99 Souls Page 3

  No. Better to keep them to herself. She needed the police to focus on finding her son. Even a minute spent questioning her sanity could make the difference in whether or not he was returned safely.

  “We've got an investigator on the way,” Anthony said when Nick finished. He was young, probably less than a year on the job. He tucked the notebook into his breast pocket. “He’ll want to ask you some more questions.”

  Sarah just nodded and asked Jim for a tea.

  “Sure,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The flashing blue-and-white lights from the police cars outside penetrated her curtains. Dizzying and surreal, they bounced off the living room walls and were reflected in picture frames. Her gaze was drawn to those reflections and, when she saw the pictures, they brought back memories, memories she enjoyed reliving on any day before today. Like that one of a much younger Brandon eating an ice cream cone; it had been his first and his face was lit up with excitement. Or that one of Brandon sledding down the hill during one of Atlanta’s rare snowfalls... She could go on and on. There were so many pictures and so many memories.

  When Jim returned, he put the tea on the glass-top coffee table and sank into the couch beside her. “It’ll be all right.”

  The words sounded hollow, but she appreciated his effort.

  DETECTIVE MARK HAMMOND, who looked unremarkable in just about every way, brought a surveillance team with him. “Wire the phones,” he told them as they entered the house. Still at the door, he turned to Sarah, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  Then he exchanged hushed words with the officers. They nodded and stepped outside. He sat down in the chair Jim had occupied.

  His brown suit clashed with his yellow tie. He was carrying some extra weight around the middle. This man didn’t look like a hero. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at his job, Sarah told herself.

  “I understand this was a snatch and dash.”

  Sarah found the term cold, but she got the idea. “Yeah. He just came in—”

  “Are you his father?” the detective asked Jim.

  “Me? No.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, in a way that sounded judgmental to Sarah. Was he making assumptions about their relationship? she wondered. Then she saw something in his face that said no. That wasn’t it. He was suspicious. But why? Probably because of his job. It wasn’t personal, and she shouldn’t take it as such. He was probably suspicious of everyone. “Where’s the father?”

  “He passed away,” Sarah said meekly.

  “Is there anybody else in your life who might want to lay claim to your boy?”

  “I don’t think so. But what’s the point in asking anyway? I already said I don’t know the man who took him.” After answering so many questions, she was growing impatient.

  “No need to get defensive. I’m tryin’ to help you find your son.” The detective shifted his weight. The springs in the chair softly protested. “Just because you don’t know the guy who took him doesn’t mean you don’t know the guy who wanted him.”

  It was a good point, and Sarah felt bad for snapping at the detective. “I’m sorry. I appreciate your help.”

  “What sort of assets have you got?”

  “Not much. Nothing exceptional. There’s a little equity in the house, maybe fifteen thousand in my 401K.” She shook her head and ran a tissue under her nose. “Another five thousand in savings.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about your family? Any of them wealthy?”

  “No.”

  “You pissed off any co-workers lately?”

  Protesting the detective’s line of questioning, Jim said, “Nobody we work with would—”

  “It’s okay, Jim,” Sarah interrupted.

  “You shouldn’t assume what people are capable of,” Mark Hammond added. Then to Sarah: “What do you do?”

  “I’m a teacher at St. Ives Elementary.”

  “Good school. Think hard, Sarah. Is there anybody at all you might know who has a grudge against you? Don’t think about what they’re capable of. Let me worry about that. Frankly, you don’t have the kind of money that would likely make you a target for strangers.”

  “Then why tap the phones?” asked Jim.

  “Even if it’s not financially motivated, we could get a call. So, anyone?”

  “No,” Sarah said. “Not that I can think of.”

  “You have a babysitter, right?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s an honor student at her school. She wouldn’t—”

  “I told you to let me worry about that.”

  Sarah knew she should respect his position on the matter, but she had her own theory about who had taken Brandon and decided that now was as good a time as any to tell the detective. The sooner the better, actually. If she was right, then he needed to start looking into it right away.

  The idea was terrifying. It had all but ripped her to pieces when it had first occurred to her on Peachtree Street. She leaned forward on the couch and asked in a whisper, as if afraid to hear her own question and the avenues to which it might lead, “Detective Hammond, do you think this could have anything to do with the ‘God is Blind’ murders?”

  “There are almost a million kidnappings a year,” said Mark. “So far, only twenty-seven deaths in the U.S. can be tied to the person or people behind that killing spree. So, it’s not likely. Either way, though, we should focus on what we know. If he’s been taken by them, it’s still our best chance of finding him.”

  “I understand,” she said, getting back in line. But she had a nagging feeling he was wrong.

  “So, what’s the babysitter’s name?”

  “Megan. Megan Bellows.”

  “Can you tell me her address and phone number?”

  She rattled off the phone number, then said the address was in her cell phone as she nodded toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll get it,” Jim said, and left the room for the second time.

  While he was away, the detective asked, “Ms. Winslow, did anyone else see this man run off with your son?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll talk to the neighbors, just in case.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then Jim returned. He handed Sarah the phone and sat back down.

  She scrolled through her contact list. “Here it is.” She gave the phone to the detective.

  Mark pulled a pen and a small notepad from his coat pocket and wrote the information down. When he was done, he placed the cell phone on the coffee table. Then he proceeded to ask her many of the same questions the uniformed officers already had.

  When he was done, a heavy silence passed between the three of them, uncomfortable and pregnant with meaning, during which the detective seemed to study Sarah. Finally, he wrinkled his nose like he smelled something bad and asked, “Is it hard? Raising a young boy all by yourself on a teacher’s salary?”

  Was he just asking to see how she’d respond? Or was that look of suspicion she’d seen on his face earlier more meaningful than she’d thought?

  Remembering stories she’d seen on the news, she thought of Abarrane Gomez, who took the life of her five-week-old daughter. She thought of Tabitha Bell, who slaughtered her three boys, ages two through eight. If Sarah had been a killer, she wouldn’t have been the first mother to take her child’s life, and he probably knew that. Weren’t those closest to the victim always the first suspects?

  “You must not have children,” Sarah said, “because it’s not hard when you love your child.”

  The detective studied her a little longer and frowned in response.

  What was going on in his head? To hell with it. She’d had enough of these questions. As far as she could tell, Hammond was wasting time asking them. Sarah stood and headed for the hall. “Are we done here? Because you need to get busy finding my son and I need to go take
a shower.” Although she did want to wash away her tears and her sweat, she mostly wanted to get away from Mark and his veiled accusations.

  “Before you go...”

  Sarah turned, all her anger and worry wrapped up into a penetrating glare.

  “Do you mind if I poke around a little bit? Maybe we can turn something up that would help us.”

  “Of course not. I want you to do whatever you have to do to find him.” Then she charged into her bedroom and slammed the door.

  Chapter 5

  THE BATHROOM WAS A SMALL, bright space that hurt Sarah’s eyes. Gleaming chrome towel racks and fixtures. A sparkling porcelain sink and tub. White tiles. White shower curtains. It was a sanctuary that Sarah escaped into as part of her morning ritual, a place where she could think and relax as the hot water of her shower eased her into her day.

  Perhaps that’s why she went to it now. Maybe more than she wanted to wash away the sweat and the tears, maybe even more than she wanted to escape Mark Hammond, she wanted to capture of a small piece of the calmness her morning ritual normally brought her. But all her emotions were so knotted up with each other, she couldn’t say for sure.

  Either way, this time the room felt all wrong. The brightness and cleanliness and normality of it made her feel as if she’d stepped into another world, one where Brandon hadn’t been taken. With the fan on, she couldn’t even hear the hustle and bustle of officers in her house. That normality was almost unbearable. It seemed like an affront to her crumbling internal world. Could she really stay here, in this uncomfortably ordinary space, and do something as mundane as take a shower? Shouldn't she be calling neighbors and friends and asking them for their help? But what good would that really do? Surely Hammond would interview the neighbors, and calling her friends might get her some unwanted sympathy, but nothing more.

  There was a knock on the door. “Sarah,” said Jim, “are you decent?”

  “Yes.” She hadn’t even put down the faded green tee shirt and pair of jeans she’d brought to change into, let alone gotten undressed.

  He opened the door and offered her the wireless phone from the kitchen. “The detective asked me to give you this in case anyone calls about Brandon.”

  She put the clothes on top of the toilet and accepted the phone. “Thanks, Jim.”

  “Sure,” he said. Then, once he decided she wasn’t going to lash out at him, he added, “Just so you know, I’ll be here if you need me. If anyone calls, throw a towel on and come out.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  He took a step back and closed the door.

  Alone again, Sarah looked at the phone in her hand. Holding it made her feel helpless, so she put it down on the Formica countertop by the sink and turned away from it as she undressed. She would take that shower after all. It wouldn’t bring her any closer to finding her son, but returning to the living room and sitting worriedly on the couch wouldn’t either. Regardless of how normal, and thus wrong, the room felt, at least this was something she could do.

  Action is action, she thought to herself, remembering a line from a song she couldn’t name and deciding that, while the line itself was meaningless, it nonetheless seemed appropriate.

  AS MARK STEPPED OUT THE front door to address the officers on the porch, he pulled a pack of Nicorette gum from his pocket and stuck a piece in his mouth. Chewing it was not as rewarding as the long drag and slow exhale from a Marlboro Red, but barely a week ago his wife had zoned their house no-smoking and had been nagging him to quit ever since. Some daytime Martha-Stewart-Oprah-bandwagon talk show had gotten her on a health kick. Damn television.

  Before closing the door, he glanced back at Jim, who was perched on the arm of the chair, wringing his hands.

  “Give me your notes,” he said to the pair of officers who had previously questioned Sarah. He didn’t expect the notes to reveal anything useful, but he liked his case files complete.

  The young officer handed over a notepad.

  Mark’s lips soured at the taste of the gum as he rolled it over his tongue. “All right, go talk to the neighbors and see if anyone saw anything.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “You’ll know it when you hear it. Make sure you find out what they think about Ms. Winslow while you’re out there.”

  The officers turned and walked away. As Mark pulled his cell phone from his pocket, the older one asked over his shoulder: “But, isn’t she the victim?”

  “That boy’s the victim.”

  Once they were gone, Mark dialed a number. “Where are you, Les?”

  Leslie Armstrong had gone by “Les” since she was a little girl. She’d always wanted to be a cop. “Les” sounded tougher than “Leslie,” she thought. As a little girl, she believed she’d need a tough name when taking on bad guys. By the time she was old enough to know it didn’t matter, the name had already stuck.

  Les wasn’t a smoker and never had been. As Mark’s partner, she applauded his efforts to quit, even if the decision had been thrust upon him.

  Mark could hear wind and traffic through the phone and knew even before she spoke that she was on her way, which is exactly what she told him.

  “Don’t come here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I want you to go see if Sarah’s babysitter knows anything. Her name is Megan Bellows.”

  Les already understood the big picture from Mark’s summary of the 911 call, so she didn’t need any further clarification. “Okay.”

  Neither of them was thrilled about starting a case at this hour. Les had already gone home and they both had other plans for the evening. Les intended to spend it with her family, Mark with a beer. But that wasn’t the way this job worked.

  After giving her the address, Mark added, “I don’t expect much, but let me know what you find out.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He ended the call and slipped his cell phone back into his pocket as he spit the gum into the yard.

  BY THE TIME SARAH WAS DONE with her shower, she’d found the small piece of calm she’d been looking for and a sense of control she hadn’t had since her son had been taken.

  She dressed and exited the bathroom, carrying the handset with her. From the end of the hall, she could hear voices and saw through the living room windows that Detective Hammond was on his cell phone. He paced the short stone path that led to her front door.

  He’d certainly be back inside soon. Not yet ready to face him, Sarah went into Brandon’s bedroom. She felt once more like she might break down into tears as she gazed at the bedspread, which was still a mess from where her son had slept. The clothes he’d worn earlier in the day had been discarded on the floor — how many times had she told him to put them in the hamper? On a table in the corner sat a teen chemistry kit that should have been too advanced for him, but was, in fact, barely advanced enough for him to find its experiments interesting. Next to that, lay an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Totaling seven-hundred-and-fifty pieces, it was over halfway done.

  She thought back on the attack and wondered if she really had done everything she could to protect her son. She should have grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stabbed that sonofabitch as soon as he broke down the door. She should have bitten and scratched—

  But there was that light. That awful, strange light that seemed to come from the intruder’s very being...

  Chapter 6

  THAT LIGHT HAD BEEN REAL. She was finally ready to admit that to herself. Just like that sense of déjà vu had been. They weren’t here imagination at work. Even if she could still pretend the former was (which she couldn’t), he had called her by name. She hasn’t imagined that.

  But those weren’t the only things that made the encounter strange. She remembered how he tossed her down the hall as if she weighed almost nothing. And what about how he disappeared into the night with her son?

  Her mouth went dry as the word echoed around in her head—Disappeared. Disappeared. Disappeared. Disappeared.—and all those thoughts to
gether led her to a conclusion that was both inevitable and terrifying.

  Nobody was going to call demanding a ransom. Brandon hadn’t been taken in exchange for cash. Whoever had taken him wasn’t...

  She could barely even say the word to herself.

  Whoever had taken him wasn’t...

  She swallowed hard.

  Human.

  As absurd as that sounded, even to her, she was sure it was true. And just as A leads to B leads to C, she knew it’s motives would likewise be inhuman. As these realizations sank in, the world around her seemed to expand. She had believed in ghosts and God since she was a child. An exploration of the fire-ravaged Victorian house in her neighborhood with her best friend Alicia McDarment one summer vacation had cemented in her mind the existence of phantoms. (Okay, they were kids, but she was still sure she had seen something in that mirror that wasn’t there.) Her family’s weekly attendance at Sunday church had done the same for religion. But this was different. She hadn’t come across anything like it. Not in movies. Not in books.

  She wished Alicia was here now. She needed someone to talk to, someone who would believe her. She wasn’t sure any of her other friends would. But she and Alicia had lost contact in high school when Alicia’s family moved up to Chicago. And so, in this, she was alone.

  Well, not completely alone. There was Jim. He cared about her. He was here. Despite his pragmatic nature, maybe, just maybe, he would believe her. Hell, she had to try.

  “Jim,” she called out, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

  While she waited for him, her eyes fell to the ruffled bedspread. There were so many mornings she come into this room and found it just that way. Every time she did, she’d called Brandon over and told him to make it. He was always “just about to, honest,” even on those mornings when he had one foot out the door. Not tomorrow, though. He wouldn’t make it tomorrow, and—she tried not to think it, but couldn’t help herself—he might not ever make it again.