Leave Yesterday Behind (4 page)

Chapter 5

Callie awoke to an empty room. Although her door was closed, she could hear muffled sounds coming from the hallway. A squeaky noise probably came from a meal cart wobbling down the hall. Voices drifted by and then faded.

She eyed the TV remote, wondering if she had the strength to reach it. She pushed out a hand and leaned in the channel changer’s direction, only to immediately realize her mistake. A searing pain rippled from under her arm down to her hip. She knew this area must contain a zillion stitches from the stab wounds she’d suffered.

Okay, not such a good idea. Still, she wanted to turn on the news. She rarely watched TV. Instead, she memorized script lines, read, played with Wolf, and worked with victims of domestic violence at a local shelter. She didn’t need to watch the news. She couldn’t change the world anyway. She’d never used her celebrity regarding politics. In fact, she was pretty apathetic about politics. She didn’t believe one vote mattered, which would crush her high school civics teacher. She’d been all gun-ho, Miss Secretary in the Student Government, back in the day. And as an adult, she turned out to be apolitical. Go figure.

The soap opera world was political enough. She had all the backstabbing politics and behind-the-scenes wheeling and dealing in the small, incestuous community of soaps.

All the news she ever wanted to hear could be found on The Weather Channel. She didn’t need to go surfing the Net to read about what ailed the world. And while she’d once been a football and basketball fan growing up, tuning in for scores all around the country, she’d lost touch with teams and players’ records long ago. Catching the occasional Knicks game in person satisfied her now.

But something Detective Waggoner said stayed with her as she slept. There were others who had been attacked. She wasn’t the first. A compelling urge to tune into the local news station to find out what was going on overwhelmed her.

She wondered if she’d become a news junkie in the months it would take to heal. Would this be how her brush with death might change her? She hadn’t done the near-death experience thing. No rushing through a tunnel or beautiful sunlight cascading feelings of peace over her. The last she remembered was lying on a wet sidewalk, knowing she would die. Not exactly the warm fuzzy stuff they spotlighted on
GM
A
.

A soft knock startled her. Callie called out, “Come in,” and realized how weak her voice still was.

Beth entered, worry written over her face and in every line of her body, though she smiled at Callie as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Her best friend carried a bouquet of springtime flowers and some magazines, which she sat down on a tall cabinet by the window.

“Want to meet the guy who saved your ass?” Beth asked as she walked over to stand next to the bed.

Callie shook her head slightly, ignoring the pain. “What a greeting. No ‘How are you, Cal? Heard you almost died.’” She smiled, though. Beth always lifted her spirits, even in the worst of times.

“Yes, I would like to meet him and gush appropriately. Hey—is he single? Maybe this is the new way to get a date. We’d have lots to talk about, and he’s seen me at my absolute worst.”

Beth made a face. “Well, they won’t let the little hero in. They won’t let anyone in, Cal. People are going nuts. Miz Head Writer Deirdre’s dying. She claims all storyboards are now ruined for the next six months. She’s got the writers pulling an all-nighter tonight. And Marvin swears you’re trying to get him fired. He’s afraid he’ll never direct again, unless it’s straight-to-video shit. I think he’s behind the rumors that you aren’t really hurt.”

“Guess you learn who your real friends are when a homicidal maniac stabs you.” Callie kept her tone light, but she was curious. “Seriously, I didn’t know anyone wanted to get in. Why would the police keep my friends out?”

Beth pulled up a chair and sat. “I talked to Waggoner, the guy in charge of the case. Nice enough guy. Seemed protective of you. I’m sure it’s just a precaution.”

Beth reached over and poured some ice water into a glass and slipped a straw in. “You look parched, girlfriend. Let me buy you a drink.”

She brought the glass to Callie’s mouth. She found herself greedily sucking the life out of the straw and drained the entire glass.

“Best drink I ever had. Do they have Happy Hour here? I could go for a two-for-one.”

Beth studied her a moment. “How bad are you, Cal? You’re cracking jokes as usual, but you look awful. I know how long you were in surgery. I wore a groove into the linoleum from pacing so much. And the show is worried. Without you? The ratings will tank.”

“Then they need to let someone else step in and play Jessica for a while. It’s been done before.”

Beth sniffed. “And usually with disastrous results. You don’t replace an Eric Braedon, much less the famous Jessica, and not expect the fans to grumble.”

“Well, some actresses get away with pregnancy leaves by having their characters take an extended vacation,” she offered. “Like a sudden honeymoon. Or they go down on a sinking ship and get stuck on a deserted island. Or they cling to life after a car wreck and stay in an induced coma. Whatever. They always come back. Jessica could, too, in her own sweet time.”

But did she really want to return? Had what happened actually been fortuitous? Could she finally make a break from Jessica? She had plenty of money socked away. Which was good, since she couldn’t work for months anyway, according to old doom and gloom Dr. Maxwell.

If she wasn’t working, that might be the break she needed from being so strongly identified with Jessica.

Where could she go? Get away from everything here?

Especially the left-handed psycho with the knife.

Home. I want to go home,
she realized with a sweet ache. Back to Louisiana. It was the only place that appealed to her. Sure, she loved the hustle and bustle of New York and even the house she rented sometimes out on Long Island, but Aurora was what she needed. Mama was long gone, but Great-Aunt Callandra was still there. She could rest. Heal. Decide what she wanted to do. Professionally and personally.

She opened her mouth to share her decision with Beth, only to be interrupted by a solid knocking on her door. It opened before she could reply.

In walked Detective Waggoner and another man, slender, with a neatly trimmed black beard. Carrying an iPad.

The detective nodded at Beth but immediately turned his attention to Callie.

“This is Frank. He’s our best sketch artist.”

She watched the man take a seat and power up his tablet. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“I know. Different from the old days, but a lot faster. Waggoner tells me you might be fuzzy about details, but I want to capture whatever you can remember before anything fades.”

Beth stood. “I’ll excuse myself and let you get down to business. Cal, what should I do? The phone calls. The emails pouring in like crazy?”

Waggoner interjected, “Say Miss Chennault is resting comfortably. Period. No info beyond that. Nothing about her injuries or what she remembers. Nothing. I’ve told the network PR people the same thing.”

Beth nodded. “Got it.” She bent and kissed Callie’s cheek. “I’ll stop by later.”

Frank asked, “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” She closed her eyes, trying to picture Simon. Nothing came. Then a quick flash seared into her conscience, which caused her to gasp because it was so real. Her stomach flip-flopped as if on the downward slide of a roller coaster. She forced down the palatable fear to concentrate on the memory. She wanted to get it right.

“He’s close to my height. I’m five-nine. Maybe an inch or so taller. Probably mid to late twenties. Brown hair. Brown eyes.”

“Anything about the shape of his face? Hairstyle? Bushy brows?”

Callie squeezed her eyes tightly, hoping to remember more. “It was raining. His hair was short. Julius Caesar bangs plastered to his forehead. No skin problems. No moles or scars.”

She balled her fists together in frustration and opened her eyes. “He was the male version of a Plain Jane. Just an average Joe. Non-threatening, to tell the truth. Regular eyebrows, regular lips. Not thin or thick. No jewelry. Tan jacket. I think he had on jeans, but I’m not sure.”

She licked her lips and frowned. “Nothing else is coming. I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.”

“Hey, you had a concussion. But this is a definite start.” Frank’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’m putting in very generic guidelines. We’ll see what you think.”

He turned the screen around for her to view. She studied the image. “No, the eyes were a little closer together. The chin a little sharper.”

“Good,” Frank murmured. “See, you remember more than you give yourself credit for.”

They worked for another ten minutes and got what the artist said was a solid picture they could release to the media.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “I wish it could be more detailed.”

“Don’t be,” Frank told her. “This is more than we’ve had before now. No one has ever seen this guy.” He stood. “Thanks for your time.” He looked over at the older man. “I’ll have these printed out for you at the station.”

Waggoner nodded as Frank left.

Callie studied the detective. “So there have been more attacks. I didn’t know. I don’t watch the news. I only take the paper for the comics. I recycle the rest. I can’t start my day without
Crankshaft
or
One Big Happy
.”

The cop smiled. “How about
Rose is Rose
? I love when she turns into the motorcycle mama. I’m also partial to
Zits
. Reminds me of my daughter a few years back. Never much talked to the wife or me. Thought we were the ultimate in embarrassment.”

She laughed. It hurt, yet at the same time it felt good to have something to laugh about. “Lots of teenagers are like that. She your only one?”

“Yeah. Took a lot of years of trying, but she was worth it. Bet your folks think the same about you.” He smiled shyly at her.

Callie shrugged. “My mom, for sure. We were pretty close. She died when I was twelve. Breast cancer. My great-aunt raised me. Dad . . . wasn’t in the picture. Off somewhere chasing skirts and beating them half-silly when he caught them. At least we got away.”

Waggoner gave her a sympathetic look, but he didn’t say anything. She liked that.

“So am I a vic? Is that what you call me? Or a survivor? I need to know.”

She watched him make a decision. “Survivor,” he said. “Definitely. There have been four others. All dead. All younger than you. Most in their early twenties. But the same physical appearance—your hair color and cut, your eyes, skin tone. Not so much the same height. Guess that’s hard to tell on TV.”

It dawned on her what he was saying. “You think he’s been killing women that resemble me?” The thought brought a chill.

“Didn’t think so until he butchered the attempt on you.” He blushed. “Sorry. Wrong word choice.”

“It’s okay. Go on.”

“They all resemble you. Or actually the gal you play on your soap. Not so much you. What decided it was the lipstick. Same color on all the vics. None survived, but we didn’t think it was a coincidence, them all looking alike and wearing the same distinctive shade of lipstick.”

Callie thought on his words. “It’s Jessica’s trademark shade. That’s pretty well known. And he called me by her name. He must be obsessed with the character in some way.”

He took out a thick notebook and flipped it open. “You get any crazy letters lately? Anyone threatening you?”

She laughed. “I’m in soaps, Detective. I play a character the audience has a love/hate relationship with. I get all kinds of letters. Inmates want to marry me or plain fuck me—and believe me—they get pretty graphic on how and where. Old ladies write to tell me I’m ruining the youth of America by setting such a bad example. Housewives love that I live out their fantasies. I get every kind of letter imaginable.”

She thought a moment. “Beth’s head of my fan club. She and a staff member weed through all the snail mail and email. Check with her. Something might stand out more than others.”

He made a notation. “I will.” He studied her a moment. “Don’t get offended, Callie, but I guess I just don’t get why you’re not dead, too.”

She dreaded asking, but she had to know. “How were the other women killed?”

He shrugged. “Every gal was abducted. Most were missing three, four days before the bodies were discovered.”

“Missing that long—were they raped? Or tortured?”

“The first three were sexually assaulted. And he used a knife in imaginative ways.” He shuddered. “The last one? I think he got bored. She’d just been reported missing when the body was found dumped near Central Park Zoo. No signs of sexual assault.” He paused and stared out the window.

“But what?”

Waggoner rubbed his eyes. “Brutal knife wounds, but he didn’t take his time like in the past.”

Her stomach lurched. Her skin grew clammy.
Sexual assault. Knife in imaginative ways.
It could have been the same with her. She realized how lucky she’d been. The others hadn’t made it, while she was still alive.

He turned back to her. “I think that he was working up to you. Probably thought he’d had enough practice through substitutes and was ready to go for the real deal.”

“But he didn’t try to take me anywhere. He didn’t have a car waiting. He just approached me on the street.” She frowned. “I think I intimidated him.”

Waggoner leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

“I was scared shitless, but I thought if he wanted Jessica, I’d give her to him. I don’t know how much you know about the character, Detective, but Jessica has yet to meet a man she’s afraid of. So I slipped into what’s like a second skin to me and starting pushing him, like she would. He backed off physically. I could tell it threw him.”

The policeman nodded. “He’s a control freak who was no longer in control. Jessica was. That makes sense.”

Callie’s hand flew to her forehead. “Shit. I remember I broke character when he wanted to kiss me. Feel me, he said. I mouthed off in a very un-Jessica-like way, and that seemed to bring him back from La-La Land. He was going to take control again, and I instinctively knew it. So I ran from him and his knife. The danger just felt too great to stick around.”