Shocking True Story (35 page)

Valerie was practically on top of me, straining to hear what Raines was saying.

“The girl went nuts and her mom turned her over to the state and they sent her to Maplewood. Committed her...until she turned twenty-one.”

“How could that be?”

“Ten years ago it wasn't so hard. Lots of folks with a bone to pick got rid of their kids. Connie got a court order to protect her and Janet from Jett. She said she was afraid for their lives. She had wounds to prove her case. That's what got her from foster care, then to Maplewood, at least I'm guessing. I'm filling in the gaps, because there are an awful lot of them.”

“Martin, she's out Trick or Treating with my kids,” I said.

There was a long silence on the phone.

“As long as she doesn't know you know anything, there's probably nothing to be concerned about. Up until you knew this, you didn't view her as a threat, did you?”

I had not. I hated the fact that because of her past, I now considered her less than what I knew to be true. I liked her. We all liked her. People change. I tried to convince myself Jett Carter was not a danger to Taylor and Hayley.

I could feel my composure slipping. I fought hard. I didn't want my voice to break. I had to be strong, but I was afraid.

“Martin, I hate to admit it, but I'm worried.” I tried to stay as calm as I could. “I'm
very
concerned.”

He told me to call back if the girls weren't home soon. He'd put out the word as soon as he could—officially, twenty-four hours after they were last seen. He consoled me that the girls would probably be home with stories to tell about Trick or Treating in every subdivision on the peninsula.

As I told Valerie what he said, I absentmindedly fiddled with the Caller ID button on the cordless phone. Val did her best to remain calm. Jett's lies were a protection for herself. She was not a danger to our girls. She
loved
them. Jett had lied for no other reason than to give herself a better chance at being judged for who she was now. She didn't know we had uncovered something from her past; she was entitled to keep it secret. She had been treated, and by God, she was well now. I fibbed to myself again and again.

“It just makes me wonder if she could have lied about other things as well,” Val said.

“I know—” I stopped talking. A name popped up on the Caller ID and it sent a chill down my spine.

“MPLWD INST” stared at me like the dead eyes of a snake. It took me a second to decipher it, like some goofy vanity plate that made no sense to anyone but the vehicle's driver.

Dear God, I had called from Maplewood.

I turned to my wife.

“Val, I think Jett knows what we know.”

Later Thursday, October 31

I HAD NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD BE one of those people on television pleading with the public for information about his missing child or children. I had told my girls from day one the rules of safety when it came to strangers. Our favorite show from the time they could watch TV from behind a baby bottle was
America's Most Wanted
. My mother thought her grandchildren had no business watching that “trash.” But I disagreed. I saw no harm in letting my daughters know that there were dangers in the world.
Real danger
. I told Hayley and Taylor that most of the mysteries involving missing kids would never have happened if their parents taught their children to stay away from neighborhood weirdoes.

“We'll have no milk carton kids in this family,” I had often remarked.

I had even gone to the elementary school and talked about safety. I was the goddamn Block Watch captain for our neighborhood. And yet, I had screwed up. I had screwed up big-time. I had let my guard down and my girls were gone in the night.

I could not wait for Raines and the county sheriff's office to help me. I could not wait for anyone. It had been six hours, maybe more, since Taylor and Hayley went off Trick or Treating with Jett Carter. Val stayed home to be near the phone and I drove the LUV to Timberlake. I had not slept; I had not even tried. My eyes were drawn apart like slits, like off-brand Kmart mini blinds jammed open forever. Vomit had burned my throat and my stomach heaved as if something more could come up. I knew there was nothing left inside of me. I was empty. I had never felt emptier in my entire life.

I drove as fast as I could. I didn't care if I got another ticket. I almost hoped a cop would pull me over. I needed help. I needed a police escort. My girls were gone.

I punched the buttons on the radio desperately seeking a news account of our plight. But there was none. Radio, usually the first to jump on an abduction case because the medium needed no visuals, had been cool. One reporter, a supposed friend I had called for help, had the cruel audacity to ask if my story was a publicity stunt for a book I was working on. I wished I were that clever.

“Tell me the truth. I'll still play with you on it, but I gotta know.”

If the interview had been face-to-face rather than over the phone, I would be fleeing from a murder scene instead of searching for my missing daughters.

I turned down the street o Jett's apartment and parked in the back. I carried a flashlight and a screwdriver from my glove box. It flashed through my mind that Ted Bundy had kept the same tools in his famous VW. If I couldn't get inside with a screwdriver shoved into the doorjamb, I planned on breaking a window. A Pierce County Sheriff's business card fluttered from the door frame and fell into the remains of a smashed pumpkin.

MARTIN RAINES, CHIEF INVESTIGATOR

Marty had been over to see Jett, but she hadn't been home. Or, she hadn't answered the door.

I turned the knob to the right and then left. It was locked. I stuck the flathead screwdriver into the thin space between the doorknob and the jamb and pushed. Harder. I twisted it. I could feel the wood crunch. I pried again. The knob became loose, but still I couldn't push it open. Another twist and I slammed my shoulder against it. The door creaked open and I slowly went inside. I could sense that I was alone, but the empty room still made me jumpy.

A floor lamp was switched on, bouncing light off the mostly empty room. My heart rate increased when I saw two bulging pillowcases on the floor. One was a mint green case with purple irises on it; the other was a faded scene from one of the
Shrek
movies. The last time I had seen them was at home, on my daughter's beds, with their sleeping faces pressed against them.

I bent over and looked inside each one.

Halloween candy.

“Hayley? Taylor?” I called as I walked to the apartment's only bedroom. I had never been more awake in my life. I didn't need any more light. I was a cat. I could see everything in the hall, everything in the room.

“It's Dad. Girls? Are you here?”

There was no sound, just the buzz of a radio not tuned in adequately. I saw a row of my books on the bed stand. A young woman's clothes were scattered from the bathroom to the bed; newspaper accounts of the Parker murder had been clipped and arranged on the pillow. It was a
display.
A vignette, I knew, meant for my eyes. The pace of my heartbeat quickened again as I moved around the small room, but I saw nothing more of my children. I held one of the pillow cases to my face and nose and breathed in the smell of my babies. I knew the smell of their hair, their breath, the sweet scent of my children.

Where were they?

My eyes frantically scanned the front room. There was no television, no table. The sole piece of furniture was a futon, its fabric a black and white Holstein cow print. Against the white and black were bright orange and fuchsia rectangles. The light played off the pieces and drew my eyes closer. Like a crow straining for a shiny bit of foil, I bent down. It was the Fantastic Plastic. I remembered how Jett had brought it over in her “kid's kit” to entertain the girls before dinner. They had made barrettes out of the shiny, malleable material. I had even been coaxed into playing with the stuff myself.

The fingerprints that had turned up in reverse on the Shantung Rag paper sample had been pulled off the Fantastic Plastic.

The reception on my cell too faint to make a call, I went to the kitchen telephone and punched in the numbers for our home. I had to talk to Valerie. I had not been to church since I was confirmed in high school, but I prayed to God right then like a television evangelist. Out loud I called for God to help me put my family back together.

The kitchen counter was immaculate in its neatness. It was the kitchen of a fastidious person; or a person who seldom cooked at home. A badly chipped almond-colored sink was devoid of all, but a few dirty dishes. Each dish was a black plastic divided dish. I had recognized them as microwavable TV dinner trays. Jett had never learned to cook. She had her meals at Maplewood for half of her young life. A pair of scissors, some butchered magazines, and a sheaf of familiar gray envelopes caught my eye.

And raised my pulse another notch.

A 1980s Laurel Burch cat purse on the floor also resonated in some strange way. I'd seen it before, but not with Jett.

Valerie answered my call on the third ring.

“They were here, Val. I found their candy bags.”

My wife didn't say anything. I heard her cry, “I know. I know.”

“I know, honey. I know,” I answered back.

“Kevin, they're here. All—”

She was cut off. I called Val's name over and over. In a moment I heard a familiar voice on the line. It was Jett Carter soundly oddly robotic, cold. “Yes, we're here. We're all here. You should have left well enough alone. No police. Don't talk to Martin Raines.”

The line went silent for a few seconds.

“Jett? Why?”

“I'll tell you. Meet us on the Narrows Bridge at midnight. Mid-span. Park TRUCRYM on the east side and walk across.”

I wondered why the bridge, but I didn't ask her about it. Now, I knew fear. I knew it in a way that had been completely foreign to me. It was
my
fear. Not someone else's.

“Jett, I'll come now. I'll come right now. Please, are my girls... is Val all right?”

There was a deliberate pause.

“No, don't come here,” she said. “We won't be here. So don't bother. Listen carefully, Kevin. I'm in charge now. Everyone is fine. You should worry about yourself. Think about yourself. You're good at that, Kevin. You've always been good at that.”

Amidst the muffled cries of my family, the phone went dead. I held my arms around my chest and squeezed.
What was happening? Why in the world was she doing this?

As I debated whether I'd call the police or handle it on my own, a flash of steel caught my eye. It came from the sink. I moved closer and stretched my neck as if I were a kid looking into a box of snakes.

Among the plastic, divided plates was a Ginsu knife.

It was Hop Sing.

It had not been Valerie who killed anyone. God, I had been so dimwitted to even think it. It had not been Wanda-Lou; nor Anna Cameron. And God knew it had not been me. It had been Jett. She had been the one who poisoned Mrs. Parker and slashed her with the knife. Things were falling into place. Jett could have taken the knife anytime during one of the first visits to our home. She had found our house through Wanda-Lou. I dismissed the thought that Wanda-Lou had anything to do with it. She was ambitious, but she was not a killer.

Neither was Valerie.

Jett also had access to the Weasel-Die. She might have been the caller who pointed out to that police that I had thrown out the stuff. I had told her I did that. What of the piece of paper, the Shantung Rag, found in Mrs. Parker's hand? I couldn't make sense of that. It was true that she could have taken it from the house, but I never saw the paper. I was still certain that Val had in fact really ordered it. How could the fingerprints be in reverse and the signature “suggest” that it had been written by me?

I pulled myself together and called Martin from Val's commandeered cell phone.

“Any word about the kids?” he asked. His voice was deep, full of concern.

I told him that we had heard nothing. Though I knew what Jett was capable of, I felt that I knew her well enough to believe that she wouldn't harm the girls and Val. I had seen how she played with Hedda. How she had teased the girls like an older sister. How she had talked with Val about going back to school so she could get a better job than the one at Ho! We had been friends. We had taken her into our family. We consoled her after every visit to the prison when she saw her sister and mother. She wouldn't hurt us.

Finally, he answered. “They'll be fine, I know it. We're working on it.”

“I know you are,” I said.

I didn't tell him that I had been inside Jett Carter's apartment and I knew more than he did. “Martin, I've got to see that slip of paper. That Shantung Rag. Can you meet me at the Justice Center in five?”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I'm here in Timberlake, but I have to leave right away. I've got to get home to be with Val by midnight. I promised.”

Even Later, Thursday, October 31

THE JUSTICE CENTER WAS NOT AS UGLY IN THE LIGHT of the moon and street lamps as it was during the day. I had not been there since my arrest and the place did not hold fond memories for me. I waited in my truck until I saw Raines walk toward the front door. I called to him to wait and the two of us went inside together. He flashed his ID to the officer in the property room and introduced me as a “fiber expert” from out of town. He signed in his name and the night property clerk unlocked the evidence vault and returned with an envelope.

“We'll need to see it on the table.”

The night cop nodded and pushed a release mechanism for the bottom half of the Dutch door that separated the outside world from the exhibits and evidence that would be used in court. It was a poor, insecure system, but I did not take the opportunity to criticize it. I looked at my watch; twenty minutes had passed since Jett had given her instructions. Part of me wanted to tell Marty, but I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk my family.