Furious (4 page)

“I’ve been having visions, yes. Some things, like the men’s faces, came to me all at once, while other things are coming back in bits and pieces. I’m still a little foggy.”

He clicked on the tape recorder and said, “If it’s OK with you, I’m going to record our conversation.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

He pushed his notebook to the side. “First off, I’d like to thank you both for coming today.” He then stated, by name, each person who was gathered in the room. “I know this can’t be easy. You’ve been through a very traumatizing experience, but we need you to tell us everything you remember about the day of the attack.”

The police had analyzed the crime scene. They had seen the bloodshed and talked to neighbors and potential witnesses. She’d hoped to come here today to discover who was responsible for Craig’s death. And find out where they thought her kids might be.

She inhaled, tried to rein in her frustration.
Stay calm and stick with protocol,
she told herself. “Should I start at the very beginning, before I arrived home?”

He nodded.

“OK . . . well, after school was let out,” she began, “the kids met me in the classroom and we drove home just as we did every weekday.” She paused, remembering the kids singing along together, their happy faces and sweet voices. Her chest tightened.

“Are you OK?” Detective Yuhasz asked. “Would you like some more time before we get started?”

“No,” she said. “I’m good . . . um . . . I remember waving at the neighbor, Beth Tanner. The kids, Lara and Hudson, were in the backseat singing along to a song on the radio. As I came down the driveway, I noticed Craig’s GMC parked in the driveway.” A sharp pain sliced through her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut until the ache disappeared, then opened her eyes. “The lawn hadn’t been mowed. We were planning to celebrate my son’s birthday the next day, and I had yet to tell Craig that fifty people had RSVP’d.” A crackle and a hiss, and an image appeared in her mind’s eye. The GMC parked on the grass. Tire tracks. Craig didn’t like anyone driving on his lawn. He always went out of his way to mark the sprinklers with little red flags. “His car was parked at an angle,” Faith blurted as the image came to her. “The tires were on the lawn,” she said. “Did you check the driveway for evidence?”

Yuhasz frowned.

Mom leaned forward and said, “Her doctor warned that she may or may not recall everything at once.”

He nodded. “Please continue.”

Faith proceeded to relay in excruciating detail exactly what happened after she arrived home—step by step, every bloody detail that she remembered. How she sat in the car talking to her sister while her family was being bound and gagged, her shock at seeing strange men in her house, and her attempt to run away. By the time she finished, Mom was sniffling.

Detective Yuhasz handed Mom a tissue, but he kept his attention focused on Faith. “You had never seen those men before?”

“No. Never.”

“Do you have any reason to believe your husband might have known them?”

“No.”

“Were you and your husband having problems—marital, financial, or otherwise?”

“We were happy.” She swallowed. “I was pregnant, but I hadn’t told him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to surprise him.” She didn’t feel the need to tell the detective the entire reason she’d waited . . . because money was tight and she was waiting for the right time. “You’ve been working on the case for over a week now,” Faith said before he could ask another question. “You must have some idea of who might have taken my children.”

“Patrol officers were assigned door-to-door searches asking people in your area if they had seen anything or anyone who didn’t belong. They talked to teachers and parents at the school where you work. Polygraphs of all family members and close friends of the family have been obtained.”

Faith felt the blood drain from her face. She had no idea. She looked at her mom. “Jana never mentioned taking a polygraph.”

“It’s standard procedure,” Detective Yuhasz told her. “It’s best if we positively eliminate the possibility that anyone close to Lara and Hudson had anything to do with their abduction.”

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Faith asked.

He nodded.

She turned toward Agent Burnett. “You must have some idea of who might possibly be involved in the murder of my husband and the abduction of my two children. Would it be possible for me to see a list of suspects?”

“No,” she said without pause. “Such information is protected from public disclosure, in accordance with current law and Department of Justice and FBI policy. It also serves to protect the rights of people not yet charged with a crime.”

“So you do have a suspect?”

“I’m not at liberty to say one way or another.”

Faith turned back to Detective Yuhasz. “Have you located my husband’s SUV?”

“Not at this time.”

“How about fingerprints or DNA?” She rubbed her temple. “Have you found anything at all?”

“No matches so far.”

“So you did find fingerprints?”

“Footprints.”

“What about motive?” Agent Burnett cut in.

“It’s not clear. Home invasion gone bad or something more . . .” Yuhasz stated rather than questioned, peering at Faith as if he thought she might know more than she was letting on. “Was Craig McMann hijacked and forced to drive home for a reason, or was this a random act of violence?”

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Faith said. “Am I a suspect?”

“No, of course not. We just need to ask the hard questions, see if anything jogs your memory.”

“Have there been other break-ins in the area?” Faith asked.

Yuhasz shook his head. “Bikes, jewelry . . . nothing like this.”

There was a knock on the door. A police officer entered the room, handed Detective Yuhasz a note, and left. Yuhasz read it over and then looked at Faith. “It says here that you invited the media into your house this morning.”

“That’s true. I did.”

“Apparently whatever you said on camera has inspired a frenzy of activity. Our phones are ringing off the hook.”

She grabbed hold of her mom’s arm. “Maybe someone recognized one of the men from my painting.”

“Detective O’Sullivan and I have been meeting with the media at regular intervals, keeping the public updated. In the future I would appreciate it if you could go through me or Detective O’Sullivan before you decide to do any impromptu interviews.”

Faith stiffened. “My kids have been missing for eleven days now. Every second that passes is one second too many. If we’re on the same side, there’s no reason whatsoever that I can think of that you should object to my getting the word out.” She leaned forward and tapped a finger on his desk. “You must have something by now . . . a suspect or two . . . some idea of what happened that day and why those men took my children.”

The detective looked at O’Sullivan. Their expressions were unreadable, which merely added to her frustrations. “If we’re going to find my children,” Faith added, “we need to keep their faces in the forefront of people’s minds.”

Detective Yuhasz rubbed a hand over his prickly head.

“Faith,” Detective O’Sullivan cut in, “we know you’ve been through a lot, but you can’t simply jump into these things.”

Faith looked over her shoulder at O’Sullivan. “I talked to the media and I asked for help. I didn’t jump into anything.”

“Faith,” Detective Yuhasz said, speaking to her as if she were a child. “We’re merely asking you for your cooperation so we can utilize all resources and do our job to the best of our ability.”

She felt as if she were in the twilight zone. As far as she could see, they had all been picking their noses while she was fighting for her life. “Clearly, your staff is stressed and overworked,” she said, ignoring the hand her mother placed on her forearm. “You’ve got officers at the front desk using both feet and hands and still unable to answer incoming calls, and I refuse to sit home and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you and your men to find my children.” She tapped a finger on his desk again. “I’m not going away until someone gives me a name of a possible suspect.”

Yuhasz opened his desk drawer, reached inside, and handed her a brochure. “You might want to talk to someone at NCMEC, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I believe they offer counseling.”

The door opened, and Detective Yuhasz was called away before she could give him a piece of her mind and tell him exactly what she thought about that.

F
IVE

Miranda held a damp cloth to Jean’s arm. At ten years old, Jean was five years younger than she was. The girl had just been branded, and it was the first time Miranda had seen her cry.

The tattoo man, whom they called Fin, had done a number on Jean. He said it took longer than usual and he’d had to go deeper because she was so young. That way he wouldn’t have to do it all over again in a few years. All the girls got a swirly letter
H
tattooed on their upper arms at some point after being brought to the house. With all the fancy twirls it was hard to tell if it was a letter at all. Miranda didn’t believe Fin’s story about having to be so rough on Jean. Neither had she liked the way he’d looked at the girl while he was working. If she hadn’t been hovering over him the entire time he worked, he would have made a move; she was sure of it.

Being the oldest in the house and having been there the longest now that some of the girls had been moved to another house or onto the streets, Miranda knew a few things about this place—things that made it difficult to sleep at night. Things she refused to talk about.

The younger girls were to be minded 24-7. Miranda was in charge of watching over Jean. Girls under twelve years of age who had never been touched were treated like gold. Sure, they got slapped around and had their hair pulled like everyone else, but they got to eat first, were allowed to sleep in while everyone else did chores, and they didn’t have to go upstairs for training sessions on the weekends. They were innocent. And there were plenty of filthy johns out there who were willing to pay a lot of money for innocence.

Miranda had been a virgin when she was brought to the house, but she’d hated Mother and told her she’d been fucked by every man her real mom ever brought home. Only Jasper knew the truth, since he had ended up being the one to take her virginity. He’d been scared to death when he saw the blood, slapped her when she smiled with the knowledge of what she’d done. “If Mother found out,” he’d said, “we’d both be beat . . . or killed.”

At night when Miranda closed her eyes, it was becoming more and more difficult to remember what her mom looked like. If she focused really hard, she could see the dimple in her mom’s cheek and smell the sweet perfume she used to wear when Miranda was small. She worried that if too much time went by she might not recognize her if they passed each other on the street.

The sound of tires rolling over gravel caught her attention, making her forget all about her other life. Handing off the damp rag to Jean, she let her take care of the red welt on her arm for a minute so she could stand on the chair and peer through the window. The white filmy glaze on the glass made it difficult to see clearly. But she could make out the silhouette of a car and the shadow of a man as he climbed out. She wondered who it was. Most of the time the girls were taken to the johns, driven to some seedy hotel room or an apartment like the one she and her mom used to live in before they were kicked out onto the streets. Every once in a while, though, a wealthy man or woman came to the farmhouse to pick out a girl for themselves.

She thought back to her first “client,” as Mother liked to call them. She’d never been so afraid in her life. The hotel room wasn’t so bad. No horrible smells. Even the carpet was nice. He appeared to be a regular guy, a businessman you might see working at his desk in a bank. He seemed so normal and friendly she asked him if he would help her escape. Told him she was being held against her will. He said that if she did everything he asked of her, he would help her. But in the end, he didn’t help her at all. She overheard him tell Mother everything she’d said. He was concerned she might be trouble. He was a respectable, hardworking man, and trouble was the last thing he needed. And so Miranda was taken to the barn where Phoenix used a sock full of rocks to teach her to keep her mouth shut.

“Is someone here?” Jean asked, her voice shaky and small.

“Yes,” Miranda said. She looked away from the window and back at Jean, glad that the girl had yet to be touched. Jean was younger than most, and apparently Mother’s boss man was holding out for big money. If she ever got the chance to escape, Miranda decided, she would take Jean with her.

The bells at the front entry rang.

Miranda jumped from the chair, wiped away more tears from Jean’s eyes, and then grabbed hold of her small hand. “Come on,” she said, tugging. “Mother wants us.”

Jean was a good girl. She always obeyed and did whatever anyone asked of her. She hardly said a word. But a lot of girls were quiet when they first arrived. Sooner or later, Jean would start talking about her other life. And if and when she did, she’d pay for it. Mother had all sorts of rules and different forms of mistreatment for every blunder. Every punishment she thought of was designed to be painful and invoke fear.

“Come on, girls,” Mother said, clapping her hands. “Everyone gather around. Hurry, hurry. Take a seat.”

There were fifteen girls, everyone seated close together. Three of the walls in the main living area were lined with mismatched couches that were used only for this sort of occasion. Mother insisted that her girls, as she liked to call them, sit together, side by side, backs ramrod straight, knees together, whenever she held a meeting. Adele was nowhere to be seen, and that worried Miranda.

No sooner had they taken a seat than a heavyset man walked into the room. The tips of his shiny dress shoes stuck out beneath the hem of his pants. He had a large nose and rosy-red cheeks. He took a good long look at the younger girls, asked a few of them to stand up and turn around, but in the end he chose Trudi. She was fourteen, pale-skinned, and blue-eyed. Mother often referred to her as a cash cow. Trudi didn’t care. She liked it when the rich men chose her. She would always return to the house days later with stories of how she’d dined on fat, juicy steak, sipped sparkly champagne, and slept beneath silk sheets. Miranda knew it was ridiculous, but more than anything she wanted to be picked. Just once. Not because she wanted to eat steak or sleep under silk sheets, but because she knew that being the chosen one might be her only chance to escape.