Chapter 16

  

As I walked back from the committee meeting, the same argument bounced around my tired brain. We needed more time than the provost had given us. No matter what, we couldn’t discourage survivors from reporting crimes committed against them. That sort of suppression had gone on for much too long, and in too many cases, had cost good people years of sleepless nights and injured marriages.

Nor could we rush into a policy that denied the accused any chance of self-defense. Even if, most of the time, the survivors were truthful, we couldn’t foreclose the possibility that someone could be framed.

We needed more time. But we couldn’t wait too long. We had already waited too long.

  

Three people greeted me in my office.

“Wynan and I have decided to take you two hard-working women to dinner.” Joe kissed my cheek and Wynan and Nell stood together off to one side. Wynan nodded, his handsome features softened with a slight smile.

I think that was the first time I had seen him smile. I credited Nell for that. In contrast, Nell looked serious and gave me a wan grin as if to say she was making an effort to enjoy the idea of dinner.

“Great. Where are we going?” I said, still eyeing Nell who seemed miles away.

“We thought we’d try that new restaurant down the street from your house,” said Joe.

“Good thought. We’ll leave the cars at my house and walk. I could use a stretch.”

“So could I,” said Nell, still looking dismal.

On the way, Nell and I walked together with Joe and Wynan behind us. I wanted to find out what was bothering her.

“Oh, this afternoon I had a bit of a run-in with George Weinstein,” she said. “He may be a senior tenured professor, but he always gives me heartburn.”

“Tell me about it. What was today’s problem?” I said, hoping it would be minor, but, judging by Nell’s demeanor, knowing it was not.

“First, he was angry because you were away at that meeting. And second he wanted me to give him a copy of Larry Coleman’s paper. The one Larry told you about. I gather George hadn’t read it, but today he wanted it.”

“Do you have that paper?”

“Yes. Larry gave me a copy for his personnel file. But I told George he should ask Larry. I don’t feel comfortable giving out professor’s stuff from their file.”

“And George was annoyed?”

“Annoyed hardly covers it. I got a ten-minute harangue on how my obligations were to the school and the entire faculty, not just the dean, and how my withholding Coleman’s paper was ‘way out of line,’ as he put it. I’m sure you’ll get an earful tomorrow.”

I felt my neck get warm. Damn George. Pompous, self-important George.

“I’ll deal with that bastard tomorrow. You are the assistant to the dean, Nell, and you don’t have to take that kind of crap from George or any of them.”

Nell patted my arm. “I know. My first responsibility is to you, and believe me, I like it that way.”

The restaurant was cool after the walk and several tables were already filled. Good sign.

We were seated in the back where we could talk, “privately,” as Joe had said to the hostess. We ordered drinks. No one spoke.

“Any word on that gray van?” asked Nell finally. I guessed Wynan had told her everything.

“I’m waiting for a report on the DMV search,” said Joe. “Maybe later this evening.”

We fell silent again until the waitress returned. We ordered food. Not much for any of us—salad and small plates. No strong appetites at the table. We fell silent again after the food arrived.

“It’s been too many days,” said Wynan, putting down his fork and taking a gulp of wine.

“That’s just conventional cop thinking,” said Joe. “Jamie could still be okay, even if she’s confined and can’t reach you.”

“You and I both know better. The longer a girl’s missing, the more likely she’s dead.”

“Oh. Surely not.” Nell’s hand was on his.

“Do you want to bring in the FBI? We can try that. Even without a ransom note or witnesses, we could ask for their help. My team has searched the area pretty thoroughly. At the very least, I can put out the Missing Persons and we all can start putting up posters.”

Wynan sighed. “I probably should have asked for all that sooner. But when the FBI comes in, they’ll take over and keep me out of the deal. That’ll drive me crazy.”

Joe’s cell phone buzzed and he took the call. “Right. We’ll be there in ten.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “That was my guy checking the DMV. He thinks he has a match for the partial plate and an old gray Ford van.”

“Go,” Nell and I said simultaneously.

  

Later, Nell and I waited in my living room. “I can’t go home without knowing,” she said.

“Then keep me company. I could use it.” I walked into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Nell followed and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “As long as we don’t talk about George and Larry. God, I am sick of the two of them.”

“Agreed. How about we talk about you and Wynan Congers?”

Nell blushed. “I haven’t had feelings like this for a long time. It’s a little dizzying.”

“But good?”

“Yes. Very good.” Nell glanced out the window. “After my husband died, I thought I would go to my grave without ever meeting another man who interested me.” Her gaze returned to me. “Thanks for being my friend as well as my boss. It’s good to have someone to talk to.”

Charlie left his spot by the kitchen door and went over to Nell. He put his head on her knee and she accepted his invitation to stroke his soft fur. “I used to have a dog like you,” Nell said to Charlie, who responded by licking her wrist. “I should get another one.”

“When it comes to love, dogs are even more reliable than men.”

“I know,” she said, scratching Charlie’s chest fur. “But being with a good man makes life ever so much richer. Don’t you think so?”

My chest tightened. “I do.”

  

Joe and Wynan came in a little after ten o’clock. Joe kept his jacket on and shoved his hands in his pockets. His green eyes were serious and his jaw was set. Wynan looked more tired than ever and barely made it into in a chair.

“The van was registered to an old ranch hand who lives in an apartment a few miles from here,” Joe said. “He didn’t like the two of us bothering him at night, and at first, didn’t respond to questions with more than a monosyllable. But Wynan charmed him and he agreed to show us the shed where he had kept the van.”

“Had kept?”

“Yep. He says he sold it for cash last month to some guy he described as white, tall, wearing work boots and jeans.”

“Our suspect,” said Wynan, breathing heavily. His shoulders came forward, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. Nell got up and went over and put her hands on his shoulders that were visibly shaking.

“Joe, did you get a name for the guy who bought the van?”

“No. The suspect paid cash when he bought the van from the old ranch hand. We checked and the van hasn’t shown up again on the DMV records, so that means he never registered it. We figure the man bought the van for some secret purpose and never intended to have it found.”

“Do you think the old ranch hand you interviewed is colluding with the man in the boots?”

Wynan shook his head. “We don’t think so. Once he realized we were investigating a possible kidnapping, he seemed perfectly willing to tell us as much as he could remember about the suspect and the van. He said the man looked like he might have been a member of a family called Lassiter. The old man said his late aunt had been friends with a Lassiter family years ago. She used to go to revival meetings out in the boonies somewhere, and one of the Lassiters would drive her to and from. The old ranch hand said the man who purchased his van had looked like that driver. So we have just spent an hour checking county computer records for anyone named Lassiter. Nothing.”

I didn’t like the look on Joe’s face.

  

Jamie

  

Jamie awoke and heard her bedroom door open earlier than usual. It was still dark out. Her whole body tensed.

“Get up,” said the man. “I have to leave early today.”

She dressed hurriedly, and just as she was about to leave the room, picked up the leather journal and tucked it under her arm.

She placed the journal next to where she sat for breakfast and went to the refrigerator, pulling out eggs and milk and butter.

“Have you been reading it?” He sat at his place, watching her put the food on the counter.

“It’s interesting. Who wrote it?” She cracked eggs into a bowl and tried to sound casual.

“My grandmother. What’s interesting?”

“Her handwriting is beautiful, but her thinking seems very old-fashioned. More like something from the nineteenth century than even the early twentieth. And, of course, her sentiments wouldn’t work at all today.”

He coughed and remained silent for a moment. “That’s the problem with women of your generation. You have no respect for the values we used to hold sacred.”

“Like slavish obedience to men?”

“I wouldn’t call it slavish.”

“I would. That’s what I am now. Your slave.” She turned from the stove and faced him, her hands on her hips. “I’m even the appropriate color, aren’t I?”

She could see the redness rising from his shirt up to his chin. He was breathing heavily and his fingers curled into fists. Oh, God. She had gone too far. But she realized some of her fear had been overcome by anger. She had to try, she had to challenge this man, she had to know more about his thinking so she would have a better shot at persuading him to let her out of his awful house. If he turned out to be insane, then she had to know that.

The man seemed to be struggling for self-control. At length he looked up at her. His voice was hoarse and his face gleamed. “I’m not a racist. My stepmother was African-American and I loved her.”

She turned back to the stove and poured the egg mixture into a skillet. Neither of them spoke. She served the food and sat quietly across from him. He ate without looking at her.

She tried again. “You may not be a racist, but you are an enslaver. You lock me up every day, you force me to work for you against my will and with no compensation.”

“I don’t mean to enslave you.”

“Then let me go. Unlock the door.”

He stood up and walked away from her and stood with his back to her facing the barred kitchen window. The sun was up and the light played against his hair, illuminating the gray strands among the brown. “I can’t let you go. You’ll…you’ll leave me.” His voice choked on the last phrase.

Perhaps he was not going to use physical force, but neither was he going to free her. He wanted her. For what? Sex, perhaps. More than that. Submission. He wanted her to want him, to want to be with him, to want to obey him. And as she stared at the back of his bowed head and his broad heaving shoulders, her anger turned to a new kind of fear returning to the pit of her stomach. He wanted her to be his for a long time.

He remained facing the window while she washed the breakfast dishes and scrubbed the sink. She was tempted to continue to force the issue, to demand he realize what he wanted was impossible. She lifted a plate and held it suspended over the tile counter. She was angry and wanted him to know exactly how angry she was. She prepared to smash the plate when she felt him standing behind her, his chest pressed against her back. She could feel the heat from his body. Oh, God, she thought, I’ve misjudged. He is going for me now. She started to pull away, but he grabbed both her arms from behind and held her against him. His voice was very soft behind her ear. “I will leave your bedroom door unlocked today so you can go into other rooms.”

He stepped away and she turned. His eyes were piercing but his voice stayed soft. “You must stop resisting and learn to accept this house as your home. This is where you belong.”

The plate fell from her hand and clattered to the floor, but did not break. He stooped and picked it up and handed it to her. “If you make any effort to escape or tamper with the locks, I will have to confine you to your room again.”

That was his plan. If she didn’t escape him, or defeat him, she would be in his house for years.