Freak (30 page)

“I’m sorry, Marianne.” The apology was lame and Sheila knew it. “You so don’t deserve this.”

This time her friend said nothing.

A squeak caused them both to freeze. From the other side of the basement, they could hear a door opening. Footsteps tread carefully down the creaky stairs. Mark Cavanaugh had returned. Against her on the hard concrete floor, Sheila could feel Marianne’s body stiffening again. Her friend felt like a statue. Even Sheila was having a hard time breathing properly.

But the key to surviving this whole thing, she knew from experience, was to find out what Mark Cavanaugh
wanted
. That was pivotal. Digging into Ethan’s true desires had kept Sheila alive long enough for Morris and Jerry to track her down. It might keep her and Marianne alive long enough for them to do it a second time.

A figure approached. Under the dull light of the bare basement bulb, it was hard to see a face. Tall. Had to be Mark Cavanaugh.

Only it wasn’t.

Dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a fitted leather jacket, Abby Maddox looked nothing like an inmate. Her hair
had been cut short and bleached platinum blonde. She strode toward them and stopped a few inches away from their legs, looking down, seeming to relish the sight of the two women tied up and helpless. Her smile soon turned to disgust.

“Now that smells horrible,” she said to Sheila, her gaze roaming over the pile of vomit to Sheila’s right. “Not that I’m surprised. Ethan told me you had a weak stomach.”

Sheila opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“What do you think, girls?” Abby said, tilting her head. She flicked the ends of her blond strands languidly. “About the hair. It’s a wig. I didn’t have time for a professional bleach job. But I like it. I think I can pull off being blond, don’t you agree? They do say blondes have more fun.”

Again, Sheila opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find the words. She was too taken aback. Strategizing in her head was one thing—this had seemed like a totally solvable problem in theory. But now, face-to-face with Abby Maddox herself, in a damp cellar with her arms tied behind her back, it was a whole different playing field.

Abby seemed completely amused by Sheila’s inability to speak. “Cat got your tongue, Sheila?”

“How’d you get out?” Sheila finally managed to say.

“Planning and patience. And a little help from my friends.” Abby fixed her gaze on Marianne. “Well, hello, Annie,” she said, and Sheila felt her friend jolt at the use of her nickname, something only Jerry called her. “I’m rather happy you’re here, though I’m sure it sucks for you. But it’s fitting, considering your husband is also someone on my shit list.”

Marianne whimpered.

Abby’s smile broadened. She moved closer and knelt down, her face less than a foot away from Marianne’s. “It’s a
nice feeling that I can do away with everyone who’s fucked me over all at once. Not that you and I are really enemies, Annie, but since Jerry’s not here, you’ll do just fine. This would hurt him way more, anyway. And won’t that be nice? How . . . serendipitous.”

Abby Maddox stood up, brushing the cement dust off her jeans. She seemed impossibly tall, and impossibly dangerous. Her voice purred like a tiger’s. “All right, girls. Ready to get started? This is going to be
so much fun
.”

AS HE AND
Mike made their way out to the tiny town of Concrete, Jerry wasn’t completely surprised to see Morris’s number on his phone. Because he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Sheila himself, either, and it was now after 8 p.m. Wherever Sheila was, she should have responded by now.

Jerry prepared himself for another verbal ass-kicking. “Hey, man.”

“She’s not picking up her phone, Jerry,” Morris said in his ear, his deep voice tight and controlled. “It’s going straight to voice mail, amigo.”

“We’ll find her. We have an APB out on her and—”

“Fuck your APB!” his friend yelled. Jerry winced and moved the phone away from his ear. Torrance looked over, eyebrow raised. “My fiancée is missing, you blowhard. And I blame you!”

“I know you do.” For once, Jerry was grateful for the rasp in his voice. It kept him from yelling back, which he really wanted to do, because Morris was right, it was his fault and he did blame himself. “And I promise you—
I promise you
—we will find her.”

“Where are you right now?”

Torrance looked over again and shook his head. Jerry nodded. “We’re heading for where we think she might be,” he said.

“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Morris snapped, as Jerry knew he would. “Where are you, goddammit?”

“We’re heading north. We have a lead on—” Torrance’s elbow drove into Jerry’s ribs. The detective didn’t want Morris knowing the details. “It’s north. We’ll be there shortly. We’ll find her.”

He could hear Morris heaving on the other end. “I don’t understand this.” From the uneven tone of his friend’s voice, combined with all the huffing and puffing, Jerry knew that Morris was pacing. Probably wearing a path on his living room rug with his size-fourteen feet. “This cannot be happening. Not again. It’s last year all over again.”

“We don’t know anything for a fact. She might not even be where we’re going. For all we know, she’s out shopping and her phone isn’t charged. There’s no reason to panic.” Even as Jerry spoke, he knew the words were falling on deaf ears.

“What about Marianne?” Morris said, still huffing. “Maybe she knows where Sheila is.”

“I left a voice mail. No answer.” As Jerry said this, a small tingle went through him.

Morris apparently had the same tingle, because he said uncertainly, “Wait. I think they might have been together today for a bit. Sheila said something about getting together with her . . .” His voice trailed off. Then, sounding even more uncertain, he said, “You don’t think . . . ?”

“Nah,” Jerry said aggressively, pushing away the sick feeling that was beginning to eat at his stomach. “Annie’s fine, wherever she is.”

“Call her boyfriend.”

Ouch
. “I don’t have his number.”

“Bullshit,” Morris spat. “You’re an ex-cop and a private investigator and your estranged wife is shacking up with some new guy. My ass you don’t have the number. Call him.”

Harsh, exceptionally harsh. Every word was a dagger through Jerry’s heart, and he tried to remember that Morris’s fiancée might be missing—for the second time in a year—and that her life might be at risk, also for the second time in a year. It wasn’t that Morris didn’t have a point, but man, it hurt like hell to hear him speak like this.

“I’ll call him,” Jerry said.

“Call me back.”

Both men disconnected at the same time, not bothering to say goodbye. Jerry called information and asked for the number for George Jackson. Of course it was unlisted—the man was the losingest coach in the Northwest, and if his home phone number was made public, he’d probably get pranked all the time.

He then called an old friend from PD, who ran the name without asking questions. Jotting the number down in his notepad, Jerry swallowed his pride and called his wife’s boyfriend. The man picked up on the second ring.

“Is this George Jackson?” Jerry asked.

“Yes, this is George.” The man’s voice was an enviable baritone. Much like Jerry’s voice used to be before his throat was slashed. “Who’s calling?”

In the background Jerry could hear the sounds of an audience laughing. The television. Was Annie curled up beside him on the sofa, cuddling under a blanket? Or, God forbid, were they watching TV
in bed
?

He cleared his throat, wishing to God he could sound like his old self, if just for this one phone call. “This is Jerry Isaac.”

“Jerry who—” A pause. “Jerry. Hey, man.” Jackson’s voice changed from pleasant to wary.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry to call you out of the blue. May I speak with Marianne?”

“She’s not here.”

“Come on, man, tell her it’s an emergency. I really need to speak with her.”

“I believe you, but she’s not here.” Jackson paused again. “Is there something
I
can help you with?”

Jerry didn’t know how to feel. Part of him was relieved as hell that Marianne wasn’t lying naked next to this man, and the other part of him was suddenly terrified because now he officially didn’t know where his wife was. “Any idea where she’d be?”

“You tried her at home? And on her cell?”

Jerry couldn’t bring himself to answer such stupid questions.

His silence made the point he intended, and George Jackson sighed. “I don’t know where she is, man. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

Jerry sat up a little straighter. He could tell Torrance had overheard this last bit of conversation because his ex-partner’s head seemed to be cocked a little closer than it had been a few seconds before. He really wished he wasn’t talking about this with someone else in the car. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that. When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Listen, should I be concerned?”

“I could tell you that if you’d just answer my questions.”

Another pause. “Couple days ago. As she was leaving my house.”

An unnecessary jab. Through clenched teeth, Jerry said, “Did she happen to mention having any special plans this week?”

“No, nothing.”

“Have you met her friend Sheila?”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot about her,” Jackson said. “Why?”

“Any mention that she was going to see Sheila this week? This afternoon?”

“Uh . . . yes, as a matter of fact, I think she did mention that. She was going to suggest they start doing yoga again. I think she might have even mentioned that there was a class today. She was going to try and make Sheila go with her.”

Jerry finally turned to Torrance, who met his gaze with an arched brow. “Do you know where?”

“There’s a yoga studio not too far from her office. On Lenora and . . . Fifth, I think.”

“Name?”

“I can’t remember.” Jackson sounded frustrated. “But we drove by it once. It’s beside a little coffee shop and the sign for the studio is bright pink. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Jerry said.

“Hey, man. Wait.”

Jerry waited. He could almost hear the wheels turning in the man’s head. The man who was no longer Annie’s boyfriend, whom Jerry suddenly didn’t dislike quite as much. “Yeah?”

“Listen, it feels funny asking you this, you being . . .
you
, and all—” Jackson cleared his throat, and Jerry took some comfort in the other man’s obvious discomfort. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward. “But can you have her call me once you’ve gotten ahold of her? Or send me an email? You’ve got me worried.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Jerry said, and he meant it.

They disconnected. Immediately Jerry pulled up the Web browser on his phone and did a search for all the yoga studios in Seattle. There was one right at Lenora and Fifth, just like Jackson had said. He clicked on the website. The graphics were all done in bright pink. He called the number, and a moment later was speaking to a receptionist.

“My name is Jerry Isaac and I’m calling from the Seattle police. Can you tell me if a Marianne Chang or a Sheila Tao attended a class today? It’s urgent.”

“Hang on.” The soft-voiced receptionist sounded all of sixteen. She was back a second later. “Sorry, my computer crashed a few minutes ago, and you know how older computers are, they just won’t—”

“Miss, please, it’s extremely urgent.”

A short pause, and then her voice was a little crisper. “What did you say the names were again?”

Jerry spelled them both out.

“Yes, they were both here. They signed in for the four-fifteen class. Actually . . .” Jerry could hear her rifling through papers. “I remember Marianne. She came back after the class to let me know not to tow her car.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Her car,” the receptionist said, sounding impatient. Noise in the background told Jerry the studio was busy. “She was having trouble with it, it wouldn’t start. She asked me to make sure it wasn’t towed. She was going to call triple-A but wasn’t sure if they’d get to it before we closed. Hang on . . .” She put the phone down for a few seconds. “Yup, I just checked. Her car’s still here. She said that she and a friend were being driven back to her office by some man and she’d call triple-A from there . . . Hey, if you talk to her, can you let her know that triple-A never showed up?”

“What man? Describe him.”

“I didn’t get too close a look but through the window I could see he was tall, dark-haired, good-looking. Really fit. Early thirties, maybe.”

Jerry thanked her and hung up, feeling numb all over. After a moment he turned to Torrance. “She described someone who fits Mark Cavanaugh’s description. Assuming that it’s really him—and who else would it be?—it looks like they got into his car. Which means they have both Sheila and Annie.” He choked as he said his wife’s name. “God, Mike. They have my wife.”

Torrance nodded, knowing that nothing he could say at this moment would help. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he reached over and popped open the glove compartment, where his backup weapon was stored. Jerry took the Glock out and held it in his lap. Gripping it made him feel a little bit better, but not much. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.

The detective pressed his foot down harder on the gas and accelerated, and for once, Jerry was grateful that his former partner drove like a maniac.

THE COUNTRY HOUSE
was in a small town called Concrete, population 842, according to the sign as they entered the town. It probably wasn’t far off in terms of accuracy. There really was nothing to look at. Just a bunch of houses here and there.

Mark Cavanaugh’s grandmother’s home was at the south tip of Lake Shannon. A once-pretty house set on three acres, its days of glory were long past. Torrance pulled into the gravel driveway, and both men stepped out of the car, taking a moment to size up the house and their surroundings. The first thing that caught Jerry’s eye was the shiny black Dodge Durango off to the side. Definitely Cavanaugh’s ride, according to his DMV registration.