Gone for Good (8 page)

He waited. We figured it was rhetorical and kept still.

"He freaks out and dumps her. Get it? He sees my handiwork on Tanya, and he just runs out on her. Her great love. Wants nothing to do with her. They never see each other again."

Castman started laughing again. I tried to stay still and breathe.

"So I'm in the hospital," he continued, "totally out of it. Tanya's got nothing. So she signs me out. She brings me here. And now she takes care of me. You understand what I'm saying? She's prolonging my life. I refuse to eat, she sticks a tube down my throat. Look, I'll tell you what you want to know. But you got to do something for me."

"What? "Squares said.

"Kill me."

"No can do."

"Tell the police, then. Let them arrest me. I'll confess to everything."

Squares said, "What happened to Sheila Rogers?"

"Promise me."

Squares looked at me. "We got enough here. Let's go."

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you. Just… just think about it, okay?"

He shifted his eyes from Squares to me then back to Squares again. Squares showed him nothing. I have no idea what was on my face. "I don't know where Sheila is now. Hell, I don't really understand what happened."

"How long did she work for you?"

"Two years. Maybe three."

"And how did she get free?"

"Huh?"

"You don't seem like the sort of guy who lets employees branch out," Squares said. "So I'm asking what happened to her."

"She worked the streets, right. Started getting some regulars. She was good at what she did. And somewhere along the way, she hooked up with some bigger players. It happens. Not often. But it happens."

"What do you mean, bigger players?"

"Dealers. Big-time dealers, I think. She started muling and delivering, I think. And worse, she started getting clean. I was going to lean on her, like you said, but she had some heavy-duty friends."

"Like who?"

"You know Lenny Misler?"

Squares leaned back. "The attorney?"

"The mob attorney," Castman corrected him. "She got picked up carrying. He repped her."

Squares frowned. "Lenny Misler took on the case of a streetwalker caught carrying?"

"You see my point? She comes out, I start sniffing around, you know. Find out what's she up to. A couple of major-league goons pay me a visit. They tell me to stay away. I'm not stupid. Plenty more tang where that came from."

"What happened next?"

"Never saw her again. Last I heard she was going to college. You believe that?"

"Do you know what college?"

"No. I'm not even sure it's true. Could have been just a rumor."

"Anything else?"

"Nope."

"No other rumors?"

Castman's eyes started moving, and I could see the desperation. He wanted to keep us there. But he had nothing else to tell us. I looked at Squares. He nodded and turned to leave. I followed.

"Wait!"

We ignored him.

"Please, man, I'm begging you. I told you everything, right? I cooperated. You can't just leave me here."

I saw his endless days and nights in the room, and I didn't care.

"Fucking assholes!" he shouted. "Hey, man, you. Lover boy. You enjoy my leftovers, you hear. And remember this: Everything she does to you, every time she gets you off I taught her that. You hear me? You hear what I'm saying?"

My cheeks flushed, but I didn't turn around. Squares opened the door.

"Shit." Castman's voice was softer now. "It doesn't leave, you know."

I hesitated.

"She may look all nice and clean. But where she's been, you don't ever come back. You know what I'm saying?"

I tried to shut out his words. But they hammered their way in and bounced around my skull. I walked out and closed the door. Back in the dark. Tanya met us on the way out.

"Are you going to tell?" she asked, her words slurred.

I never hurt him. That was what she said. She never raised a hand to him. Too true.

Without another word, we hurried back outside, almost diving into the night air. We sucked down deep breaths, divers breaking the surface short on air, got back to the van, and drove away.

Grand Island, Nebraska Sheila wanted to die alone.

Strangely enough, the pain was diminishing now. She wondered why. There was no light, though, no moment of stark clarity. There was no comfort in death. No angels surrounded her. No long-gone relatives she thought of her grandmother, the woman who'd made her feel special, who'd called her "Treasure" came and held her hand.

Alone. In the dark.

She opened her eyes. Was she dreaming right now? Hard to say. She'd been hallucinating earlier. She'd been slipping in and out of consciousness. She remembered seeing Carly's face and begging her to go away. Had that been real? Probably not. Probably an illusion.

When the pain got bad, really bad, the line between awake and sleep, between reality and dreams, blurred. She did not fight it anymore. It was the only way you could survive the agony. You try to block the pain. That doesn't work. You try to break the pain down into manageable time intervals. That doesn't work either. Finally, you find the only outlet available: your sanity.

You let go of your sanity.

But if you can recognize what's happening, are you really letting go?

Deep philosophical questions. They were for the living. In the end, after all the hopes and dreams, after all the damage and rebuilding, Sheila Rogers would end up dying young and in pain and at the hands of another.

Poetic justice, she supposed.

Because now, as she felt something inside her cleave and tear and pull away, there was indeed a clarity. A horrible, inescapable one. The blinders were being lifted, and for once she could see the truth.

Sheila Rogers wanted to die alone.

But he was in the room with her. She was sure of it. She could feel his hand resting gently on her forehead now. It made her cold. As she felt the life force slipping away, she made one last plea.

"Please," she said. "Go away."

Squares and I did not discuss what we'd seen. We also did not call the police. I pictured Louis Castman trapped in that room, unable to move, nothing to read, no TV or radio, nothing to look at except those old photographs. If I were a better person, I might have even cared.

I also thought about the Garden City man who'd shot Louis Castman and then turned his back, his rejection probably scarring Tanya worse than Castman ever could. I wondered if Mr. Garden City still thought about Tanya or if he'd just gone on as if she'd never existed. I wondered if her face haunted his dreams.

I doubted it.

I thought about all this because I was curious and horrified. But I also did it because it stopped me from thinking about Sheila, about what she'd been, about what Castman had done to her. I reminded myself that she was the victim here, kidnapped and raped and worse, and that nothing she had done had been her fault. I should not view her any differently. But this clearheaded and obvious rationale would not stick.

And I hated myself for that.

It was nearly four in the morning when the van pulled up to my building.

"What do you make of it so far?" I asked.

Squares stroked his stubble. "What Castman said at the end there. About it never leaving her. He's right, you know."

"You speaking from experience?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"So?"

"So my guess is that something from her past came back and got her."

"We're on the right track then."

"Probably," Squares said.

I grabbed the door handle and said, "Whatever she's done whatever you've done it may never leave you. But it doesn't condemn you either."

Squares stared out the window. I waited. He kept staring. I stepped out and he drove away.

A message on the phone knocked me back a step. I checked the time on the LCD. The message had been left at 11:47 P-M- Awfully late. I figured it had to be family. I was wrong.

I hit the play button and a young woman said, "Hi, Will."

I didn't recognize the voice.

"It's Katy.Katy Miller."

I stiffened.

"Long time, right? Look, I, uh, sorry I'm calling so late. You're probably asleep, I don't know. Listen, Will, could you give me a call as soon as you get this? I don't care what time it is. I just, well, I need to talk to you about something."

She left her number. I stood there, dumbstruck. Katy Miller. Julie's little sister. The last time I'd seen her… she'd been six years old or so. I smiled, remembering a time sheesh, Katy couldn't have been more than four when she had hidden behind her father's army trunk and jumped out at an inopportune time. I remember Julie and I covering ourselves with a blanket, no time to pull up our pants, trying not to laugh our asses off.

Little Katy Miller.

She'd be, what, seventeen or eighteen by now. Odd to think about. I knew the effect Julie's death had on my family, and I could pretty much surmise what it had done to Mr. and Mrs. Miller. But I'd never really considered the impact on little Katy. I thought again about that time Julie and I had pulled up the blanket giggling, and now I remembered that we'd been in the basement. We'd been messing around on the very couch where Julie would be found murdered.

Why, after all these years, was Katy calling me?

It could be just a condolence call, I reminded myself, though that seemed odd on several levels, not the least of which would be the hour of her call. I replayed the message, searching for a hidden meaning. I didn't find one. She had said to call anytime. But it was four in the A.M." and I was exhausted. Whatever it was, it could wait until morning.

I climbed into bed and remembered the last time I'd seen Katy Miller. My family had been asked to stay away from the funeral. We complied. But two days later, I went by myself to the graveyard off Route 22. I sat by Julie's tombstone. I said nothing. I did not cry. I did not feel comfort or closure or anything else. The Miller family pulled up in their white Oldsmobile Cierra, and I made myself scarce. But I'd met little Katy's eyes. There was a strange resignation in her face, a knowing that went beyond her years. I saw sadness and horror and maybe I saw pity too.

I left the graveyard then. I had not seen or spoken to her since.

Belmont, Nebraska

Sheriff Bertha Farrow had seen worse.

Murder scenes were bad, but for overall vomit-inducing, bone-crunching, head-splitting, blood-splattering grossness, it was hard to beat the metal-against-flesh effect of an old-fashioned automobile accident. A head-on collision. A truck crossing the divider. A tree that splits the car from the bumper to the backseat. A high-speed tumble over a guardrail.

Now, that did serious damage.

And yet this sight, this dead woman at this fairly bloodless scene, was somehow much worse. Bertha Farrow could see the woman's face her features twisted in fear, uncomprehending, maybe desperate and she could see that the woman had died in great pain. She could see the mangled fingers, the misshapen rib cage, the bruises, and she knew that the damage here had been done by a fellow human being, flesh against flesh. This was not the result of a patch of ice or someone changing radio stations at eighty miles an hour or a rush truck delivery or the ill effects of alcohol or speed.

This had been intentional.

"Who found her?" she asked her deputy George Volker.

"The Randolph boys."

"Which ones?"

"Jerry and Ron."

Bertha calculated. Jerry would be about sixteen. Ron fourteen.

"They were walking with Gypsy," the deputy added. Gypsy was the Randolphs ' German shepherd. "He sniffed her out."

"Where are the boys now?"

"Dave took them home. They were kinda shook up. I got statements. They don't know nothing."

Bertha nodded. A station wagon came tearing up the highway. Clyde Smart, the county medical examiner, stopped his wagon with a screech. The door flew open, and Clyde sprinted toward them. Bertha cupped a hand over her eyes.

"No rush, Clyde. She ain't going anywhere."

George snickered.

Clyde Smart was used to this. He was closing in on fifty, about Bertha's age. The two had been in office for nearly two decades. Clyde ignored her joke and ran past them. He looked down at the body, and his face dropped.

"Sweet Jesus," the M.E. said.

Clyde squatted beside her. He gently pushed the hair back from the corpse's face. "Oh God," he said. "I mean " He stopped, shook his head.

Bertha was used to him too. Clyde 's reaction did not surprise her. Most M.E.s, she knew, stayed clinical and detached. Not Clyde. People were not tissue and messy chemicals to him. She'd seen Clyde cry over bodies plenty of times. He handled each DOA with incredible, almost ridiculous, respect. He performed autopsies as though he could make the person recover. He'd deliver bad news to families, and he'd genuinely share their grief.

"Can you give me an approximate time of death?" she asked.

"Not long," Clyde said softly. "The skin is still in early rigor mortis. I'd say no more than six hours. I'll get a liver temperature reading and " He spotted the hand with the fingers that jutted out in unnatural directions. "Oh my God," he said again.

Bertha looked back at her deputy. "Any ID?"

"None."

"Possible robbery?"

"Too brutal," Clyde said. He looked up. "Someone wanted her to suffer."

There was a moment of silence. Bertha could see tears forming in Clyde 's eyes.

"What else? "she asked.

Clyde quickly looked back down. "She's no vagrant," he said. "Well dressed and nourished." He checked her mouth. "Decent enough dental work."

"Any signs of rape?"

"She's dressed," Clyde said. "But my God, what wasn't done to her? Very little blood here, certainly not enough for this to be the murder scene. My guess is that someone drove by and dumped her here. I'll know more when I get her on the table."

"Okay then," Bertha said. "Let's check Missing Persons and run her prints."

Clyde nodded as Sheriff Bertha Farrow started walking away.