Terrified (35 page)
He blamed himself. He’d gotten too cocky—and too preoccupied about what he’d do to Lisa once they were reunited. He’d agreed to meet “Danny” at half past midnight under the Aurora Bridge in Fremont. That had sounded pretty vague to Glenn. But Danny had explained, “Just hail a cab and tell the driver to drop you off by the Fremont Troll under the Aurora Bridge.”
Once the cab let him out under the north ramparts of the bridge, Glenn saw the immense concrete statue of a one-eyed gnome huddled beneath it. The creature clutched an actual Volkswagen Beetle as if he’d just snatched it off the roadway above him. Glenn had figured a rendezvous at half past midnight under a bridge would be very creepy and clandestine. But three teenagers were climbing all over the troll sculpture and passing around a joint. There was also a couple in their early thirties leaning against the VW, kissing and chatting intimately.
Danny kept him waiting once again. Glenn impatiently looked around at the cars parked nearby. There were only two: a dark green Saturn and a silver SUV. Both appeared empty. After twenty minutes, the teenagers, who were becoming obnoxious, piled into the Saturn and drove off. Glenn watched the couple make out some more. Occasionally he caught the woman looking at him. She wasn’t his type. Scrawny with wavy black hair, she had sort of a trashy look to her.
She finally broke away from her boyfriend and approached Glenn. From her coat pocket, she pulled out a cell phone. “Listen, could you take our picture with the troll?” she asked. “Would you mind?”
“Don’t have him take it with your phone,” the boyfriend protested. “Your phone camera sucks—especially night shots. Here, use mine… .” Reaching inside his jacket, the guy came toward him.
Glenn held out his hand.
But then he saw the boyfriend pull out a small baseball bat, the kind sold at ball games as a souvenir. All at once, the man hauled back and swung the bat at him. It happened so fast, Glenn didn’t have time to duck.
The bat smacked against his forehead with a loud snap, and Glenn went down.
He awoke in the back of that moving truck—only it wasn’t moving anyplace. He banged on the corrugated walls and screamed for help, but no one answered. He couldn’t keep it up for long. His head throbbed so violently, he felt nauseous. Stacked against the wall, his capturer had left him several plastic bottles of water, some canned cat food to eat, and a bucket in which he was supposed to go to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Glenn noticed the camera in the corner above him, obviously watching and recording his every move.
He couldn’t tell how long he’d been in that claustrophobic, tin prison. But several times he’d resorted to eating the disgusting cat food for nutrition. In fact, only three cans—along with one bottle of water—still remained. He’d done his business in the bucket enough so that the little windowless room stank. And after wearing the same clothes for several days, he’d smelled pretty damn awful, too.
About two hours ago, someone rapped on the side of the truck. The man called to him to move over to the wall and kneel down with his back to the camera. Glenn heard him muttering to someone. It sounded like he was on the phone—probably with the trashy-looking brunette. Glenn guessed she was nearby, watching him on that camera and advising her boyfriend whether or not their captive was cooperating.
Glenn was obedient. He knelt down just as he’d been told. He listened to a lock clicking and the heavy door rattling as it was lifted open behind him. He heard a squeaking noise, and figured it was the ramp for loading furniture into the back of the truck. Glenn relished his first whiff of fresh air in days. But it didn’t last long. He heard the footsteps—and then a shadow passed over him. “Don’t move, Glenn,” he heard the man say. “I’ve got a gun. I also have a piece of cloth here with some chloroform on it. You’re a doctor. You know the drill. Just breathe in. Don’t struggle or it can leave a nasty burn… .”
But Glenn started to turn around. The man slapped the cloth over his mouth. “Be still now,” he heard him mutter. Glenn’s hands automatically came up to claw at his. He wanted to struggle, but he’d gotten a dose of the chloroform and he felt his motor functions shutting down. The man kept talking: “I got this idea from a pedophile I met about ten years ago. He kept the stuff in his glove compartment. I ended up using it on him after he tried to steal away your son… .”
That had been the last thing Glenn had heard before he’d come to—cold and confused, stripped down to his boxer shorts, and tied to a chair.
“I suppose you know by now, who I am,” the man had told him. “Danny is just one of the names I’ve taken on. Some people have known me as Lyle, too. But you know my real identity.”
“Yeah, you’re Superman,” Glenn had muttered. He hadn’t recognized the crazy son of a bitch at all. And he’d had no idea what the guy had been talking about when he’d mentioned a son.
But then Glenn had spoken to Lisa. He’d said the things he’d been instructed to say. And she’d told him about his son—and how he had to protect him.
The kid held prisoner in the bedroom on the other side of the window was his. The boy’s name was Josh.
Glenn stared at him. Fourteen years in prison had made Glenn even more hard-edged. But seeing the young man softened him a bit. He had a son, and they were both hostages of this maniac.
“You still don’t know who I am, do you?” the man asked. “I should be offended. I know you—almost intimately, Glenn. I stole a love letter you wrote, and I learned how to duplicate that scratchy penmanship of yours. Yesterday, I wrote a note on the back of a photo of your son in there. You would have sworn you’d written the note yourself.”
Glenn strained to glance over his left shoulder to watch the guy as he wandered over to a small table. He set down the cell phone and the knife. Glenn could make out only one of the items on that table. It was the small baseball bat the guy had used on him days ago.
“As a surgeon,” he said, touching the bat, stroking it, “I’m sure you know how much damage can be inflicted on certain internal organs with just the right punch or kick—or a blow from a small weapon. You’ll be experiencing it firsthand, Glenn, in just a little while.”
He stepped in front of the table, and Glenn couldn’t see what he was doing for a few moments. Then the man turned around.
With a flick of his thumb, he ignited a kitchen match and then lit up a cigar. He puffed on it, and strolled back toward him. “Look at your kid in there,” the man whispered. “He can hear us talking. He can’t quite make out what we’re saying, but he knows we’re out here, watching him.”
With the blanket around him, the young man kept pacing—and glaring back at him on the other side of the glass. At one point, he even pounded his hand against the window and yelled something. But Glenn couldn’t hear him.
“He thinks you’re dead,” the man said, retreating back to his little table. “And he isn’t really so far off the mark.”
Glenn glanced over his shoulder to watch him set the cigar on the edge of the table. He wished the guy would put it out. The smell of the cheap thing made him want to gag. He turned his head away.
Suddenly, the man grabbed him by the jaw and started to stuff a rag in his mouth. Rocking from side to side in the chair, Glenn tried to resist. The guy practically smashed his nose in as he pushed the rag past his teeth. Glenn tried to yell, but it was futile. He could hardly breathe.
“I don’t want your son to hear you screaming,” the man explained, reaching for his cigar again. He puffed on it. “Now, I’ve got to tell you, Glenn, I haven’t tried this since I did it to your old girlfriend, Willow, fourteen years ago. We had ourselves a little fling, Willow and I. Needless to say, my cigar trick put an end to our relationship. Dumb, sorry bitch. Willow would have gone to the police if she were able to be more open about our affair. I didn’t want anyone to know about us, either—for my own reasons.”
The man stood over him, puffing on that rancid cigar. Glenn was choking on the rag in his mouth. He tried to scream out. He kept glancing at the kid on the other side of the glass.
“Now, I first saw this done just a few months before I tried it on Willow,” the man went on. The cigar smoke filled the room. “I followed you and Lisa home from a party. I watched you knock her down in the front hallway. You ripped off her clothes. I saw the whole thing from your bushes outside that front hallway window. I saw how you burned her. Now, let me know if I’m doing it wrong. I don’t want the cigar to go out on the first burn… .”
He took one more puff, and leaned in close.
Glenn eyed the orange ash-glow at the end of the cigar. His tried to yell, but only a muffled whimpering escaped past the piece of cloth in his mouth. He anxiously shook his head over and over.
The man pressed the cigar’s smoldering tip against Glenn’s ribs.
The pain was excruciating. The live ashes seemed to eat away at the layers of skin, searing through to the bone.
His muted anguished cries drew the boy closer to the other side of the one-way mirror. He tapped at the glass. He seemed anxious and confused. He yelled out something, but Glenn could only read his lips.
What’s happening?
he seemed to ask.
What’s going on out there?
What’s happening?
he seemed to ask.
What’s going on out there?
Tears rolled down Glenn’s cheeks. The cigar smell had been replaced by the stench of burning flesh. He shook violently from the pain.
That was just the first burn. He knew it wasn’t over.
Yet he was thinking about his son on the other side of the glass. He tried to say something to the man hovering over him, but the rag in his mouth stifled the words. He knew it sounded as if he was begging the guy to stop. But that wasn’t what Glenn was saying.
As the man got ready to burn him again, Glenn’s muffled pleas fell on deaf ears.
He was begging him not to hurt his kid.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR
A
t her little desk in the corner of the Cyber Café, Megan sat in a stupor. It had been so bizarre talking with Glenn again after fifteen years. Had she gotten through to him? Was there a chance he’d make sure JJ—or whoever was working with him—didn’t harm Josh?
t her little desk in the corner of the Cyber Café, Megan sat in a stupor. It had been so bizarre talking with Glenn again after fifteen years. Had she gotten through to him? Was there a chance he’d make sure JJ—or whoever was working with him—didn’t harm Josh?
If Glenn truly intended to meet her at the hotel tonight, then perhaps this awful ordeal would be coming to some conclusion. She didn’t care what he did to her. She just wanted Josh back and safe.
The sudden blare of a siren startled her. It sounded as if the cop car or ambulance had started its piercing signal right outside the café. Megan automatically got to her feet, almost knocking over her chair. She stared across the café and out the window—at the traffic on the street. Now that Glenn knew where she was, had he phoned in an anonymous tip to the police? So far, he and his partner had enjoyed putting the screws to her and watching her squirm. Was this one more test?
It had been only twenty minutes since she’d told Glenn where she was. He must not have wasted any time passing the word on to the police. And now she was supposed to elude them—if she didn’t want Josh to die.
The siren wail grew louder. Megan watched as cars on the road pulled over to a stop. People on the sidewalk slowed down to see what was going on. A police car sped by.
Keep going, keep going,
she thought. She watched the vehicles start up again, and everyone outside seemed to go back to what they were doing. She heard the siren’s cry fading.
Keep going, keep going,
she thought. She watched the vehicles start up again, and everyone outside seemed to go back to what they were doing. She heard the siren’s cry fading.
Megan sank back down in her chair. Across the café, a young redhead who looked like a college student stared at her from over the top of her computer monitor. Megan realized she’d probably overreacted to the siren. Or did the girl recognize her from that driver’s license photo in the newspapers and on TV? Maybe the young woman was right this minute reading online about Candy’s murder.
Megan dared to meet her gaze. The redhead glanced away and sipped her coffee.
Turning to her computer, she stared at page six of the Google search results for
James Jordan, JJ.
One of the listings looked like it might actually be about the JJ she knew:
James Jordan, JJ.
One of the listings looked like it might actually be about the JJ she knew:
Illinois Prison System Under Investigation
– The Chicago Tribune … with the recent stabbing death of another inmate,
James “JJ” Jordan,
34, who was in his third year of an eight-year sentence for drug trafficking and assault …
– The Chicago Tribune … with the recent stabbing death of another inmate,
James “JJ” Jordan,
34, who was in his third year of an eight-year sentence for drug trafficking and assault …
JJ had been dead since 1999. If there had been any doubt she had the right James Jordan, there was a photo of Glenn’s bald, cocky, handsome, crazy-intense friend in the article. It ran alongside a mug shot of the swarthy, scary-looking fellow inmate who had stabbed him to death in the gymnasium of the Pontiac Correctional Center.
The article didn’t give a specific date for when JJ had been arrested on those drug and assault charges. But it had happened in 1996. Megan figured it must have been around the time of Lisa Swann’s mysterious disappearance. She imagined this had probably been when Glenn and JJ experienced what Jerry had referred to as their “falling-out.” Now she understood why Jerry questioned her on the phone when she’d mentioned JJ. He’d been testing her:
I haven’t heard that name in a while. So—um, have you talked to JJ recently?
I haven’t heard that name in a while. So—um, have you talked to JJ recently?
If JJ hadn’t committed the Garbage Bag Murders and helped Glenn abduct her son, who had? The perpetrator had practically invited her to guess who he was.
Remember 1996?
He called her Lisa. He’d known her back when she’d still been Mrs. Glenn Swann, maybe even before then. And he must have figured out early on that she’d run away to Seattle.
Remember 1996?
He called her Lisa. He’d known her back when she’d still been Mrs. Glenn Swann, maybe even before then. And he must have figured out early on that she’d run away to Seattle.
Megan was always telling herself over and over that no one from her past knew she was here.
But that wasn’t true.
Every day for the last fifteen years she’d been looking at framed photographs of a man from her past, a man she said was dead. It was quite possible Sean Hurley had known all this time who she was and where she was. He’d been friends with the man who had provided her with a new identity. She hadn’t told anyone about moving to Seattle. But from his pal, Sean could have gotten her new name and Social Security number. With that kind of information, how tough could it have been tracking her down?
Still, she wondered why in the world Sean would go after her like this. Their relationship might have been a bit strained at times, but they’d both loved her brother. They’d hugged and cried on each other’s shoulders at Cliff’s funeral. He’d had a shady past, but Sean wasn’t violent. Even if he’d found out about the sixty-eight thousand dollars Cliff had given her, she couldn’t imagine him waging this insane retribution against her.
She sipped her coffee, which had turned cold. Working the keyboard one-handed again, she tried another Google search:
Sean Hurley, Chicago
. After twelve pages of listings—mostly for a famous bass player, a baseball player, and a hockey player—she was ready to give up. She’d thought Sean would have been on Facebook or something.
Sean Hurley, Chicago
. After twelve pages of listings—mostly for a famous bass player, a baseball player, and a hockey player—she was ready to give up. She’d thought Sean would have been on Facebook or something.
Megan finally came across an article link on the thirteenth page of search results. It was an obituary for Cliff Densmore from 1996—with Sean and her both listed as his survivors. A photo of Cliff and Sean dressed to the nines for some party ran with the article. Cliff had his arm around Sean. The caption said:
Cliff Densmore (1966 – 1996) is survived by his partner of six years, Sean Hurley (left).
She hadn’t read her brother’s obituary in a long time. It was more factual than sentimental, listing his accomplishments, his survivors, and suggesting donations to AmfAR and the American Cancer Society instead of sending flowers. Maybe it was the reminder of what she’d lost—and what she stood to lose if she didn’t get Josh back. Maybe it was Candy’s death or talking to Glenn again after so many years. Whatever, she probably shouldn’t have read Cliff’s obituary at that moment in time, because she started crying. And she couldn’t stop.
Cliff Densmore (1966 – 1996) is survived by his partner of six years, Sean Hurley (left).
She hadn’t read her brother’s obituary in a long time. It was more factual than sentimental, listing his accomplishments, his survivors, and suggesting donations to AmfAR and the American Cancer Society instead of sending flowers. Maybe it was the reminder of what she’d lost—and what she stood to lose if she didn’t get Josh back. Maybe it was Candy’s death or talking to Glenn again after so many years. Whatever, she probably shouldn’t have read Cliff’s obituary at that moment in time, because she started crying. And she couldn’t stop.
With her head down, Megan grabbed her purse, hurried into the restroom, and locked the door behind her. She ran the water in the sink, hoping it might drown out the sound of her sobbing. She kept thinking how scared Josh had to be right now—if he was still alive. She felt so helpless and frustrated. Wiping her tears and blowing her nose, she went through three sheets of the heavy-duty paper towels.
She splashed cold water on her face. She still wasn’t used to the pale brunette with the close-cropped mangled haircut in the mirror. While she was drying her face with another paper towel, Megan heard someone rattle the bathroom door handle.
Tossing out the used paper towel, she grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and unlocked the restroom door. Opening it, she found the red-haired college student standing directly in front of her, blocking the way. “Excuse me,” the girl muttered, brushing past her into the bathroom. Megan heard the door lock as she started back to her desk.
But then she stopped dead. Someone stood by her vacant chair.
Dan Lahart stared back at her with a puzzled, surprised look Megan felt might be too well-rehearsed. She couldn’t help thinking he’d been told exactly where to find her.
The muffled screaming had stopped about an hour ago.
Josh had no idea what had been happening, but it had sounded like a wounded dog moaning in pain somewhere outside. It had gone on for at least an hour, such a sad, scary, tortured sound.
He wondered if it had come from a human being—and if he was next.
Ten minutes ago, the drawer had opened in the steel door to the bedroom. Josh had found a cold can of Coke and a bag from McDonald’s with two Egg McMuffins. He’d sat on the edge of the bed and quickly wolfed down one of them. The Coke had tasted so good, after the first big gulp, he’d belched and his eyes had watered up. The food had been cold, but he hadn’t minded one bit.
He figured it must be morning. That was the only time McDonald’s served McMuffins. He wasn’t sure if he should eat the second McMuffin, or save it for later. It occurred to him this might be the last meal for a condemned man.
The drawer in the door shot open again, startling him. Josh set down the second sandwich, and with uncertainty, he moved to the door. Squatting down near the bin, he found a towel, a small, hotel-size bar of Irish Spring and a bottle of water. He desperately needed a shower. Obviously, they wanted him cleaned up, too. What for?
The drawer suddenly snapped shut—like an alligator’s mouth. Still crouched down on the floor, Josh was glad he hadn’t had his hand in there. He glanced up at the mirror and realized someone was on the other side of it, watching his every move. Was it the man or the woman? He straightened up and set the towel and things on the end of the bed. Turning to the mirror, he banged on it. “Who are you?” he yelled. “What do you want? C’mon, talk to me!”
He kept hitting the mirror. Built into the wall, it was quite thick and too high for him to kick in. It hadn’t yet cracked under his constant pounding. He couldn’t grab anything to break the mirror, because everything in the room had been glued down. He figured that was probably why the toilet tank lid and the seat had been removed.
“Where’s my mother?” he shouted, still banging on the mirror.
Suddenly, the drawer within the door whooshed open again. Moving away from the mirror, Josh found his Mariners T-shirt, a pair of khakis, a pair of undershorts, and white socks—all neatly folded up in the steel receptacle. It snapped shut as soon as he collected them.
He could tell the clothes were actually his, taken from his bedroom.
Suddenly, the TV went on.
Josh left his clothes folded up near the foot of the door, and headed toward the television set, high on a bracket fixed to the wall. The volume came on first, and then the picture. He couldn’t figure out what was going on. Suddenly, it was like Christmas in here. He was getting food, clothes, stuff to get clean with, and now the TV was working. A commercial for toilet bowl cleaner came up—with some actress posing as a haggard housewife and a talking, animated scrub pad.
The commercial ended and a cable TV news show came on. Josh frowned at the overly made-up, fifty-something woman with the long, straight bleached-blond hair. Dressed in a red blazer, she sat across a table from a guy with graying temples. He wore a jacket with patches on the elbows. He looked like one of those suave, pipe-smoking English professors girls thought were so cool.
“Welcome back to
The Sally Justice Show,
”
the woman announced.
“I’m Sally Justice, calling it as I see it.”
“Welcome back to
The Sally Justice Show,
”
the woman announced.
“I’m Sally Justice, calling it as I see it.”
Josh’s mom had pointed out to him that Sally’s perpetually arched eyebrows were the result of bad Botox. At least, that was what Teresa at work had told her. His mother hated Sally Justice. “Why does this country bother with a judicial system when we’ve got Sally Justice?” she’d always say sarcastically whenever a commercial for the show came on. Josh wasn’t paying much attention to Sally. He was staring near the bottom of the set, where the station logo and late-breaking news scrolled across the screen—along with the time, day, and date. It was Tuesday at 4:16. That was probably East Coast time, three hours ahead. Either way, he’d been locked up in here since before dawn on Sunday—two and a half days.
“Welcome back to the second half of our show. With me today is Dr. John Martin, noted criminologist from the University of Chicago, and author of several books on criminal law and criminal behavior.”
She swiveled toward him and started gesturing emphatically with her hands. She had extra-long, red fingernails.
“Dr. Martin, what went wrong here? How did the Chicago area police screw this up so badly? This woman had literally gotten away with murder! And now, she’s killed again… .”
She swiveled toward him and started gesturing emphatically with her hands. She had extra-long, red fingernails.
“Dr. Martin, what went wrong here? How did the Chicago area police screw this up so badly? This woman had literally gotten away with murder! And now, she’s killed again… .”
There was no remote to switch the channel or adjust the slightly loud volume. Josh wondered if this thing was going to be on day and night. Maybe they’d end up making him watch some televangelist station for hours and hours until he went nuts.
“Sally, you have to take into consideration DNA testing was still fairly new back in 1996,”
the professor guy was saying.
“The police had Swann’s niece positively identifying the burn marks on the severed trunk as an exact match to scars her aunt had. The blood types were a match… .”
the professor guy was saying.
“The police had Swann’s niece positively identifying the burn marks on the severed trunk as an exact match to scars her aunt had. The blood types were a match… .”
“And all the while, it was another woman who had been sliced up and distributed in those trash bags,”
Sally interrupted. A photo of a pretty brunette filled half of the screen, while Sally filled the other half, waving a pen in her hand as she made her point.
“That woman was Willow Dwyer, the X-ray technician who had been having an affair with Dr. Swann. Only months before Lisa Swann disappeared and Willow ended up in those garbage bags, several guests overheard Lisa Swann threaten Willow at a charity function. She told Willow she would end up—quote, ‘like a dead cocker spaniel,’ end-quote, according to one party guest. Now, growing up, I had a poodle named Rickie, and when she died—God rest her soul—we buried her in the backyard, wrapped in … yes, a garbage bag, thank you very much. Lisa Swann certainly made good her threat. She killed her husband’s mistress. She faked her suicide and conveniently disappeared, letting her husband take the murder rap.”
Sally interrupted. A photo of a pretty brunette filled half of the screen, while Sally filled the other half, waving a pen in her hand as she made her point.
“That woman was Willow Dwyer, the X-ray technician who had been having an affair with Dr. Swann. Only months before Lisa Swann disappeared and Willow ended up in those garbage bags, several guests overheard Lisa Swann threaten Willow at a charity function. She told Willow she would end up—quote, ‘like a dead cocker spaniel,’ end-quote, according to one party guest. Now, growing up, I had a poodle named Rickie, and when she died—God rest her soul—we buried her in the backyard, wrapped in … yes, a garbage bag, thank you very much. Lisa Swann certainly made good her threat. She killed her husband’s mistress. She faked her suicide and conveniently disappeared, letting her husband take the murder rap.”
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