"Yes, that's right," Sam said irritably. This kid was a know-it-all. But he was only trying to be helpful, so Sam was inclined to cut him some slack.
"I'll be happy to continue to keep my ear to the ground for you," Jake said, his voice now cheerful. The thought that Laura Wilcox might be in danger and that he was assisting the investigation to locate her filled him with a feeling of importance.
"Do that," Sam said, then reluctantly added, "and thanks, Jake."
Sam pushed the end button on his phone, sat up, and swung his legs out of the bed. He knew that at least for the next few hours there was no question of sleep. He had to let Jean know that Laura had been in contact with the hotel, and he had to get an order from a judge to look at the hotel's telephone records. He knew that the Glen-Ridge had caller ID. When he got the phone number, he would subpoena the phone company to find out the name of the subscriber and the locale of the antenna that had carried the call.
Judge Hagen in Goshen was probably the nearest judge in Orange County authorized to issue the order. As he dialed the district attorney's office to get Hagen 's phone number, Sam realized it was some measure of the level of his own unease about Laura that he was now planning to disturb the sleep of a notoriously cantankerous judge rather than wait until morning to start trying to trace the missing woman.
39
Jean had set the volume of her cell phone at the highest level, afraid that when she went to bed she might miss a call. Sam had suggested that whoever was contacting her about Lily might go one step further and call her. "Hang on to the idea that this may be all about money," he said. "Somebody wants you to believe that Lily is in danger. Let's hope his next move might be to speak to you. If he does, we can trace the call."
He had managed to calm her down somewhat. "Jean, if you let yourself get paralyzed with worry, you're going to be your own worst enemy. You tell me that you confided to no one that you had a baby and that in Chicago you were known by your mother's maiden name. But somebody found out nonetheless, and that may have happened recently or it may have happened nineteen and a half years ago when the baby was born. Who knows? You've got to help yourself now. Try to remember if you saw anyone in Dr. Connors' office when you consulted him, maybe a nurse or secretary who figured out why you were there and who was nosey enough to find out where your baby was taken. Don't forget, you've become a celebrity now, with your best-selling book. Your new contract with your publisher was brought up during your interviews. My bet is that somebody who has access to Lily has decided to blackmail you by threatening her. I'll go to see the pastor of St. Thomas in the morning, and you start making a list of anyone you got friendly with at that time, especially anyone who might have had access to your records."
Sam's calm reasoning had the effect of snapping Jean's growing panic. After she said good-bye to him, she sat at the desk with a pen and notepad and wrote on the first page: DR. CONNORS' OFFICE.
His nurse had been a cheerful heavyset woman of about fifty, she remembered. Peggy. That was her name. Her last name was Irish and began with a K. Kelly… Kennedy… Keegan… It will come to me, I know it will, she thought.
It was a beginning.
The sharp ring of her cell phone made her jump. She glanced at the clock as she picked it up. It was almost eleven. Laura, she thought. Maybe she's come back.
Sam's message that Laura had called the desk clerk should have been reassuring, but Jean heard the concern in his voice. "You're not sure that she's all right, are you?" she asked.
"Not yet, but at least she did call."
Which means that she's still alive, Jean thought. That's what he's saying. She chose her words carefully. "Do you think that for some reason Laura may not be able to come back here?"
"Jean, I meant for this call to reassure you about Laura, but I guess I'd better level with you. The fact is that two people who heard the call have confirmed that she sounded distressed. Laura and you are the only two lunch table girls still alive. Until we know exactly where she is and who she's with, you've got to be very, very careful."
40
She knew he was going to kill her. It was only a question of when. Incredibly, after he left, she had fallen asleep. Light was flickering through the closed blinds, so it must be morning. Is it Monday or Tuesday? Laura wondered as she tried not to become fully awake.
Saturday night when they'd gotten here, he had poured champagne for them and toasted her. Then he'd said, "Halloween is coming soon. Want to see the mask I bought?"
He was wearing the face of an owl, each enlarged eye with a wide black pupil set in a sickly yellow iris, and edged with tufts of grayish down that darkened into deep brown around the pointed beak and narrow mouth. I laughed, Laura remembered, because I thought that was what he was expecting. But I could sense then that something had happened to him-he had changed. Even before he took off the mask and grabbed my hands, I knew I was trapped.
He dragged her upstairs, tied her wrists and her ankles together, and covered her mouth with a gag, being careful to leave it loose enough to be sure she didn't choke. Then he tied a rope across her waist and fastened it to the frame of the bed. "Did you ever read Mommie Dearest?" he'd asked. "Joan Crawford used to tie her kids to the bed to make sure they didn't get up at night. She called it 'safe sleep.' "
Then he'd made her begin to recite the line about the owl in the tree, the line from that grade school play. Over and over again he made her say it, and then he made her imitate the girls at the lunch table, laughing at him. And each time, she could see the murderous anger building in his eyes. "You all laughed at me," he said. "I despise you, Laura. The sight of you revolts me."
When he left her, he deliberately put his cell phone on the top of the dresser. "Just think, Laura. If you could reach this phone, you could call for help. But don't do it. The cords will tighten if you try to open them. Take my word for it."
She had tried anyway, and now her wrists and ankles were throbbing with pain. Her mouth was parched. Laura tried to moisten her lips. Her tongue touched the rough cloth of the sock he had taped over her mouth, and she felt bile rise in her throat. If she got sick, she would choke. Oh, God, please help me, she thought, panicking as she fought back the wave of nausea.
The first time he reappeared, there was some light in the room. It must have been Sunday afternoon, she figured. He untied my wrists and gave me soup and a roll. And he let me go to the bathroom. Then he came back a long time later. It was so dark, it must have been night. That was when he had me make the phone call. Why is he doing this to me? Why doesn't he just kill me and get it over with?
Her head was clearing. As she tried to move her wrists and ankles, the dull throbbing became intense pain. Saturday night. Sunday morning. Sunday night. It had to be Monday morning now. She stared at the cell phone. There was no way she could reach it. If he let her call anyone again, should she try to shout his name?
She could imagine the pillow muffling the sound before it escaped her throat, imagine the pillow pressing over her nostrils and mouth, choking life from her. I can't, Laura thought. I can't. Maybe if I don't upset him, someone will realize that I may be in trouble and try to find me. They can trace calls from cell phones. I know they can. They can find out who owns his phone.
That hope was the only chance she had, but it gave her the faintest trickle of relief. Jean, she thought. He intends to kill her, too. They say people can project thoughts. I'm going to try to send mine to Jean. She closed her eyes and imagined Jean as she had looked at the dinner, dressed in her royal blue evening gown. Moving her lips under the tape, she began to say his name aloud. "Jean, I'm with him. He killed the other girls. He's going to kill us. Help me, Jean. I'm in my old house. Find me, Jean!" Over and over she whispered his name.