Finding Claire Fletcher (4 page)

Connor slept so soundly that he never even heard Claire leave. He woke alone in bed, bare-chested, his pants still on. He didn’t need to check the house to know she was gone. He rolled into the blanket they’d shared and inhaled deeply. He could detect the faintest scent of her body mixed with lavender.

“Claire Fletcher,” he said aloud, letting the name roll off his tongue. He glanced at the bedside clock and realized he’d have to be at work in a half-hour and his car was still at the bar.

Don’t want to be late on the day I get fired
, he thought grimly.

He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He looked around the room for Claire’s discarded clothes, knowing they wouldn’t be there. The kitchen chair still sat next to the bed. The morning sunlight cast a golden glow over its sleek wooden frame.

Connor sighed and headed for the shower. As he readied himself, he began to wonder if the mysterious woman from the bar was a ghost. Then he went into the kitchen and saw the two scotch glasses sitting on the table from the night before. He smiled as he struggled with his tie. She had been there. He had kissed her and touched her luminous skin. As he drew closer, he noticed a small square of paper beneath one of the glasses. He pulled it from beneath the glass and read it, his heart thumping at the sight of her neatly printed letters.

Claire Fletcher, 1201 Archer Street, Sacramento, CA

There was no phone number, but that didn’t matter to Connor. He didn’t want to talk to her on the phone. He wanted to see her. He slipped the address into his pocket and left for work.

Connor was barely through the dingy, scuff-marked double doors of the Major Crimes Unit when he heard Captain Richard Riehl yelling, “Parks! Get your ass in here.”

As he made his way to Riehl’s office, there were no glances from his colleagues. They were all behind him but they knew as well as he did that there were rules in this line of work, and one of them was that you didn’t shoot an unarmed man, suspected rapist or not, and get off easy. It was almost as if looking directly at Connor might jinx them.

Riehl was busy clearing files off the chair in front of his desk. His office had the perpetual look and feel of a disaster area. There were books, files, photos, statements and other miscellany paperwork piled in stacks on the desk, chairs, the floor, even the filing cabinets, which were already bursting. Somehow Riehl always managed to find what he was looking for and navigate his stocky frame throughout the room without displacing a single sheet of paper.

The captain plopped down in his own chair behind the desk and eyed Connor with a look that was both severe and carefully blank. A minute passed. Riehl leaned back in his chair, picked up his glasses and held them under his chin. “You shot an unarmed man,” he said pointedly.

Connor shrugged. “He had a lead pipe.”

“Which he might as well have thrown at you. You had a firearm. You failed to identify yourself and give him the option of surrendering the, uh, weapon.”

“Okay, yeah,” Connor conceded.

Riehl put his glasses back on the desktop. “You’re on the desk,” he said.

“The desk?” Connor was surprised but pleased. He’d expected to turn in his badge and his gun that morning.

Riehl leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. “Yeah,” he said. “The desk. Paperwork. That’s it. No active investigative work. Nothing on the street. You’ll go before the review board in two weeks. Until then, you keep your head down and your trap shut. Got it?”

“Got it,” Connor agreed eagerly.

Betraying no more emotion than he had since Connor entered the room, Riehl said, “The guy was a scumbag. Had it coming. But there are rules, Parks.”

Connor lowered his head. “I know, sir.”

“And when you break those rules, there are consequences.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see what I can do with the review board. We’ll see if you can’t keep your badge. But you might have to go on unpaid suspension,” Riehl warned.

“Yes, sir,” Connor said.

Riehl nodded. “Good man. Now get the hell out of my office, and unless you save a hundred school kids from a burning building, I don’t want to hear your name for two weeks.”

Connor nodded, flashing the captain a lopsided grin which was not returned. The day was starting out better than he’d expected.

Three days later, Connor pulled up in front of the address Claire had left for him. He’d wanted to see her right away, but he’d been out of the dating game for eight years and didn’t want to look desperate.

Yesterday, thoughts of her had led him into Denise’s formal dining room. He wanted to throw out all the dust-covered cherry furniture, but the impractical writing desk was all he could carry out alone. He carried it outside and threw it on its side with a clatter. He stood looking at it next to the rest of his trash with a half-grin of satisfaction. He felt more liberated than he had since Denise left.

1201 Archer Street was a two-story single home set on a tiny piece of land. It looked as if it had been beautiful at one time, but now paint peeled in uneasy strips from the siding and the front yard was overgrown with weeds. The two concrete steps leading to the front door were cracked and crumbling.

Connor paused a moment before knocking. Maybe he should have called her first. He could have easily found her number using her name and address. No, he decided quickly. He opened the screen door and knocked three times on the storm door. Claire left only the address. If she meant for him to call, she would have left a number.

The door was answered by a tall, wiry woman with short, black hair cut in a shapeless style. Her face bore a striking resemblance to Claire’s though she was certainly older—not old enough to be Claire’s mother; perhaps a sister. Her eyes were shaped similarly, although their blue shade was lighter than Claire’s. She had the same narrow, delicate nose, the same chin.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman.

Connor shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Hi,” he said. “I’m here to see Claire Fletcher.”

The woman’s face paled. She hesitated before opening the door wide with one trembling hand. “Come in,” she said.

Connor stepped inside the foyer. The woman turned to the flight of stairs opposite them and yelled, “Tom!”

Connor felt a prickling sensation in his arms and legs. Unconsciously, almost of its own volition, his right hand slipped inside his jacket to rest on the butt of his pistol. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

The woman ignored him, her eyes fixed on the steps. Waves of raw, scarcely contained energy rolled off her. A disembodied male voice barked back from somewhere above them. “What?”

“Tom! Get down here right now.” The woman’s voice rose an octave and realizing it, she covered her mouth with one hand. She did not look at Connor.

His palm was dry and steady, resting on his weapon, though the logical part of his mind could divine no possible danger at hand.

Tom came trotting down the steps in blue jeans and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt. He looked to be in his thirties, about Connor’s age, although his brown hair was thinning at the top. His eyebrows rose quizzically at the woman, but the rest of his face smiled kindly at her. Connor eased his hand out of his jacket.

“Brianna?” Tom said, taking her elbows.

She nodded her head toward Connor but did not look at him. Tom turned his bright smile on Connor and extended a hand. “Hi,” he said. “Tom Fletcher.”

Connor blinked but shook hands with the man. “Connor Parks,” he replied.

Tom clapped his hands together. “What can I do for you, Connor?”

Before Connor could answer, Brianna said, “He’s here to see Claire.”

Tom was obviously someone whose face lacked the ability to hide emotion. Whereas Brianna’s face had paled, Tom’s flushed a deep red at the mention of Claire’s name. Shock and confusion played havoc with the man’s features. He wouldn’t make a very good criminal, Connor thought.

Tom stared at Connor as though he’d shown up holding Claire’s decapitated head in one hand. “Claire,” Tom gasped.

Finally Brianna’s eyes were on Connor, but he did not like the look of them at all. “Yeah,” Connor said. “Claire Fletcher. She gave me this address.”

Tom’s hands flew to his chest. “When?”

Connor shrugged. “Um, jeez, a few days ago. Wednesday, I think.”

“That’s not possible,” Brianna said icily.

“What?” Connor said.

Tom stepped toward him, a look of wounded pity on his open face. “Connor—Mr. Parks, our sister disappeared ten years ago. She’s never been found.”

I woke to the insistent rattling of the trailer door. I rolled onto my back and nearly fell out of the bed. The flimsy door shimmied. I groaned and pushed a mass of tangled curls out of my face.

The rattling changed to banging, only it sounded like the angry
tink tink tink
of someone flicking their finger against a tin can. That was not very far off. The trailer felt like a tin can. It was almost small enough to be a tin can.

It was his gift to me. Pseudo-freedom. The trailer sat lopsided on a plot of unattractive land, overgrown with weeds like a carcass on the shoulder of the road. Still, it was mine. As much mine as anything could be while I was still his captive.

Tinktinktink. Tinktinktink.

I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. What would he do if I just didn’t answer? If I stayed inside the tin can trailer, tucked into my tiny bed, and never came out again? I could stay there. I would just stop getting up. Eventually I’d get hungry but I could take the hunger pangs. I was sure of that. I would only get up to pee until I was too weak from hunger to do so. Eventually I’d drift off to sleep and never wake up. It would be so easy. So blissfully easy.

Except for him.

I opened one eye and looked at the door, which rattled with a whole new intensity. The hinges wouldn’t hold much longer. I got up and wrapped my robe around me, hugging the lapels to my chest.

I opened the door, and without a word, he stepped past me. I waited as he searched the trailer. It didn’t take long.

“There’s no one here,” I said flatly.

He stood in the middle of the trailer, in my combination kitchen/dining area and glared at me. His fists were clenched at his sides and his steel-wool eyes bore into me.

“Why was the door locked?” he asked.

As always, his tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as if he were asking merely out of concern or curiosity. But there was a disturbing edge to his face. A nebulous tension surrounded his frame.

I crossed my arms. “Because I don’t want some stranger walking in here while I’m asleep,” I said.

“You mean you don’t want me walking in here,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of petulance.

I rolled my eyes and plopped onto the couch, one leg folded beneath me. “What does it matter? I let you in, didn’t I?”

“I have to be able to trust you, Lynn,” he said.

I felt tired, so tired. “Well, you’re not in prison, are you?”

He bristled but didn’t move toward me. “You were fifteen minutes late coming home last night.”

“Oh my God. You woke me up at six a.m. because I was fifteen minutes late getting home from work? You’re fucking crazy. Why don’t you just go home to your little pet and fuck with her head some more?”

Slowly, he sat beside me, arranging himself carefully. He tangled a hand in the curls behind my head. Then he jerked my head back. I gasped and reached for him, but he quickly wrapped his other hand around my throat. I winced as he applied pressure. My windpipe sagged beneath his grip.

“Lynnie,” he said softly, his voice calm, even, almost soothing. “You know Daddy doesn’t like it when you talk that way. So be a good girl.” He squeezed harder. My eyes watered. “You want to be a good girl, don’t you?”

I did my best to nod. “Good. Cause you know what happens when you’re bad, and we wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to the Fletchers, now would we?”

I shook my head as vigorously as I could. He smiled. He released the back of my head and stroked my hair. “Now, are you going to tell Daddy honestly where you were after work last night?”

I nodded. He loosened his hold on my throat but didn’t let go. I coughed, trying to draw in air. “I took some of the large dogs for a quick walk before I locked up,” I choked.

He studied me. I reached up and pulled his hand away from my throat. Finally he said, “Okay, Lynn. That’s okay. I just worried.”

“Yeah,” I said, massaging my neck. “Sure.”

He smiled at me, the loving smile of a father. It made me want to retch. He stood up and straightened his clothes, stroking the lapels of his jacket repeatedly until he could look at me again.

I made a conscious effort to keep the look of disgust from my face. I had to remain carefully neutral. It was the key to my survival.

His face was bright red. “Well,” he said. “Okay.”

He fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. I stared at him blankly. Silently, I urged him to go. It seemed like an eternity before he moved to the door. He stepped outside and once again, flashed his beneficent smile. My stomach twisted into a knot. He hopped down the front steps. Quickly, I pulled the door shut after him.