Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (18 page)

JEREMY’S TRUCK IS
an F-150 single-cab that is meticulously clean and smells faintly of air freshener. It has GPS, and I pull over at the first gas station I find and plug in the address for Ralph’s rented trailer. It calculates that I am twelve hours and twenty-four minutes from my destination.

I fill up the gas tank while I am there, the feel of the gas pump strange in my hands. My hands sweat on the metal pump, the flow of liquid causing a vibrating sensation against my palms. I glance at my watch: 5:47 p.m. More than a half hour spent outside of my apartment, and no one is dead and no uncontrollable urges have racked my body. I think briefly of the cam appointments I am missing, the men who are constantly refreshing their screens, waiting for sexy Jessica, who would not appear. The order came again.
GO.

I steel myself for disaster and head for the convenience store—rough, gritty pavement underfoot, I breathe deeply, focusing. I need food for the road and to use the restroom. There is one car parked in front of the store and one in a gas bay next to me. Two cars. One or two employees.
Blood spray hitting the glass cooler doors. Bodies thudding against tile floors.
I leave my bag in the car and head for the store unarmed. Trying to block out other thoughts, I center my mind on Annie.
Save Annie. Save Annie. Ignore everything else.

The door to the store swings open easily, exposing me to bright fluorescent lights, the smell of hot dogs and other food. My eyes meet rows and rows of food I have been deprived of for three long years.
Soda.
I think my body has forgotten the power of crisp-from-the-can carbonation.
Chocolate.
Real, nondiet chocolate in the form of fifty-plus options.
Chips, nuts, Twinkies. Alcohol.
My lust for death disappears in the presence of such abundant decadence. I grab items from the shelves like a woman possessed, filling my arms with anything and everything I can hold. I dump an armful of sugary perfection on the counter, and the dark-skinned man behind it shoots me an odd look. I move to the coolers, grabbing Fanta, Cherry Coke, a Monster Energy drink, and a Dr Pepper. This is easily one of the greatest moments I have had in recent memory. I set the drinks on the floor, snag a white Styrofoam cooler from a shelf and move the drinks into that, then add a few more from the refrigerated shelves. With a huge smile on my face, I move to the register. “I’ll need a bag of ice, also. Please.”

He glares at me, strangely irritated by the swell of business I bring to his store. There is a flurry of fingers, clicking, and register sounds. “Thirty-two eighty-six,” he announces. I pull out two twenties and hand them to him, waiting while he counts out the change and slides it across the counter before bagging my loot and shoving the items toward me.

“Thanks.” I beam at him.
The gun would be the best route to taking his life. My knife wouldn’t reach across the wide counter.
“Have a nice day.”

GO. Annie.

I call Mike from the road, dialing a number I’ve used for him in the past, hoping it is still active. I cradle the phone in the crook of my neck as I drive, hands at ten and two. I’m nervous at being on the open road and in this strange vehicle. I have only ever driven my high school car—a ten-year-old Honda Accord that had belonged to my mother. This truck feels huge in comparison, taking up more than its fair share of the road.

Mike answers on the third ring. “Yo.”

“It’s Jessica.”

“What up, chica?”

“I need to employ you for the next day. How much will it cost me?”

“Damn, girl. Lately you’ve been like the fucking lottery. What do you need done? It won’t take me all day, I’m sure.”

“An assortment of things. I need you committed to whatever shit I ask for, so yes, it will need to be all day. Nothing else, just me for twelve hours, maybe more.”

“Starting when?”

“Now.”

“Now, now?”

“Yeah.”

“For twelve hours? I guess I can cancel my hot plans. Given your excellent payment history.” I can hear his grin through the receiver and fight to keep irritation out of my voice.

“Fine. How much?”

“A thousand. I’m giving you a break on this, but if you go too far outside of the legal realm with your requests, there may be surcharges.”

“Everything you do is out of the legal realm.”

He laughs. “Whatever. Clock’s ticking. What do you need?”

“First, turn on a television. Keep it glued to CNN or some other news outlet. If there are any updates on a missing child named Annie Thompson, call me and let me know. Second, you know Ralph Atkins?”

“Of course.”

“Pull him up. I want to know if there are any guns registered to him. Also, see if you can track his cell.”

“What’s his cell number?”

I think for a moment. “Fuck. I didn’t send it to you?”

“No. Do you have it?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to look through my cells and see which one he calls. I would have saved his number on that phone. Give me five minutes; I’ll find somewhere to pull over, and I’ll text it to you.”

“I don’t know what exactly you think my capabilities are, but the best I’ll be able to do, if he is using his phone, is get a general idea of where he is.”

“That’s fine. I just need to know if he is at home or somewhere else.”

“Jess, what’s going on? I’m going to be able to help you out a lot more if I know what you are trying to accomplish.”

I watch the centerline, my vehicle moving closer and closer to oncoming traffic, fighting to keep the big vehicle in line and under control. “I think Ralph Atkins has Annie Thompson. I think he kidnapped her. I’m trying to find him…or them.”

“And do what?”

“Play fucking hopscotch, Mike. Why does it matter? Now you know what I’m trying to do, so just help me.”

“Why don’t you call the police? No offense, but you suck fake dick for a living, you’re not a secret agent.”

Because I want to kill the piece of shit myself.
“I already called them. I don’t think they’re doing anything with the information, but that’s why I need you to keep an eye on the news.”

“I’ll log into a forum I’m part of, have someone tie me in to the police scanner for that area—see what we can pick up.”

“That would be great. Good thought.”

“It’s what I’m here for, babe.”

“I’ll text you Ralph’s cell in a few minutes.”

“Ciao.” There is a click, and then I am alone in the truck again. I toss the cell down on the seat and press the gas harder, until the speedometer reads sixty-eight, eight scary miles per hour above the speed limit.
God, I need to grow a pair of balls.

I DRIVE, SCARFING
down crunchy Cheetos, Twix bars, Twinkies, and sodas. I begin to feel nauseated after I’ve finished about half of the gas station haul. It’s as if all of the junk food has molded together in my stomach and become a rolling knot of carbonation, preservatives, and high-fructose corn syrup, sending my stomach into irritated spasms. I vow to stick to water and fruit at the next pit stop. I remind myself that there is a greater purpose for this trip than my own junk food debauchery. The last thing I need, in the midst of a lethal, perfectly orchestrated attack, is an attack of diarrhea.

My opinion on Jeremy continues its upward ascent when I realize he has satellite radio—a technological wonder that has apparently gained in popularity since I last owned a car. I find a Georgia news station and keep the radio on it. Their reports on Annie are few and far between. If I go off the limited information in their reports, the police have no leads and no clear idea where Annie could be. I call Mike again.

“What’s up, my evil-avenging angel?” I hear music in the background, a clash of air guitars and screaming.

“What is the scanner saying?”

“They went to Ralph’s house. Searched the premises for Annie, but she’s not there and they’ll need a warrant to look through his stuff, though they did take a computer with them. The cops are keeping a cruiser parked down the street to watch his house all night.”

“Good. So my tip was taken seriously. Did you get the cell number I texted you?”

“Yep. It shows him in the general vicinity of his home address—so it corroborates the police statement that he is at home.”

“So Annie must be at the other house.”

“What other house?”

“I assume you have a copy of his computer clone—the one you sent me.”

“Duh.”

“Scroll through his search history. There are two Craigslist properties that he viewed a bunch of times about a month ago. One of them—the trailer, not the house—he signed a lease on. I think that’s where he has her. No other reason to have it.”

“I see it. I’ve been going through his shit for the last hour. Unless he hunts.”

“What?” I approach a car and put on my blinker, flying past them in the opposing lane. My stress and trepidation over driving took a flying leap out of the truck seventy miles ago.

“You said there was no reason for him to have this second place. That’s true, unless he hunts. This place is smack-dab in the middle of a four-hundred-acre hunting preserve. That’s the only reason the owner can get five hundred bucks a month for this piece of shit. It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.”

“So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.”

“Deer bodies. But yeah, when you put it that way, it sounds all psychotic.”

I push harder on the pedal, watching the shaky needle climb past eighty-five. “What came back on guns registered to Ralph?”

“Nothing showed up. But this is Georgia, baby. If someone needs a gun that’s off the books, all you have to do is know someone who knows someone who’s part of the system.”

“What’s the law on hunting guns—rifles, shotguns—do those require registration?”

“In Georgia? I don’t know.”

“Find out. And let me know if anything comes across that scanner. I don’t care if it’s discussion about Jessica Simpson’s tits. I want to know about it.”

“You’re a lot more fun when you’re naked.”

I grin into the darkness of the empty truck. “No doubt.”

“Talk soon.”

I hang up, fighting the urge to open the Snickers bar I can see lying in the plastic bag on my passenger seat. I glance at the GPS’s clock: 7:15 p.m. Ten hours and fifty-two minutes from Annie. It seems so far, almost a thousand miles stretching between her home and mine. But in actuality, I am lucky. What if she had lived in California? Or Alaska? There wouldn’t have been time to reach her, not unless I hopped on a plane. And while I am reckless enough to leave my apartment, to risk harm to others in my hunt for Ralph, I know that I would not be able to handle an airport. Not be able to handle a red-eye flight surrounded by peaceful, sleeping bodies. I’d probably try to strangle my seatmate with the seat belt, my arsenal of weapons locked away in the checked baggage. Plus, I’d have to deal with the litany of questions about said arsenal. Yeah. Total disaster.

I lean forward, watching the road, and press harder on the gas pedal.

THE POLICE KNOCKED
on Michael Atkins’s door at 6:12 p.m. on Monday night. He and his wife, Becky, had just sat down to a meal of overcooked beef stroganoff. When the knock sounded, Becky threw down her napkin and rose with an annoyed sigh. Michael stayed in his polished dining chair, tilted his head, and listened. Then she was back, her lilac perfume competing with the smell of beef. “Michael? The police are here. About Annie.”

They questioned them together in the formal living room. Becky’s hand grasped Michael’s and on certain questions squeezed it almost to the breaking point. Their answers had been quick and concise.

No, they had no idea where Annie could be.

No, they hadn’t seen her, not since her birthday party.

No, neither of them had any criminal history.

Last night they were both here, all evening. Both of them can attest to that.

Yes, they will stay in the area and be available for future questions.

No, they can’t imagine who would want to hurt poor Annie.

No, they own only one computer.

The police searched their home thoroughly, then asked to view their computer. Becky led them to the study and to the ancient PC that sat there. They stated that they would need to take it with them, and she agreed, signing a receipt that they provided, saying nothing to them about the laptop that she knew Michael possessed. After that, the police left, and they returned to their cold meal.

It was a meal eaten in silence, forks and knives scraping heavy plates, ice cubes settling into tea. Only a single sentence was uttered.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, Michael, but you are staying
here
tonight. All night.”

THIS DRIVE SHOULD
be difficult for me. The open road, nothing to distract my mind. It’s a twelve-hour stretch of emptiness, which should be dangerous as hell for my inner demons. At home, in my apartment, I struggle with the half hour between my last cam session and sleep—that dead time is when my horrific fantasies grow wings and fly. This long length of time, nothing to distract me, at the time of day when I am at my weakest…it is a perfect storm of disaster. I should be frothing at the mouth, my knife ready in my hand, this truck turning off at every exit until I find a victim. But my mind is behaving, focusing on the photo I had found on Ralph’s hard drive. Annie. She is what’s important, and my mind seems to understand that.

I think about calling Dr. Derek but don’t trust myself. Sometimes words come out before I can contain them. Certain things I can’t share with him. Doctor-patient confidentiality goes only so far, and my meticulous research has let me know exactly where those lines lie. I can share past crimes, but only if the reason is to help treat my current illness. There the rules get all blurry—giving the doctor free rein to decide whether the information I am sharing is helpful in treatment or if he feels it should be reported. But crimes that have not yet occurred? Definite cause for reporting to the authorities. And knowing the staunch moral code Derek seems to live by, I realize that sharing anything above and beyond the bare minimum will get him on the phone to the police. He has the ability to end my secret life, to turn me in. The knock will come, the suits will appear, and they will cart me off. I will not go gently. I will go kicking and screaming, my knife poised and in my hand, ready to cut and spill whatever blood I can. There may be a day when I turn myself in, but this isn’t that day. As I said before, prison is no place for a girl like me.

I call Dr. Brian instead, glancing at the clock as the phone rings. In California it should be seven or eight, too late for him to be at the office, but he may still answer his cell.

“Hello, my sexual demon.” His sly voice makes me smile, the nickname more accurate than he will ever know.

“Hey, yourself. Am I interrupting a hot date?”

He sighs heavily into the receiver. “Unfortunately, no. Lately the well’s been a little dry in that area. You’re the closest thing I’ve had to sex in almost a month.”

“Ouch. That’s sad.”

“Anyway, you don’t pay me the big bucks to bitch about my love life. Whatcha got cooking? Any new and kinky clients?”

I grin. “Let’s see…got an offer of thirty grand for a blow job in Manhattan. What’s your expert opinion? Should I take him up on it?” I slow the truck down, stuck between two semis, jockeying into place as one of them brakes.

“Fuck no,” he says emphatically. “You should pass on his number to me and let me suck it. I’ll make him forget the name Jessica Reilly in about four swallows.”

I laugh, the sound bursting out, and I fight to control myself, my smile so wide that it hurts. “I’ll tell him I’m sending a comparable replacement, see how he reacts. I’m sure he’ll love the idea.”

“If he doesn’t, tell him I’ll knock down the rate. Cut him a discount at twenty-nine thou.”

Monetary offers for sex are something I deal with on a daily basis. I don’t know how many of them are legitimate and how many are just some guy wanting to know what my personal threshold for prostitution is. Thirty thousand is a pretty high offer for just head; oral sex offers normally hover closer to three or four grand.

My regulars know my limits. Know that any attempt to set up a physical meeting is futile. Except for Paul. Paul holds out hope that we will marry and have babies. He wants to rescue me from this life. He has given me vouchers on three different airlines and begs me to cash them in, to come to him so that he can take care of me. I should just tell him the truth, rip off the Band-Aid with one short explanation of what would occur if I visit. How I would start at his feet with my blade and work my way up. But I don’t want to traumatize the poor guy, to ruin his rose-colored view of the world.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” I respond. “I’m here.”

“That pedophile ever get back online?”

I lose any trace of the grin that might still be lingering on my face. “Yeah. Two nights ago.”

“He do the same shit?”

I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. “Yeah. We did a role-play.”

He is quiet for a moment. “How much of his fantasy involves pain?”

“Not much. It’s almost all focused on sex.”

“I asked because a lot of people who fantasize about death or administering pain…they often fantasize about children. Not because the children are young, or innocent, but because it is the easiest victim for them to target. Children can’t fight back, children trust. Children are the best chance they have at success.”

“Not all of them.”

“Not all what? Children?”

“No. People who fantasize about pain. They don’t all fantasize about children.”

“Well, shit, no. The only rule is that there is no rule. There is no preset formula for any form of mental anomaly. I was just asking because I was trying to figure out if he is thinking about her because of the violence or the sex. Next time you cam with him, try and move the conversation—”

“There won’t be a next time,” I interrupt him.

“You block him?” I’ve blocked clients before, some at Dr. Brian’s suggestion, some because $6.99 a minute isn’t worth dealing with certain levels of stupid.

“No. But I don’t think he’s going to be getting back on.” It will be difficult for him to once he’s dead.

“Jess…” Brian’s voice is wary. “I know you hate dealing with him, but I worry. If he’s not online…”

We’ve talked about this. A lot. I am Ralph’s outlet. I could be how he releases the pressure of his fantasies, similar to how I envision macabre death rampages when the urge to kill strikes. Brian worries that without me, without Ralph’s ability to air his thoughts, he might turn to action instead. Action that might involve the object of his obsession.

“I know. You’ve told me your thoughts on the matter. I’ve also told you that I might be feeding his obsession, and you agreed.”

“Barely agreed. I said it was a possibility.”

“I don’t want to help him hurt her.”

“We don’t know that’s what you’re doing. It is a much greater possibility that you are helping her.”

I exhale. “It’s a moot point. I don’t think he’s getting back online.”

After that, there isn’t much for us to discuss, and I hang up the phone, my eyes and thoughts returning to the highway blacktop, and I try to find a new way to entertain my brain.