Goodbye Sister Disco (23 page)

“Hey,” Hastings said.

Lynn Akre said, “Do you think she's still…”

“Yes,” Hastings said. “I do.” He held her gaze then in such a way that he believed it himself. He had to.

*   *   *

The Jaguar was parked across the street so he had to wait for a break in traffic before he could cross over and get to it. When he did, he stood next to the car and looked up and down the street.

Friday night. The beginning of the holiday weekend, Christmas Eve on Monday, Christmas on Tuesday. The beginning of a vacation for most people. Christmas.

“Shit,” Hastings said. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

Eileen answered after a few rings. Recognizing his number, her voice was familiar.

“What's up?”

“Hi. I just wanted to make sure you had Amy with you.”

“Of course I do. I picked her up from school hours ago.” Eileen sighed. “Christ, George.” All through their marriage there had been arguments about her irresponsibility. Hastings saying, Where were you? She saying, It must be nice to be perfect, and when was he going to write his book on parenting? She resented his second-guessing, but he felt that she usually didn't leave him much choice.

“I wasn't doubting you,” Hastings said, though he was. “I just wanted to check.”

“She's here, George. We even gave her dinner.”

“Okay, Eileen.” Hastings stopped, told himself to relax. He wasn't in the mood for argument. Not tonight. He said, “When are you leaving for Jamaica?”

“We're leaving Sunday afternoon. Can you pick Amy up by ten?”

“It shouldn't be a problem.” Hastings hesitated. Then he said, “Listen, Eileen. I'm working a kidnapping. The Penmark girl.”

Eileen said, “Oh.” Her tone different then. She was no fool and she didn't need everything explained to her. Hastings was trying to put himself in the frame of mind of a kidnapper. Asking himself, If I planned to kidnap Cordelia Penmark, what would I do? It made him think of Amy.

Eileen said, “I understand. Listen, she's okay. Do you want to talk to her?”

“No, that's all right.”

“George?”

“Yes?”

“There was something on the news about a police officer involved in a fight with one of the kidnapping suspects. Was that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry I was such a bitch. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Look, I gotta get going.”

“Okay. Listen: be careful, okay?”

“I will, sweetie. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Eileen, he thought. Can't live with her. Can't hate her either. No matter what bad thing she did—and there would be plenty more, knowing her—he would always forgive her. It would forever be his plight.

*   *   *

Presuming the kidnappers were watching Cordelia and the lawyer that night. Watching them through the glass, as if they were actors on a stage. The rich girl and her lawyer boyfriend descend out of their glass box into the street, where Tom Myers escorts Cordelia to his BMW. Presume that …

Why wouldn't they just take Cordelia then?

Hastings looked up and down the street again.

Too much traffic. And too much glass up above. Maybe someone would see. And the area itself was within a half mile of the central police department. Wait. Patiently wait until the girl and her escort are in a less populated area. Wait until the prey have had a few drinks and slowed down their defenses.

Hastings started the car. The engine burbled to life. Hastings put the car in gear and started west.

*   *   *

He imagined following Tom Myers's BMW. Trailing them as they took the ramp up to the interstate and drove west. The lights of Union Station coming into view on their right, then even with them, then behind them. Then Midtown and Saint Louis University, so changed from when Hastings had gone there. Hastings took the exit at Kingshighway and turned north. He doubled back on Lindell and then made the left turn on Euclid, taking him into the Central West End.

It was crowded and he had to park almost two blocks from Dressel's.

He showed photographs of Tom Myers and Cordelia to the manager and asked about the night in question. The manager said, yeah, she was a regular, but he couldn't remember if she had been in that night. He looked at the schedule to see who had been on shift then and soon Hastings found himself in a dialogue with the bartender and a waitress.

The waitress said, “She's okay. A little quiet, I guess. But not rude. I didn't much like the guy she was with.”

Hastings said, “So they were here that night?”

The waitress said, “Yeah. They got a light dinner and had a couple of drinks. I got the feeling she would have liked to stay longer, but he kept looking at his watch. And he asked me for the check like he was in a hurry.”

“Do you remember about what time they left?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “But I think it was before eight o'clock.”

“This is a longshot,” Hastings said, “but do either of you remember someone else being here that night that seemed to be—watching them?”

The waitress said, “Watching them?”

“Yes.”

She looked at the bartender, who looked back at her. She said, “Well, sir, I don't know. I don't remember anything like that.”

Hastings turned to the bartender. “How about you?”

The bartender said, “I … don't remember anyone,” he paused, searching for the proper television-cop lingo, then said, “suspicious.”

The waitress said, “She was kidnapped later that night, wasn't she?”

“Yes.”

The waitress said, “You think the kidnappers were here, watching her or following her?”

“I think they might have been.” Hasting felt a little awkward then, wondering if the waitress or the bartender would tell their friends how little he had to go on, the sort of things he was reaching for. But the bartender and the waitress were looking at each other again, trying to see if the other one could remember anything.

The bartender said, “I'm sorry, man. I can't remember anything like that.”

“That's all right,” Hastings said. He handed the bartender a card. “If you think of anything, call me.”

*   *   *

He walked back to his car, again looking at the intersection and the sidewalks, asking himself if the kidnappers had been sitting in a car that night watching Cordelia and Tom Myers as they walked to his BMW. Sitting in a car, eyeing their prey, waiting to pounce. Predators.

They knew who Cordelia Penmark was. They had her marked. It was possible that they knew she would be at a party in Ladue, possible that they knew of it in advance. Possible, but not likely. They knew who Cordelia was, but they probably did not know her schedule. So they must have followed her.

His cell phone rang.

An unidentified number. Hastings answered it.

“Hastings, it's Fenton Murray.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you now?”

“I'm in the Central West End. I'm going over Cordelia Penmark's tracks the night she was abducted.”

Silence. Hastings waited for Murray to ask him what the hell good that was going to do. It irritated him now, the thought of a higher-up interfering and second-guessing.

Maybe Murray sensed this in the quiet moment, because he said, “Well … the girl hasn't turned up, has she?”

“No, sir.”

Another pause, Fenton Murray debating whether to make a suggestion, Hastings guarded and resentful. Murray said, “All right. Well, you know what you're doing.”

“Thank you,” Hastings said. “Did the chief ask you to call me?”

“Yeah. It's FBI's case and he realizes that. But the media doesn't really understand and they keep calling us for answers.”

“I understand,” Hastings said.

“Yeah,” Murray said. “Well, call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks.”

The call ended and Hastings started the car. He looked at his watch. Well into night now, but he was getting his second wind. The staff at Dressel's hadn't seen anyone suspicious, but they had confirmed that Cordelia Penmark had been there the night she was kidnapped, so Hastings took it as a sign that he was onto something. It was all he had for now.

He started the drive to Ladue.

THIRTY-ONE

She wore artificial flowers, artificial flowers …

They were piping music into the basement. In the last couple of days, she had discerned where the speakers were, but she had not determined the source. There were no commercials, but it was on some sort of oldies loop. Bobby Darin, the Four Seasons, the Platters, Bill Haley and the Comets, Ricky Nelson covering “Fools Rush In.” Music that was unfamiliar to her and would forever be unpleasant. They meant to disorient her as to time and space. Or maybe they meant to comfort her. No, that was not likely.

Cordelia heard them celebrating earlier. Whooping, cheering, people saying, “Fuck, yeah.” Celebrating something. They must have gotten the money, she thought. She didn't know what else could have made them that happy. That had to be it, she thought. That had to be it, and it would mean that they were letting her go. The guy had said they would. He had said, “It's up to your father.” Something like that.
He has to pay us before we'll give you back. It's up to him.
Now they were cheering upstairs; it had to mean that they had the money and now were about to let her go. They had told her that they would. Surely, they would not have misled her. Surely they would not have been so cruel as to give her false hope. No. No, she would not nurse that thought. They would not do that. They would have killed her already if they were going to kill her.

They had taken away her watch. Her sense of time was limited. All she had was the music. She decided that each song was approximately three minutes, so she would count songs. Ten songs were thirty minutes, another ten and an hour had passed. It was something to focus on and maybe it was making her go insane or maybe it was holding her together. It was getting harder to tell the difference.

But she remained aware of the passage of time. And she was aware that one hour had passed after she heard the cheers, after she heard the celebration. They would set her free now. Maybe take her out to some field, someplace desolate and remote. Or maybe someplace crowded where she would just be another face. A shopping mall parking lot or the Savvis Center. They would have to let her go. They had gotten what they wanted now, they had gotten all they needed out of her. The sensible thing to do was let her go. They didn't have to be nice. They didn't have to be humane. But they could be reasonable. There was no
need
anymore. No need to kill her.

But the hour passed and no one came to see her. No one came to tell her that they had gotten the money and would be letting her go. No one came to tell her that they
hadn't
gotten the money. No one came to tell her anything. No one shared anything with her.

I'm still here, she thought. I'm still here and I'm the reason you got that money. I'm relevant. Can't you at least tell me what you're going to do to me?

“Please,” she said. She was talking aloud now. Talking just to herself. The way you would do if you were driving and someone did something stupid in traffic and you said, “Thank you,” aloud, being sarcastic, but the only one who would hear your voice would be you.

“Please,” she said again.

Please what?

Please let me go, she thought. Please tell me if you got what you wanted. Please tell me what you're going to do. Please tell me you're going to let me go. Please tell me you're not going to kill me. Please deliver me from this place, from this despair.

Another hour went by, and then another. Three hours since she had heard them whoop and cheer because they had gotten their ransom. It had to be that because what else would they be so happy about? It could be that her dad had agreed to give them the money and that in itself was cause for celebration.
He's agreed to pay us.
Hooray. Maybe it had been that that caused them to cheer. If all it was was that, then it would explain leaving her down here. It would explain their not letting her go. They couldn't let her go yet, see, because they hadn't actually gotten the money yet. They had only secured an
agreement
from Daddy to give them the money. And that wasn't the same thing as actually having the money. It was a reason to be happy, but not a victory.

But … but—why would they cheer over an agreement? Were they stupid enough to say,
We've won. He's
agreed
to give us the money
?

God.

Tears were rolling down her cheeks now. Because even trying, she could not persuade herself to believe something so silly. If they were celebrating, it was because they had the money. Not just an agreement. They had the money, they had secured their ransom, over three hours ago and she was still down here.

Cordelia thought, I have no control. It angered her more than it frightened her. She had absolutely no fucking control over her fate. None. She was powerless. Whether she lived or died was totally at the discretion of the monsters beyond the door. She was nothing to them. A piggie, the girl had said. An object, a thing they kept down in their basement.

She thought briefly of her stepmother, a woman she pretty much loathed. Lexie's buzzword for the twenty-first century was
proactive. How do we get proactive on this, Gene? We need to be proactive.
Using a stupid, meaningless word to sound smart. Classic Lexie. How do we get proactive here, Lexie? Let's see, I can bang my head against the cement wall until I'm unconscious. Or I can scream bloody murder so that they turn this fucking music up even louder and I go completely insane. I can beg for my life, beg for it from savages who shot bullets into poor Tom like he was a large bag of cooking rice. What do you say, Lexie? Shall we have a meeting? Shall we have a tea party? Maybe put out some wine and cheese? What? You say there's no peanut butter and Wonder Bread? Well, holy fucking shit, what kind of host are you? Don't you realize I've formed a taste for peanut butter sandwiches? Who's in charge of this meeting, anyway? Take down notes, Lexie. Take down this, you stupid dipshit whore: These People are Going to Kill Me.