Chapter 7
Sharon fell asleep almost immediately after lying down. She woke up several hours later. It took her many minutes to sit up and she still felt violently nauseated. She realized that she probably had a concussion and her biggest fear was that there would be permanent trauma. She was still dressed in the clothes that she had worn to work that day….but what day was it? She remembered the attack in the garage but she couldn't remember what had happened before that, or where Andy and Rusty had been. She remembered eating lunch in the break room with Provenza and Sykes at work but after that, everything was fuzzy. Running her hands over her scalp, she discovered a large, painful bump on the right side of her head, under the hairline. She remembered the chloroform and the struggle on the floor but it was all fragmented and jumbled, like scattered pieces of a puzzle.
She began reciting the elements from the periodic table both to calm her nerves and to test her memory. Helium, Lithium, Sodium, Potassium….I always hated chemistry. She switched to US presidents. George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin van…
Sharon took a moment to observe her surroundings. For the first time, she realized that she was not in a house. The room she was in was fairly good sized, windowless, and had a cement floor. Some kind of an industrial building maybe? A naked light bulb hung down from a partially gutted ceiling and gave her the only frail light in the dreary room. There were no objects in the room except for the twin bed, a small end table, and a metal folding chair. Her first thought when noticing the chair was that it could be used as a possible weapon and she wondered how much damage she could do to him with it. None, at the moment. She could barely keep her head up let alone lift anything. She considered exploring the bathroom but when she attempted to stand she was hit with an immediate wave of dizziness.
Sharon whispered: Martin van Buren, William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, James K. Polk….
Looking down, Sharon saw the cuffs around her feet. Her range of movement would be terribly limited. She was wearing pink terrycloth bedroom slippers that did not belong to her and were two sizes too big. She had no idea where they had come from. She felt a heaviness forming in her chest that would herald the beginning of tears. She bit her lip and swallowed. She would not cry. This was a dire situation, yes, but she was all right. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay. Just breathe. Zachary Taylor, Millard Filmore, James Buchanan…no there was someone else before Buchanan. Millard Filmore, Millard Filmore….
The sound of footsteps set her heart racing. They came closer, shuffling. And then the heavy, metallic sound of a dead bolt and the staccato click of a door.
Andy looked at his watch. 8:02 AM. They estimated that Sharon had been taken sometime after 8:00 PM, shortly after her last text message to him. Save me a kiss, he had written and then her light response had followed: Yes, sir. Andy buried his face in his hands. It would be nearly twelve hours. Half a day. He had never experienced anything even close to what he was feeling right now at any other time in his life. It was a feeling worse than depression, somewhat similar to grief, but far more potent. The not knowing wrapped itself insidiously around his heart, clenching and twisting and squeezing and taunting. Case after case of abducted women floated through his mind in mental images, black and white typed words on case files, photographs enlarged on a monitor to show before a jury. He knew that the first twenty-four hours were the most crucial, when everything hung precariously in the balance, and the discovery of one seemingly insignificant clue could mean the difference between life and death.
He'd tried going door to door with Provenza but his desperation made people afraid to open up. People don't take kindly to having someone pounding on their front door at five o'clock in the morning. Some still-rational part of his brain knew that he was being unreasonable but he couldn't control himself. He was drowning and the only thing that he could see was her face.
And her shoe.
How many times had he watched her kick her shoes off at the end of the day, and then half-pull her into his lap on the couch? Sometimes he'd take her shoes off for her, a gesture of affection, sometimes teasing and playful…foreplay. In the morning when she was hurried and stressed, fitfully glancing at her watch while she ate her bagel, he'd bring her shoes to her, slide his hands caressingly over the soles of her bare feet and slip her shoes on for her. She would stop then, time forgotten. She'd look at him and smile and her mouth would find his.
He could still see that one forlorn shoe on the garage floor, half of a pair, lying on its side. Wrong. It was so wrong.
"Andy? Andy?" Brenda called louder. "FLYNN."
Andy looked at her but his eyes were hollow. Brenda felt for him. God, she couldn't even begin to imagine what he was going through. His face was just about as white as his shirt. He looked at her but Brenda got the feeling that he wasn't really seeing her.
"Yeah?"
"I just wanted to give you an update. We've had repeated reports of a man in his early fifties who drives a black Jeep being seen near your home, both in the vehicle and walking. Problem is there are a lot of black Jeeps; it's not much to go on but it's a start. I also found some discarded coffee cups and wrappers all in the same spot behind your house. There's a worn patch in the grass back there and some footprints. Are you back there a lot?"
"No."
"Well, I think he was watching you-the house. We've gotten a lot of fingerprints. Most of them are going to turn out to be yours or Sharon's or Rusty's but there's a chance…."
"Rusty. Where is he?"
"Did you hear anything I said?" asked Brenda worriedly.
"Yeah. Where's the kid?" When Andy talked about "the kid," it was not derogatory; it was affectionate. But you had to know Andy to understand that-and Brenda did.
"He's at the Mariott. Sharon's sister is with him. Remember?"
"Vaguely." Andy rubbed his forehead and then his face.
"Why don't you get over there and try to get even a few minutes of sleep?' suggested Brenda.
Andy looked at Brenda like she was crazy.
"All right. I know you're not going to sleep but get out of here for a little bit. Finley's this close to tossing you out on your ass. If I were in charge, I would have thrown you out a long time ago." She said it with fondness. Brenda handed Andy his cell phone. "It's fully charged. I will call you if there is even the smallest bit of news, I promise."
"I'm not going anywhere, Brenda," bellowed Andy.
A cop across the way eyed Andy warily.
Brenda lowered her voice, hoping Andy would follow suit. "Listen. Sharon Raydor is one of the strongest, most sensible, and capable people I've ever known. She's a fighter and she's smart."
"It's not always enough," Andy said quietly. "I've seen so many cases where-it wouldn't even begin to be enough."
Brenda felt her eyes begin to fill. She blinked rapidly. Andy's situation would be horrific for anyone but for someone who used to solve homicide cases, it was a special kind of nightmare. Most people see criminals in photos and television crime re-enactments. Andy Flynn had stared them in the face.
Brenda grabbed both of Andy's hands in hers and squeezed. "There is nothing to indicate that she will not be found. Please, Andy. She needs you on board to help us find her and bring her home."
"She'd be so much better at this than I am. If the situation were reversed. I wish it could have been-me-instead of her." For the first time since Brenda had seen him since last night, he showed the beginnings of an emotion that wasn't anger or rage.
"Why don't you go check on Rusty, hmm? The Mariott is just down the road. You were...kind of hard on him earlier."
Andy looked heartbroken. His shoulders slumped with visible remorse. "I know. I'm out of my mind Brenda. I-I didn't mean it."
Brenda nodded. "He needs to hear it. Let Provenza drive you, okay?" She braced herself for an argument but he merely nodded.
"Okay."
In the elevator at the Mariott, Andy watched a middle aged couple smiling at one another over a shared private joke; they both had rings on their fingers. Married. Ostensibly happy. He and Sharon had been like that-happy. Until the hand of Fate suddenly noticed them and decided to point its accusing finger in their direction. Andy didn't believe in God, not after all the things he'd seen as a cop, and yet in the past twelve hours, he couldn't count how many times he'd invoked the mercy of a deity that he didn't believe in. That was irony for you.
Provenza and Andy found the hotel room and knocked.
Sharon's twin Samantha opened the door. Like her sister, she was always well put together, always fashionably dressed from head to toe. This morning she was disheveled, eschew. She wore no make-up and her eyes were puffy. She was a blonde version of Sharon, long honey-blonde hair. He was used to the short platinum blonde waves that she'd had before. He suspected she was wearing hair extensions—but Sam could afford it.
"Hi Andy." Sam forced a smile but there was no light behind it. Her hug was quick, almost dismissive. Anything more, and she feared that she'd break down. She didn't want to do that, not in front of Rusty, and not in front of Andy.
"Sam, this is Louie Provenza; he's on Sharon's squad."
"Nice to meet you," Sam said. "I've heard a lot about you. Sharon says you keep her on her toes."
Provenza nodded and cleared his throat. "Oh well, you know, someone has to." Provenza engaged Samantha in conversation while Andy went over to Rusty who had risen from the chair where he'd been sitting, e-reader in his hands.
"Hey, kid." He said it like it was a term of endearment.
"Hey."
"Look-what I said earlier about-about the garage door…..I didn't mean it. I don't know which end is up, if it's morning or evening. I'm not handling this well and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. None of this is your fault, Rusty. None of it. Not in any way, shape or form, okay?"
Rusty nodded. With one swift motion, Andy grabbed him and hugged him, patting him on the back. "We're going to find her," Andy whispered to Rusty before he released him.
Erik Korski shuffled into Sharon's room with a tray in one hand and the knife in the other. On the tray was a package of chopped walnuts, an apple, and a bag of Hostess blueberry mini-muffins. A bottle of spring water was tucked under one arm. The food confirmed Sharon's suspicions that they were not in any kind of a residence. She wondered if the place had any kind of a true kitchen and she shuddered to think what she'd find in the bathroom. She also learned another very valuable piece of information. The door locked from the outside, which meant that while Korski was in the room, the door was unlocked.
Erik took Sharon's empty plastic cup from the end table by the bed and replaced it with the bottle of water. He placed the tray on the bed next to her.
"You should eat something," he encouraged her. "How are you settling in?"
Sharon fixed two venomous green-grey eyes on him and didn't answer.
"Oh, Sharon…I know this all must seem strange and overwhelming but in time that will change and you'll learn to like it here. You'll even learn to like me." He chuckled. He had a surprisingly effeminate laugh for such a tall, big man.
Sharon found that her speech came slowly; she still had the odd sensation of feeling as if she were underwater or moving in slow motion and the nausea was still present in her body, like a constant white noise forever in the background. But she could move her head without feeling as if she were going to pass out so that was progress.
"You've threatened my life, hit me, drugged me, held me against my will, and taken me away from all of the people that I love. I will never like being here and I will never like you. If that is your goal in this whole endeavor, you are sadly misguided."
"That is only the secondary goal. I've already accomplished the primary goal."
"What was the primary goal?"
"You sound like a shrink," growled Erik. "Don't fucking try to analyze me. I don't want to talk about me." His voice softened. "Eat, please."
Sharon found his erratic changes in mood disturbing. "I still feel sick to my stomach." But she was incredibly thirsty. She picked up the bottle of water but she struggled to unscrew the cap. Erik took the bottle from her, opened it, and handed it back to her. He seemed pleased with himself.
"I sat with you last night, you know," he smiled. "Watched you sleep. It doesn't have to be unpleasant between us, Sharon. I'll take care of you." He reached a hand out and touched the side of her face. As soon as his fingertips made contact with her skin, Sharon flinched.
He withdrew his hand, slowly. He enjoyed merely looking at her. For now, that was enough. It filled him with pride to think that he'd managed to take her right from under Andrew Flynn's arrogant nose.
Erik rose. "I'll be back in a little while. I'll bring you some books to read. An intelligent woman like you shouldn't be bored."
"You can't possibly think you're going to keep me here indefinitely," Sharon told him coldly.
Erik turned before opening the door. He looked at her handcuffed hands that she held in her lap. He hadn't planned on using handcuffs around her ankles but he was glad that he had taken the precaution. She had fought harder than he had expected in the garage. But he had won. He was heady with the power that he felt. When he had kept Julia it had been mostly through fear and intimidation. He found the physical aspect of overpowering Sharon Raydor strangely intoxicating, a thrill. The news showed no signs that the cops had any clue where she was or who had taken her. He had outsmarted them all.
"I can do whatever I want with you, Sharon, and you'd do well to remember that."
The final click of the door locking echoed through the corridor even after he had left. Sharon forced herself to sit up a little bit more. She took a tiny bite of the apple that he'd brought her and chewed, following it with a tiny sip of water.
If he thought that she was going to be a passive victim, he was very, very wrong. Of course, she was afraid. She would be a fool not to be. The man was obviously deranged and he was dangerous. She was injured and her mobility was severely limited, two very big disadvantages.
But even so, she would not give in without a fight.
Brenda was surprised that she hadn't been asked to leave the crime scene. Finley was right; her being there was not protocol and they were probably breaking a book's worth of rules. While she had no actual jurisdiction or power, she helped by offering suggestions and input. As long as Finley allowed it, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She was standing in Andy's den shuffling through a stack of dossiers that they had pulled on the basis of black Jeeps that had traveled through one of the two major intersections near Andy's house around the estimated time of Sharon's abduction. Brenda was so absorbed in the files that she didn't notice Finley marching toward her.
"Johnson!" he called urgently. Brenda looked up.
"We have something," he said excitedly. "Fingerprints on a piece of lawn furniture outside on the patio. And get this. They belong to one Erik Korski, a man Flynn tried to put away on charges of him kidnapping his own ex-girlfriend...almost twenty years ago. He got off on an insanity plea but he's been in and out of mental hospitals and group homes for the past nineteen years. Until one idiot psychiatrist decided to release him back out into the public almost a year ago. I just called Flynn. He's on his way down to the station. So is the the shrink that signed for Korski's release." Finley swore under his breath. "You're the only one who can handle Flynn so..."
Brenda grabbed her purse. "On my way."
