First Night of Summer (7 page)

“No, that’s my friend’s.” She never looked up. Her hands fetched additional dishes from a stack. She placed a new cup and saucer in front of him. “Here you go, Daddy. These are yours.”

“Thank you. Who’s your friend?”

She paused in thought.

* * *

His mother had warned him not to push. “She’s just a normal little girl, having normal playtime and pretending someone is there. It’s no fun to have tea parties alone.” She looked deeply into her grown son’s eyes, really trying to get into his thoughts. “Even if,” she went on, “Josie’s pretending Caroline
is
there, what does it matter? It’s only been a few days, and it’s probably not even real to her yet.”

He was apprehensive to think that Josie imagining her sister was there could be healthy on any level.

Helen made her point. “Is it real to you? Is it honestly? You’re a grown man who understands death perfectly. She’s eight. Give it time.”

* * *

Josie met his eyes for a moment and then resumed her work. “Umm, she doesn’t really have a name. We’re just having tea.” It didn’t seem to bother her one bit that she made conversation with someone utterly fake.

“Oh, I see.” He took a sip of the imaginary liquid. “Mmm, mmm, mmm. This is delicious. May I have some more?” He acted enthusiastic and closed his eyes in a gesture of the savory blend. His mother was right.

“Yes,” she replied politely. She looked across the table to the place setting her imaginary companion occupied. “Would you like some more, too?” There was a pause. “Okay. Do you want sugar?”

Isaac sat back and drank the second cup slowly.
Maybe this is good. If she can’t use her imagination to play, what else is there? She’s a smart girl and will eventually put the pieces together. One day, it will make sense
.

He slurped the last drop and stood up from the table. “Thank you, sweetheart. That was fun.”

“You’re welcome.” Her voice was calm and sweet, that of an angel. She placed the dirty dishes in a separate pile from the clean ones and resumed her play.

He didn’t know how he would ever explain the events that transpired that one terrible night.
How does a father tell his child that someone intends them perverse harm? How can I articulate that Caroline’s death was not the worst-case scenario?
He wanted Josie to sleep peacefully through the nights, not scared that someone was after her. She would find out eventually. That was certain. But doing it the right way—a way that wouldn’t haunt her dreams—was the hard part. But the truth was, she had every right to be afraid.

Chapter Twelve

O
n the outskirts of Hiawatha, Kansas, Ricky waited anxiously in his cargo van. His next move was only minutes away.

Three weeks had crawled by since his failed attempt to abduct Caroline and Josie. Under normal circumstances, he would not have chosen another victim so quickly. He preferred to savor his prize, reliving the sexual humiliation and pain he put her through. Video footage, horrendously graphic pictures, and memorized physical sensations were all exceedingly erotic. He typically spent weeks wallowing in the success. The selection of a new target was sacred. His prize couldn’t just be anybody. He wanted someone who was somebody.

The attempt in Ruidoso and news of Caroline’s death drove him mad. He needed stimulation and hadn’t gotten it. His ravenous appetite had brought him to the precipice of gratification, only to have the bottom fall out at the last second. Now, angry with himself and his pent-up desires, he was thirsty. He needed a quickie, someone to soothe the burn, absorb his toxic current, and quench the thirst.

Well-manicured, spindly fingers stroked the soft fur of his new puppy.
Kansas
. He had decided to name the seven-week-old golden retriever mix in honor of the locale.
You’ll do just perfectly
.

After several days of observation, he realized the need for a lure. Nothing came to mind until he saw a sign. “Free Puppies.” He couldn’t resist. It was perfect, and the little guy was so cute.

It was time to go over the plan. As was his custom, he had already been through it more than he could remember. He even did a dry run, but repetition never hurt.
Her mom drops her off from Little Dribbler practice at five thirty. She gets a snack and plays in the backyard while the babysitter sits at the computer. As soon as they’re both in place, I’ll go
.

He fired the engine and drove out of the Walmart parking lot. The white van was ordinary, common with an aluminum extension ladder tied to the top. He was just another handyman, plumber, painter, or electrician.

He went to the babysitter’s street and parked a few houses down.
Any minute now. Any minute
. Right on cue, a tan Chevy Tahoe came around the corner and pulled into the driveway. Becky Davis left the engine running and walked her seven-year-old daughter, Bailey, to the front door.

From the van, he could only watch. It didn’t matter. The routine was always the same. Bailey had her bag and went inside. Casey, the high school-aged babysitter, listened to a few words of instruction and nodded in agreement. A ponytail pulled high on her head bobbed up and down. Becky turned on her heels, walked back to the Tahoe, and drove away. She wouldn’t return from the country club until ten o’clock.

“Perfect,” he said aloud. Every detail was just as he knew it would be.

A half hour later, little Bailey appeared inside the chain-link fence of the backyard and began shooting hoops. She bounced around, dribbled, and juked to improve her skills. Waves of flaxen hair followed every motion, propelled by a tan body from afternoons at the city pool. A low basketball goal hung over a cement slab. She went back there every time and religiously played while Casey surfed the Net or clicked on her cell phone.

He drove into the alley behind the row of houses. One backyard down from where Bailey was, a telephone pole rose out of the ground next to a junction box. He stopped directly beside the electrical equipment, got out, and opened both backdoors. He set a tool belt full of screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches on the bumper. The setup had to look real, just in case.

The sun was high, hot, and stifling. Shade from ancient oaks and maples smothered the alley and the backyards. They towered above the half-century houses. He thought of the old TV series,
Leave It to Beaver
. People here felt such security. It was a weakness. And like liquid over glass, he moved forward without a ripple.

A blue shirt complete with fake nametag, navy pants, and work boots made up his disguise. A white hard hat perched on his noggin topped it off. Only a few paces were between him and the doorway to destiny. He cradled the pup, Kansas, in his arms. It was time for the fur ball to earn his keep.

The neighborhood yards backed up to the alley. Shrubs planted along the inside of their fence lines gave residents privacy. A gate opened from each yard to access the trash dumpsters. They were the only spaces not blocked by hedges.

Hidden behind the bushes, right next to the gate entrance, he extracted a bottle of cayenne pepper and unscrewed the lid. He poured it onto Kansas’s nose.

The puppy whimpered from the burn, not sure what it was. He licked it and yelped when the pain didn’t go away. He squirmed and pawed at his face, trying to get rid of the unpleasant scorch. But the harder he fought, the worse it hurt. The liquid pepper spread to his eyes, and he cried over and over.

Ricky set him down outside the barrier and directly in Bailey’s line of sight. Like any typical seven-year-old, she immediately noticed the racket and ran to help. Her intention was to open the latch, coddle the tiny butterball, and take it to see Casey. She wanted nothing more than to bestow innocent love on the unfortunate little beast. But when she opened the gate, her hands never made it.

He jerked Bailey into the alley and behind the row of shrubs. Her back was tucked against his belly, a ropy arm holding her still. He quickly placed a dampened handkerchief over her face, holding it tightly to keep her from screaming. She went limp, and he swung her around his shoulders and onto his back. He leaned forward to keep her from flopping back, and curled both of his arms beneath her thighs. To the casual observer, it would look as though she were getting a piggyback ride. At the van, he dumped her into the open cargo doors, calmly closed them, and walked around to the front. So far, all was quiet.

As he drove to the end of the alley, turned onto the street, and headed out of town, there was absolutely no visual reason for suspicion. It was nothing but a uniformed man driving a service vehicle with Kansas plates. They didn’t match the inspection sticker, but no one ever looked that closely. As soon as he crossed into Missouri, he would drop them into the first river, put on his Colorado plates, and keep cruising. And above all else, every speed limit sign was strictly adhered to.

“Shit!” he blurted. He pulled his foot off the accelerator to think. “Oh, shit, shit, shit.”

He didn’t know what scared him worse—the fact that his mind was slipping enough to leave Kansas the puppy behind, or the fact that the dog was evidence. Messy criminals were incarcerated criminals. That was just how it worked.

The flashlight drop in Ruidoso and now this. It’s sloppy
. He coasted along the road for a second longer, and contemplated the potential fallout.
Is there any way they can track the pup back to me?

The dog was from a lady giving them away in a convenience store parking lot. No names were exchanged. There were no registration papers for the mutt and no transactions of any kind. Pretty sure that Kansas wouldn’t be useful to the police, he relaxed. It couldn’t be taken back, and didn’t seem devastating to his freedom anyways. He stepped on the gas.

In just a few hours, his efforts were finally going to pay off, and Bailey’s waking nightmare would begin.

Chapter Thirteen

J
ust before midnight, Ricky pulled into a truck stop outside of Sioux Center, Iowa. He wasn’t tired, and he didn’t need a bathroom break. The location was the stage for his next crime.

He liked to be out of the public eye, as far from scrutiny as possible, but a few years back, he discovered how much privacy a truck stop could provide. Eighteen-wheelers and other road-weary travelers used the large lots to park, rest, and be undisturbed. Many Americans have jobs that keep them on the road for days at a time, and sleeping in their vehicles is cheaper than renting a motel room. Those seeking repose will leave their engines running, headlights off, and parking lights on. It signals that the vehicle is occupied and desires privacy. It’s an unspoken code between travelers of America’s roadways.

He found a suitable slot, turned on the parking lights, and locked the doors. Behind the two front bucket seats, he had constructed a wall to separate the cab from the cargo area. It was covered in gray carpet to match the interior and had a door in the middle. He bent low, stepped through, and latched it shut.

Bailey was lying on a small bed designed to fold up against the wall. She huddled to the back, quivering from fear at his entrance. He had made a pit stop earlier to gag her, and he bound her hands and feet. Since waking in the dark, groggy from the chloroform, she tried to scream for help, but all that came out were muted sobs. The only sensation she could remember was road vibration. Tears ran down both flushed cheeks as she looked at the man before her.

He let the innocent, frightened image of Bailey burn into his eyes as he pulled her toward him. She tried to fight, but fear and an aching head robbed her muscles of strength. He secured a length of rope to the coils on her wrists. The opposite end was fed through a floor ring. He pulled it snug with Bailey’s hands now above her head and tied it off. Her feet were separated and bound to floor rings below each bottom corner of the bed. Several loops were snaked around each ankle and stretched tightly. He didn’t want her to have any wiggle room. The placement of the rings was not coincidence. He installed them himself, the exact arrangement allowing him to hold his company in ideal positions.

From above, her body was in the shape of an upside down Y. Her legs were spread with both arms pulled straight back. For what he wanted, the position was most accommodating. There was no regard for discomfort. The rough fibers cruelly bit her skin.

Pain and terror combined, Bailey’s sobs grew stronger, and her body shook. But little to no sound emanated from the desperate screams. The large diameter rope used for the gag was too thick and cut into the corners of her mouth. She had to breathe through her stuffy nose.

“Take it easy, honey,” he said. “It’s no use.” He smiled wickedly and kept working.

This was when things were hardest. Alone in the presence of his lover, he was ready for action. He had lost control of himself once before and regretted it. He hadn’t taken the proper time to set things up. When it was over, there was no video to watch, pictures to review, or words to read on lonely days.

He went to too much effort in kidnapping Bailey and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. He had to do things right the first time. The camcorder needed to be set up, the angle checked, and the tape rolling. A digital camera was put in place. He adjusted the timer to snap a photo every few seconds. Documentation was most precious. It enabled him to relive each event whenever and however many times he wanted. It was so much better than memory.

He set up the electronics at the foot of the bed and along the side. Each had its purpose. It was imperative that Bailey experience the moment as acutely as he was. The more animated her reactions, the better the thrill.

He jotted down a few words in his journal. The page was titled “Bailey Davis” and scrawled with numerous notes from the reconnaissance phase. He finished scribbling, checked the camera equipment once more, and shifted gears. Finally, after more than a month of failed plans, letdown, searching, and making new plans, he was going to have his pound of flesh.