Abandoned: A Thriller (9 page)

“Why?” I venture, a final question.

“Because everything in this town takes too much damn time, Agent Barrett. Because both the President and I have our share of political enemies, and we need as much of a head start as we can get. Because I said so!”

He stops there; his good humor is gone. There are times to challenge your boss, and there are times to let it go. “I’ll let you know, sir.”

I ride the elevator back down to my office and find James, Alan, and Callie there. Callie is out of her wedding dress, but both James and Alan are still wearing their tuxedos.

“Where have you been, honey-love?” Callie asks.

“AD Jones’s office.”

I guess I look preoccupied. “Heavy stuff?” Alan asks.

“The heaviest. Where do we stand on our Jane Doe?” I’m not ready to open this can of worms with them yet. I need a few minutes to recover from my own shock before passing it along.

“I got her printed,” Callie says. “I’m going to go down to the lab, where I’ll take digital photographs of the prints and feed them into the system. I’ll have a search going in the next hour and then I’m going to head home, assuming that’s okay.”

“That’s fine. Alan?”

“Jane Doe woke up and had to be sedated again. She shows signs of vitamin D deficiency and calcium loss, probably attributable to a long-term lack of sunlight and milk. The doctor says she has scabs on her arms, legs, and skull from picking and scratching at herself. It’s a behavior you see in meth addicts or the mentally ill.” He lifts the ends of
his lips in a bare nod to a smile. “Same difference. She’s missing some teeth, and most of the rest are looser than they should be.”

“Why?”

“He’s only guessing, since he’s no dentist, but he figures bone loss. Apparently vitamin D is needed for proper calcium absorption by the body.”

“Jesus,” I say, processing the ramifications.

“Yeah.” He consults his notepad. “We already know about the whipping. Doc also confirmed the evidence of electrical scarring. The perp shocked her, probably with a car battery or something like it.
Workmanlike
was the word he used.”

James frowns. “What does that mean?”

“He went for areas of concentrated nerve endings or areas that would cause psychological trauma. Nowhere else, and nothing too severe.”

“Punishment,” I murmur. James glances at me, absorbing this.

“Go on,” I tell Alan.

“No drugs found in her system. No other identifying marks, no tattoos. He estimates her age at early to mid-forties. No broken bones, though she does have some old calcification on her left wrist and a couple of left ribs. He says she probably broke them when she was a child.”

“That will help with an ID,” Callie observes.

“We hope.” He closes the notepad. “One strange thing. She has good muscle tone.”

“Which means?” I ask.

“Her captor probably made her exercise.”

“This is starting to sound like purposeful imprisonment,” I say. “No evidence of sexual abuse—though we’ll have to hear from her to be certain about that. Torture, but not excessive. He fed her, made her exercise. He kept her alive.”

“Which begs the question,” Alan says. “Why let her go now? And why us?”

We’re all silent. No one has an answer.

“First goal is to identify her,” I say. “He took her for a reason, however he treated her. Knowing who she is might be the key to figuring out what that was.” I take a breath. Prepare myself. “Now. Let me tell you about my meeting with AD Jones and Director Rathbun.”

I give them a detailed account, explaining everything. They’re quiet, taking it in. When I finish, only Callie has any immediate comment.

“What a curveball day it’s been. I don’t think I’ll have trouble remembering my anniversary date.”

Alan sighs. “So let me get this straight. The powers that be, in all their wisdom, have decided we spend too much money and personnel on catching criminals instead of terrorists?”

“Essentially.”

“So they’re tossing around the idea of centralizing everything? Doing away with the NCAVC coordinator postings in all the field offices?”

“That’s right.”

“Fucking idiots,” he mumbles.

“I agree,” I say. “But it may be the hand we’re dealt. The strike team is Director Rathbun’s solution to preserving at least some of what we do. Without the formation of the strike team, if this all comes to pass, there’ll be no on-the-ground FBI involvement in serial murders. Our contribution will become limited to faxing locals profiles and answering ViCAP queries.”

James shrugs, standing up. “The director’s reasoning is sound. Let me know what you decide.” He heads to the door to leave.

“James, can you wait a moment, please? I’d like to bounce some things off you about this perp. Start putting a face to him.”

“Call me on my phone or wait ’til tomorrow. I’m late for something important.” He exits without a backward look or another word.

“Charming,” I mutter. “Callie? Any idea what you’ll decide?”

“Sorry, honey-love. I’m a married woman now. I need to consult with my man.” She smiles lasciviously. “Preferably after an extended sexual encounter.”

“Let me know. About the job, I mean,” I say, smiling.

Alan cocks his head at me. “What about you, Smoky? What are you going to do?”

“I honestly don’t know.” I sit down in a chair. My crinoline billows around me, and I feel ridiculous and tired and overwhelmed. “I need to talk to Bonnie and Tommy and do some thinking.” I sigh. “I don’t know. James is right. The reasoning is sound, but …”

“It’s not all about logic.”

“Yes.”

“I hear that.” He picks at his lower lip, pensive. “I’m no spring chicken, Smoky. Neither is Elaina. If they end up wanting us to uproot and go to Quantico … I don’t know. Not sure we’d be up for that.”

Callie nudges his shoulder. “Pshaw. Age is a state of mind.”

“And my mind is in a state.” It’s meant as a joke, but there’s something else there, something hidden and reluctant.

“Callie, why don’t you go ahead and do what you need to do at the lab. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Call me if anything turns up on the fingerprint search.”

Her eyes go back and forth between Alan and me. She understands that I’m trying to get her out of the office.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she sniffs.

“Hey, Callie,” Alan says.

“What?”

He smiles at her, and it’s a big, warm Alan-smile. “Congratulations, honey.”

She grins and then she curtsies. “Why, thank you, sir.” She turns and heads out the door.

“She’s happy,” he observes once she’s gone.

“Yes. I really think she is.” I turn my attention to my friend. “But you’re not. What’s going on?”

He looks off, taps his fingers against the desktop. Sighs. “This is a big move for me, Smoky. Like I said, I’m no spring chicken. I told you a few years back, I’ve been thinking of retiring. Having more time with Elaina.”

“I remember.”

“I’m not saying I’m decrepit, but the truth is, it’s harder to get up in the morning than it was ten years ago. I’m in okay shape, but my doctor says my cholesterol is too high and I need to lower my blood pressure a few notches. Elaina had that cancer scare.”

“Do you really want to hang it up?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. That’s the problem—my ambivalence. Never used to feel that way. I lived for the job.” He gives me a mirthless grin. “Not like I chose it for the great hours and pay. I like catching bad guys, and when it’s good, police work is the most exciting job there is. Sure, there were times I considered quitting before. Strings of unsolveds, or really terrible cases with dead kids, or whatever. Depression is a part of the package. But something would always pick me up
and get my blood moving again. I’d catch the scent. You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Lately I’m finding it harder and harder to get excited. It’s not that I feel down, and
bored
isn’t the right word either. More like I feel … full.” He nods once. “Yeah. Satisfied. Maybe I’ve caught my quota of bad guys, and the world can keep on turning without my help.”

Some part of me is envious, hearing this. I’ve thought about leaving the job. Of course I have. But my motivations have always been based on despair. The idea of a future where you could feel like you’d done enough? Unfathomable. I long for it conceptually but am unable to picture it emotionally.

“Well,” I say slowly, “you know I’ll support you whatever you decide.”

“I know.”

“But let me ask you a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“If I decide to go with this—and that’s not a certainty—can you at least stick around while we’re still based in Los Angeles? I understand your qualms about that possible future move to Quantico. That’s a big one for me too, but for now we’d be here.” I indicate our sparse office furnishings and roll my eyes. “In all our glory. But if this happens, I’d need you in the beginning, Alan. I really don’t think I could do it without you. Not at the start.”

He’s silent, regarding me. I wait him out. It’s a comfortable silence, not unlike so many we’ve shared. I’ve worked with this man for years. We’ve commiserated over corpses. He’s held me when I cried. He knew Matt and Alexa and loved them both. He was at their funerals, by my side, dressed in black and shedding tears without shame. He loves Bonnie and likes the heck out of Tommy. Alan is some of that rare connective tissue that still links my past and present. The idea of him leaving, of watching his back as he recedes into a life that would include so much less of me, makes me feel both sad and fearful. Twelve years is a long time to know anyone. Doing what we do, it’s a lifetime of friendship.

He grins at me, and I know he’s going to say yes. “Couldn’t do it without me? That’s enough to get my blood going again. For now.”

I’m almost home and am pleased at just how much of a relief this is. This is the way I used to feel. Home was my sanctuary, the place the shadows couldn’t come. It’s taken a while, but it’s become that way again.

It’s a different home, of course. Tommy and Bonnie are not as innocent as Matt and Alexa were. They’ve both seen murder, and Tommy has killed people. Funny thing is, the differences don’t make me long for the past. I find them appropriate, even comforting. Civilians in my life have too hard a time.

I see my exit approaching, and I allow myself to consider all the current uncertainties for one last time tonight. They won’t be allowed past my threshold.

What am I going to decide about the strike team?

Another:

What about the secret Tommy and I are sharing? The last.

What about the secret I’m not sharing with anyone?

No answers arrive. I hear the sound of my tires against the pavement, the wail of the radio turned down low.

I pull into my driveway and do as I’d promised: I stuff the uncertainties away.

“Welcome home,” Tommy says. His eyes are troubled, and the kiss he gives me is perfunctory, distracted.

I allow myself a moment of selfishness, a second to feel irked and disappointed that I couldn’t just walk in to find sunlight and smiles. Then I push it aside and do my job as a partner.