Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (14 page)

He didn’
t feel like a hero today.

After collecting a stick
and a flat rock, he again dropped to his knees
and crawled into a tangle of shrubby growth. With his
improvised implements, he stabbed at the loamy soil, damp from
the recent rain, thrusting them into the earth over and
over and over until he’d created a small, deep
hole. Then he dropped the syringe and vial inside and
refilled the dark, dank cavity as quickly as possible.

After
he finished, his hands felt dirty—and not just from
the earth and decayed leaves.

Would they ever feel clean
again?

Yet he’d promised his father he wouldn’t
harbor regrets or remorse, and it was a promise he’
d do his best to keep. Whatever it took.

Because
he’d never broken a promise to his dad.

Backing
out of the scrubby brush, he wove through the undergrowth
to the small creek where he used to catch tadpoles.
The water was cold, but he plunged his hands in
and scrubbed away the dirt as best he could.

Once
he’d cleaned up, he returned to the edge of
the woods and sat, back against a tree. A cardinal
trilled overhead, and he closed his eyes, welcoming the numbness
that settled over him. Here, in this quiet place, he
could almost pretend everything was normal.

Until his mother’s
panicked cry an hour or so later shattered his fleeting
serenity.

“Ken? Ken!”

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying
to block her out, to keep reality at bay.

But
her cries grew louder. More insistent.

And then she was
shaking him, harder and harder and . . .

Ken’s eyes flew open and he gasped, his pulse pounding as he blinked into the darkness.

“I’m sorry to wake you. You were shouting and thrashing. I could hear you down the hall.”

That wasn’t his mother’s voice.

Ken blinked. Shifted his head to the left.

Ellen stood beside the bed, silhouetted from the light in the hall, her face in shadows. He checked the clock on the nightstand: 2:30.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

At his shaky apology, she hesitated, as if debating whether to say more. In the end, though, she turned and disappeared into the dark hall.

Slowly he exhaled and released the sheet he’d bunched in his fists. The air-conditioning kicked on, and at the sudden movement of cool air he shivered.

No wonder.

He was soaked with sweat.

As his shivering increased, he groped for the blanket and pulled it up.

Better.

But he couldn’t so easily chase away the chill of the familiar nightmare. The one that returned every time he thought about helping a future Let the Children Come donor make his or her contribution a bit sooner than they expected.

Still . . . it was better than the nightmares he’d had before the ordeal with Olivia.

Another chill snaked through him, and he tucked the blanket under his chin, trying to quash the memory of those bad dreams. After all, God had smiled on him that night, intervening to lessen his culpability for the stomach-knotting ethical choice he’d wrestled with day and night. He’d only had to end the drama, not initiate it, and that had been a compassionate deed. Then, to seal the deal, God had erased the evidence with a torrential rain.

What better confirmation could there be that the Almighty’s priorities meshed with his?

He needed to put that unfortunate incident behind him and focus on Verna Hafer—the cause of tonight’s nightmare. How providential that she’d told him about the alteration she’d made in her will mere days before the earthquake.

Another sign from God.

Still, he preferred to space such generous donations six or eight months apart. But what choice did he have? Children’s lives hung in the balance.

Besides, she was confined to bed now, her dignity gone. She had nothing to look forward to except pain and ultimate death. Why prolong that misery? Better to permanently end
her suffering, just as he’d ended his father’s, even if it was sooner than planned.

And it would be a double blessing, because in death she would help hundreds of children live.

His father would be proud.

Moira picked up a necklace handcrafted of beads and copper, keeping one eye on the front door of the Woman’s Exchange. She’d already been here twenty minutes, and unfortunately most of the consignment part of the shop was in the back, out of sight of the tearoom entrance. She was running out of merchandise to browse through in the small front section.

If Ellen Blaine didn’t show up soon, the clerks behind the counter and the hostess for the tearoom were going to get suspicious.

Draping the necklace back on the stand that held several others, Moira picked up a cookbook. She could kill a few minutes paging through that.

And thinking about Cal’s call last night.

Her lips curved up. That had been the best part of her day. Not only because he’d discovered some interesting information during his nursing home visits that suggested Blaine might, indeed, have things to hide, but because Cal hadn’t been in any hurry to end their call. He’d seemed to enjoy their chitchat as much as she had.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking. The man clearly still loved his wife, even after five years. Could be he was just lonely, and their conversation had helped fill up some empty evening hours.

As she mulled over that depressing possibility, a movement outside the picture window in front of the store caught her attention.

Ellen had arrived.

Trying to maintain a casual demeanor despite the sudden blip in her pulse, Moira put the cookbook back on the rack and edged closer to the hostess stand, watching as Ellen stepped onto the sidewalk, paused, and waved at someone hidden from view.

Two other groups of women were waiting to be seated, and Moira positioned herself close enough to fall in behind Ellen and the friend she’d greeted outside.

A moment later they came through the door and joined the line. Moira did the same—and tuned in.

While they inched forward, the two women discussed the unusual amount of rain, the summerlike temperatures so early in the season, and some lightning damage to a tree in a backyard.

Hopefully they’d talk about more than the weather once they were seated.

When they reached the front of the line, the hostess smiled and greeted them like the regular customers they were. “I saved your usual table, ladies.”

She picked up two menus and retraced her steps into the tearoom, heading for a spot in the far corner, the women following her.

There was an empty table for two beside it, against the wall.

Yes!

The hostess returned and picked up another menu. “How many?”

“Just one.” Moira gave her the most winning smile she could manage. “A quiet table would be nice. That one by the wall, perhaps?” She gestured toward the table she had in her sights.

“I’m afraid that one’s reserved.”

Moira tried to hide her dismay as she surveyed the room. The next best option was behind the two women, with a plant in between. Not as close, and not as ideal for eavesdropping, but what choice did she have?

“How about the one by the plant?”

The woman smiled. “That one I can do.”

She led the way, and Moira took the seat nearest to Ellen’s table for ease of hearing, though that put her back toward the two women.

“Your waitress will be over to take your order in a moment.” The hostess handed her the menu.

“Thank you.”

Moira gave the bill of fare a quick scan and made her selection, then focused on the conversation behind her.

“Everything set for the anniversary party on Sunday?” Ellen’s voice.

“I think so. Are you certain Ken won’t change his mind and join you? I could call the caterer and up the head count.”

Moira opened her purse and withdrew a small notebook.

“No. I have a feeling he’ll bail on our neighbor’s cocktail party tonight too. Not that it matters. To be honest, I’ll have more fun by myself.”

Interesting. There might be a not-so-pleasant reason the man didn’t have any pictures of his wife in his office.

“Is he still acting odd?”

The other woman had lowered her volume, and Moira had to strain to hear her.

“More than ever.”

“Hi, ladies. The usual?” A new voice. Must be the waitress.

“Of course. Are we boring, or what?” Ellen’s friend laughed.

The waitress responded with a laugh. “I’d say you just know what you like. Nothing wrong with that. I’ll have it out in a few minutes.”

Silence, broken only by the clink of ice in a glass. They must be waiting for the waitress to move away.

“So what do you mean, more than ever?” Ellen’s friend again.

Excellent. They were back on track. If she was lucky, they’d—

“Have you decided what you’d like for lunch?”

Moira jumped as the waitress appeared from behind her.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No problem. I was lost in thought. I’ll have the chicken salad.” She handed the menu back without making eye contact. Praying the woman wasn’t the chatty type.

“Coming right up.”

She disappeared without another word.

Perfect.

Moira cocked an ear toward the table behind her.

“. . . civil to each other, but lately he’s been short-tempered and distracted.”

“Maybe he ought to squeeze in a trip to your neighbor’s cabin. Chill out for a few days.”

“It couldn’t hurt. Ted rarely uses it anymore, and he gave Ken a key years ago. Told him to go anytime.” Ice tinkled in a glass. “I have to admit, I’ve never seen Ken this stressed. He’s been having those nightmares again too. Last night, his muttering and thrashing was so loud it woke me. It went on and on, until I finally got up and went to check on him.”

“Any clue what it was about?”

“No. Even when things were better between us, he brushed the nightmares aside. Said they were caused by the stress of the job. If you ask me, though, the clinic’s to blame. The nightmares started five years ago, when he began expanding from the original modest operation. Since then the thing’s taken on a life of its own. I’m sure the earthquake had a lot to do with his bad dreams last night. I don’t know what caused the ones a few weeks ago, though.”

Earthquake? Recent nightmares? Moira continued to scribble in her tablet.

“How badly was the clinic damaged?”

“He didn’t say much, but it must be bad. They’ve had to move into the local school building.”

“Time for some major fund-raising.” Ice clinked in a glass again.

“You know he detests asking for help. But if that’s what it takes to keep the clinic going, I suppose he’ll suck it up and get it done. He’ll do anything for those children.”

“Here you go, honey. Enjoy.” The waitress slid a plate in front of Moira.

“Thanks.” She bent back over her notebook, trying to look busy, hoping the woman would disappear.

She did.

“. . . long ago, and I’ve accepted it.” Ellen’s tone brightened as she changed the subject. “So tell me how that new grandbaby is doing.”

Her friend launched into a glowing description of the infant’s antics.

Moira dug into her chicken salad and reviewed her notes, keeping one ear on their conversation. But the two women said nothing else during the remainder of their lunch that seemed remotely relevant to her vanishing woman.

Yet as she finished her own meal and watched them exit forty minutes later, she was glad she’d come. Their conversation had yielded quite a bit of interesting information.

Though Blaine and his wife shared a house, they didn’t sleep together, nor were they attending an upcoming social event as a couple. Ellen thought her husband was acting oddly, and he’d been short-tempered and distracted. He’d also been plagued with nightmares for the past five years, since he’d expanded the Guatemala facility. Ellen believed he was obsessed with his clinic, which had just been damaged in an earthquake.

And what about that cabin remark her friend had thrown out?

Could said cabin be near Augusta—or better yet, Defiance?

Then there was that outcrop of recent nightmares.

Moira tucked her notebook back into her purse, picked up her bill, and walked over to the cashier, anxious to share the new information with Cal. How it would help them, she wasn’t certain.

But she did know one thing.

The more pieces of this puzzle they collected, the better the chance they would find out what had become of the terrified woman on that rainy April night.

C
al parked at the curb in front of the frayed-around-the-edges South County duplex and double-checked the address he’d jotted down for Olivia Lange.

This was the place.

He picked up his clipboard, slid out of the van doing duty today as Sullivan Heating and Cooling, and started toward the front door. Unless Olivia had arrived home in the five minutes since he’d called, no one was going to respond to his ring . . . exactly as he’d planned. He was more interested in nosing around and talking to Olivia’s neighbor, who
was
home. She’d answered her phone—and got a hang-up in response.

Thank goodness for his crisscross directory. It paid for itself every single time he needed names or phone numbers for a person’s neighbors.

As he pressed his finger to the bell, he assessed the brick housing unit. It needed tuck-pointing, the paint on the trim was peeling, and the windows were the inexpensive single-pane variety. The few scraggly bushes around the foundation were in serious need of some TLC, and bare patches on the ground looked as if they hadn’t seen grass for a long while.

Definitely not the high-rent district. More like the kind of place occupied by people who lived from paycheck to paycheck.

And that fit, based on the background he and Nikki had dug up. Twenty-two, high school dropout at seventeen, product of the foster-care system, Olivia had no tangible assets they could locate. This was the best she could afford.

So assuming her finances were shaky enough to force her to live in a place like this, why would she walk out of a decent-paying job?

And if she’d lined up a better position, why wouldn’t she have given the standard notice?

Maybe today would yield some answers to those questions—and perhaps give him a clue about whether there was, in fact, a link between her and Blaine.

When his ring went unanswered, as he’d expected, he knocked loudly on the door. The window in the adjacent unit was open, and if he was lucky, the neighbor would come out to see what all the commotion was about.

If she didn’t, he’d try her door next.

Fifteen seconds later, he heard the sound of a bolt sliding back on the other side of the unit. A woman with thinning gray hair in need of combing cracked the door and peered over at him.

“Good afternoon.” He gave her a big smile and ramped up the charm. “Do you happen to know if”—he checked his clipboard—“Ms. Lange is home?”

“Not likely. Did Howard send you?”

Cal stepped back from Olivia’s unit but didn’t approach the other woman. She seemed ready to slam the door if he took so much as one step in her direction, and he needed to keep her talking.

“Howard?”

“Ralph Howard, the landlord.”

Lifting the clipboard again, he pretended to study it. “I don’t have any information about who placed the call.”

She gave a disparaging snort. “I’d be surprised if it was him. Must have been Olivia. I been here six years, and he don’t pay no attention to complaints. I’ve had a leaky faucet
for four months, and he ain’t done a thing to fix it.” She looked him up and down. “You know anything about faucets?”

“Only from working on my own house.”

As she started to close the door, he latched on to the first excuse he could think of to keep her talking. “I’m not a plumber, but I’d be happy to take a quick look for you as long as I’m here.”

The door stopped moving. She poked her head farther out and scrutinized his van. Gave him another once-over. Opened the door all the way.

“I’d be obliged. If I wait for Howard, it’ll never get fixed.”

“Let me get a few tools from the van.”

Cal went to the back of the vehicle, opened the door, and grabbed the toolbox. Equipping all the vehicles with a set of basic tools in addition to more standard PI gear had been one of the smartest things they’d ever done. He couldn’t count the number of times a screwdriver had come in handy.

Olivia’s neighbor was waiting at the door when he returned, and she stepped back to allow him to enter, hacking out a phlegmy cough as he passed.

“Which sink is it?”

“Kitchen.” She motioned toward a dim, narrow hallway.

After closing the door, she followed him to the kitchen—a vintage 1970s job, complete with avocado appliances, the air stale with cigarette smoke.

He set his toolbox on the chipped formica counter next to an overflowing ashtray, unwrapped the rag tied around the faucet, and reached to turn it on.

“Be careful or you’ll get a faceful.”

Cupping one hand over the faucet, he eased it on with the other. Water sprayed everywhere. He shut it off immediately.

“I see what you mean.”

“Yeah.” She sat at the tiny café table off to one side, her shapeless housedress settling in angular folds over her bony frame, and wrapped her knobby fingers around a half-empty
mug rimmed with coffee stains. “The whole place is like that. Toilet don’t flush right, either.”

No way was he touching that comment. He’d already done a trash cover for this job; he drew the line at toilets.

Instead, he went down on one knee, opened the cabinet door under the faucet, and shut off the water. Then he stood, put the stopper in the sink, and dug around in his toolbox for a flathead screwdriver.

“You think your neighbor might show up if I hang around for a while?”

“Not likely.” She hacked again.

The same comment she’d made earlier.

He pulled out the screwdriver and went to work loosening the faucet, keeping his tone conversational. “Why do you say that?”

“Ain’t seen her around lately. And I don’t think she’s paid her rent. Howard was here on the fifteenth to collect, like always, but she wasn’t home. He came back yesterday and she wasn’t there then, either. I heard him banging on the door.”

The woman took a sip of her coffee, and Cal continued to work in silence. Sometimes people said more if you didn’t ask questions.

She set the mug back on the table and continued talking, just as he’d hoped. “I suppose she might have gone back to live with that no-good boyfriend of hers. I’d ’a thought she had more sense than that, though. Course, I didn’t know her all that well. Mostly she stayed to herself. Never heard a peep out of her, either. Not like that biker guy who lived there before her and played rap music at all hours of the day and night. I’d be sorry to lose her as a neighbor.”

Cal pulled off the faucet, removed the washer, and turned to dig through the toolbox. “How do you know the boyfriend was no good?” He used his shooting-the-breeze voice.

“When she moved here back in November, she had a doozy of a black eye and a swollen lip. I felt kinda sorry for her, so I bought a coffee cake at the day-old bakery store and took
it over. Sort of a gift to welcome her to the neighborhood, such as it is.” She chortled and took another sip of coffee.

The pause lengthened, and Cal restrained his impatience as he waited for her to continue.

“Anyway, she invited me in and we had a nice chat. Sweet little thing. Can’t imagine why she hooked herself up with that bad apple. Finally admitted he beat her, even though I’d figured that out already. Said it had taken her a long time to get up enough nerve to leave him, but some nice doctor she knew from that nursing home where she worked talked to her about it, helped her see the light.”

Cal’s pulse spiked.

Was Blaine that doctor?

If so, they had their connection.

But how did Olivia’s boyfriend fit into the puzzle?

After fishing a washer out of his toolbox, Cal slid it into place and screwed the faucet back on. “You think she might have gone back to that loser anyway, huh?”

“Don’t know where else she would have gone. Didn’t have no other family.” She hacked again and took another sip of coffee. “You wouldn’t catch me getting anywhere close to that guy, though, I’ll tell you that. He was one mean-looking dude. Thought he was going to break the door down, the way he pounded on it a few days after she moved in here. That’s when she got the restraining order.”

At the woman’s casual reference to a restraining order, Cal’s pulse kicked up again.

His gratis plumbing job had paid off big time.

As he got down on one knee again to turn the water back on, his BlackBerry began to vibrate. He let it roll to voice mail rather than interrupt the flow of this enlightening conversation. “Did you ever see the guy again?”

“Nope. And I hope I never do. But I plan to remember his name. I ever hear it, I’m heading the other direction.”

“Would you mind sharing it? If I have to come back, I’d like to be prepared in case I run into this guy.”

“Sure. Wayne Garrison.” She gave him a blatant perusal. “Though I expect you’d be able to handle him if he got feisty.”

Cal reached for the faucet. “Maybe. But I always avoid trouble if I can.” He twisted the faucet, and she rose to join him at the sink. “It’s not perfect. You’ve got a lot of lime buildup on the posts, but it’s better than it was.”

“A thousand percent. I’m much obliged.”

“Happy to do it.” Cal closed the toolbox and moved toward the door, Olivia’s neighbor trailing behind him. “I wonder if I should even bother stopping by again later in the day. You say you haven’t seen the woman next door in a while?”

“Been a month, I bet. Course, like I said, she’s quiet as a mouse. During the winter, sometimes two, three weeks went by before I caught a glimpse of her. But with the nice weather, I’ve had my windows open a lot, and I haven’t heard her front door opening. Should have too, because it sticks. Then again, maybe my hearing’s going.” She snorted. “Everything else is.”

When they got to the door, the woman pulled it open. “What are you supposed to fix over there, anyway?”

“I left my clipboard in the van, but I think it had something to do with the thermostat.”

“Don’t surprise me one bit, knowing Howard. Poor girl probably froze all winter while she waited for him to get it fixed. Serve him right if she up and moved. I’d do it myself, if I could find another place this cheap. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

Cal replaced the toolbox in the van, climbed behind the wheel, and pulled a notebook from his pocket. Then he wrote two names: Ralph Howard and Wayne Garrison.

A chat with both of them was high on his priority list.

After tucking the notebook back in his pocket, he pulled out his BlackBerry to check the call he’d ignored. The message was from Moira, left at 3:10.

“Hi, Cal. Moira. Ellen showed at the Woman’s Exchange,
as we expected, and I learned a few interesting things. Give me a call when you have a minute and I’ll fill you in.”

He erased the message and weighed the Blackberry in his hand. They did need to compare notes, and a phone call would suffice.

But he was tired of spending his Friday nights at the office working overtime or at home doing chores. Yes, the grass was due to be cut and the driveway needed to be sealed and one of the loose rails on the deck was becoming a hazard. And yes, he needed to put in some time on a couple of background checks for their newest client.

On the other hand, the world wouldn’t end if he kicked back for one night and enjoyed some conversation with a lovely woman.

Without laboring over the decision, he scrolled down to Moira’s number, pushed dial—and tried to rationalize his decision. This might be a pro bono job, but it was still a case. In a way, this would be a working session.

Yeah, right.

Even he wasn’t buying that pretext.

But he hoped Moira would.

Ken tapped in his home security code, pulled the back door shut behind him, and crossed the lawn toward his neighbor’s house.

He was
not
in the mood for this cocktail party.

The sound of laughter wafted over the hedge that separated his property from Ted’s, and he paused in the shadows to psyche himself up for social pleasantries.

It wasn’t easy.

How could he paste on a smile and make small talk when children were suffering in Guatemala because the supplies purchased with his personal loan were barely trickling in through the compromised transportation infrastructure?
When he’d just left a distraught mother whose child’s life hung in the balance after a bicycle accident? When he was busy formulating plans to deal with Verna Hafer on Sunday?

For an instant, he was tempted to turn around and go home. Ellen would make some excuse for his absence. She’d become an expert at that after his many no-shows these past few years.

But Ted had been a valued and generous friend for twenty years. And he’d taken advantage of the man’s hospitality more weekends than he could count over the past two decades, borrowing his cabin in the country whenever he’d needed a mental break. Not so much in the past two or three years, though. There’d been no downtime. But often enough to be forever in the man’s debt.

Plus, the place had come in handy recently—for reasons Ted would never know, even if he happened to wander around the property. Ken had seen to that, and the rain had been his ally. Ted hadn’t been out there more than a couple of times in the past four years, anyway. Not since he’d hacked himself while cutting wood, then almost bled to death before the paramedics could respond to his 911 call. Ken couldn’t blame Rose for extracting a promise from her husband not to go there alone anymore. He was eighty-two, after all.