lurching room that tipped her off as the thud her body made against the fiberglass. A boat. She was on a boat.
It was then that she panicked.
She started to scream. She used her bound hands and feet to bang on the fiberglass. She found strength she didn’t know she had. “I’m down here,” she shrieked. “Help me. Someone.”
“Susan.”
She froze and every hair on her body stood up. He was down there. With her. In the dark.
“Susan.” His disembodied voice was strained and brutal. “You need to be quiet.”
“Let me go, Paul,” she pleaded into the darkness.
She felt him fumble for her and she forced herself not to cringe under his touch as his hand found her leg and moved up her thigh and stopped. He was right next to her. His breath was hot against her face.
“I thought we’d spend some time together,” he said, and his voice caught. “Like you said, I barely know you.”
CHAPTER
44
W hen Susan didn’t pick up her landline or cell phone, Archie’s thoughts grew dark. They were already in Henry’s car, Archie in the passenger seat, Henry behind the wheel, on their way to the Pearl. Claire and Anne were following close behind. He left identical troubled messages on Susan’s voice mails and then let the phone rest in his palm on his lap, willing it to ring. Sunset was at six-thirty. It was nearly 7:30, so the sun had long ago slipped behind the West Hills, but the purple late-winter sky was still half-lit with dusk. It was going to be a cold night.
“Could be anything,” Henry said, gripping the steering wheel. “Could be she’s in the shower. Anything.”
“Right,” said Archie.
“Maybe she’s taking a nap,” Henry added.
“I get it,” said Archie. He noticed then that Henry’s wrist was bleeding. “What happened to you?”
Henry shrugged. “Fucking cat scratched me.”
Archie’s walkie-talkie buzzed and he answered it. The patrol cops were at Susan’s apartment. She wasn’t answering the door. “Find out if her car’s in the parking lot,” he told them. “Knock on her neighbors’ doors. See if anyone saw her come home or go out. And check if there’s a security camera in the parking garage or lobby.” Then he dialed information and got Ian Harper’s telephone number.
A child’s voice picked up at the Harper residence. “Is your dad at home?” Archie asked.
The boy went off to get his father and Archie could hear music and the sounds of adults eating and laughing. In a minute, Ian Harper picked up the phone.
His voice was annoyed. “Yeah?”
Archie wasn’t feeling very generous toward Ian right now and he was in a hurry, so he skipped the niceties. “Ian. Archie Sheridan. Did you drop Susan at her apartment this afternoon?”
Ian hesitated. “Yeah.”
“What time?” Archie asked.
“What’s going on?”
Henry whipped around a slow pickup truck on the Ross Island Bridge. Henry had the Crown Vic’s lights on but not the siren. The downtown skyline was a postcard to the north. Archie pulled the pillbox from his pocket and rotated it between his fingers. “What time did you drop her off?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” Ian said. His voice wavered. “About five-thirty?”
“Was she planning on going out this evening?” asked Archie. “Or having anyone over?”
“Not that she said.” Then Ian added, authoritatively, “She’s got a story due tomorrow.”
“You know anything about an anonymous source mentioning a Cleveland student to her?”
“Yeah,” Ian said instantly. “It’s another story. Nothing to do with the Strangler.”
“You sure?”