The low rumble stopped and then started again. Cathy paused in her work this time. The sound seemed suddenly close. Perhaps it wasn't simply that the basement was warm, perhaps it was nerves. But then again the rental house was always full of strange noises, especially when her sister was home.
A flight attendant for Alaska Air, Kira came and went at all hours, for days at a time on an unpredictable schedule that Cathy could neither understand nor attempt to track.
Footsteps overhead. . . .
At first Cathy simply glanced up toward the floor joists wondering what Kira had forgotten this time—she had left the house only a few minutes earlier, rushing off somewhere, yelling down into the basement that she was borrowing the car if that was all right. She hadn't waited for an answer. Late again.
Cathy translated another sentence—Her unbridled passion sought escape—before another squeak in the overhead floorboards once again attracted her attention.
This time it didn't sound like her sister. Her sister didn't move that slowly. Not ever, especially not when she was late, and she was always late.
A third careful step overheard. A mixture of curiosity and fear unsettled her. The telephone's in-use light indicated the phone was busy. Cathy felt relief wash over her. It was her sister, after all. Clearly, she had returned home to make a phone call. Cathy sat back down at the computer. But she couldn't concentrate. Something just didn't feel right.
She felt restless with it, a fire smoldering inside her.
Her fingers hesitated above the keys, her eyes drift
ing over to the telephone's in-use light. It continued to flash. When the footsteps started up again, left to right, directly overhead, the pit in her stomach became a stone. The kitchen phone was a wall phone, not a wireless walk-around. How could it be in use at the same time someone was walking around?
The stairs signaled both the direction of movement and the fact that the person up there was heavier than either she or her sister. They normally didn't make noise.
She thought about calling out, just shouting, "Who's up there?" but she was afraid of giving herself away, letting the intruder know she was at home. She was now allowing herself to think there could be an intruder. The previous night's late news report began to cloud her thoughts. A policewoman had been attacked in her own home. A policewoman!
She lifted the phone's receiver to eavesdrop. She heard no one—only the hissing silence of an open line, ominous and frightful. "Hello?" she tested in a whisper. No one answered. Cathy Kawamoto fought back panic. She quietly climbed the basement stairs. She could hear her unannounced visitor ascend the stairs directly overhead. The footfalls were strangely tentative, cautious, and she could only conclude that someone was trying hard not to be heard.
She climbed and reached the kitchen, first looking to the phone to see if by some chance it was off the hook. It was in place, and her alarm heightened. She could see now that her sister's purse was not hanging by its strap over the ladder-back kitchen chair, in its usual place. Kira was not at home.
She felt a tightness in her chest. She desperately wanted to announce herself, but this was tempered by her recollection of the policewoman news: She wasn't going to volunteer herself. On the other hand, she had trouble thinking of herself as a victim. Other people ended up on the evening news, not her. Other people's lives went to hell in a handbasket. This couldn't be happening to her.
"Hello?" she finally called out softly, unable to bear it any longer. "Kira?" With her inquiry, the noises upstairs stopped. Cathy moved involuntarily toward the staircase, a decision she would find so difficult to explain later on.
She reached the top of the stairs, adrenaline surging through her system. She glanced down the hall. Back down the stairs. She felt cornered and yet exposed. The stairs suddenly seemed so incredibly long.
No sounds whatsoever. Panic seeped in and took hold. She attempted to run, but instead she froze with fear. The assault on the news had been of a single woman living in a relatively affluent community. What if this was a pattern?
Her mouth fell open to scream. No sound came out. Her chest now fully paralyzed by fright.
Where the intruder came from, she wasn't sure. He seemed to materialize in front of her—a blur of dark color and tremendous speed. She felt an aching blow in the center of her chest, right where that knot had been. She flew through the air, limbs flailing, down to the open stairs. Landing on her back, she slid and tumbled head over heels, her skull catching the wooden treads and feeling like someone was clubbing her. Pain owned her. A thick haze consumed her and drew her down toward unconsciousness. She hit hard on the landing. That same dark shape flew over her. He grazed the wall. Her crotch ran warm with pee.
The shooting pain would not release her. Her fear was unforgiving. A cold, impenetrable darkness, devoid of light and sound.
Please, God, no! was Cathy Kawamoto's last conscious thought.
C H A P T E R
6
"Who's this?" said the sorry-looking, trash-talking white kid with the shaved head and a dragon tattoo under his left ear.
Boldt wasn't used to anyone else's interrogation rooms. The North Precinct had a brick-and-mortar quality that reminded Boldt of a converted ice house, when in fact it had formerly been an elementary school. Daphne had joined him not only because she was vital to any interrogation, but because some of the answers, if forthcoming, pertained directly to her case: Maria Sanchez.
Boldt stared at the kid's handcuffs, knowing these were just the first domino in a long chain of lost freedoms. He saw no need to explain himself to the suspect, to dignify the questions of a confessed rapist. But Daphne's assessment was clearly different, for she answered the kid immediately.
"This is the detective who discovered Leanne Carmichael in the basement where you left her. Alone. Malnourished. A hole cut into the crotch of her pants through which you repeatedly raped her. The man who untied the shoelaces from her wrists and ankles. The man who dealt with the urine and defecation before the ambulance arrived. Who dealt with the frozen-eyed terror of a little girl who went out to pick up the barbecued chicken, and never came home."
"Ruby slippers went out a long time ago, honey," the kid said, eyes and lips shiny wet. He wore a small silver ring pierced through his left eyebrow. Daphne wondered if Leanne Carmichael might recall that ring.
Boldt edged closer to the table where the kid sat, an ominous aura about him—his rage barely concealed. The kid wanted to pretend he wasn't bothered by the man, but his glassy eyes flicked in Boldt's direction repeatedly, like a nervous driver checking the rearview mirror.