Runyon told him. “I can be in the office in twenty minutes.”
“Come ahead. First thing is for you to take a crack at her computer. Then we’ll see.”
“On my way.”
Runyon pulled out into traffic again. He hadn’t let himself think much about Tamara while he was working on the gay bashings. Not because he wasn’t concerned; he liked the woman, respected her, shared a professional bond. Because he’d learned long ago that the only way to do a job right was to concentrate on it-one thing at a time; and because Bill was calling the shots on her unexplained absence. Now that he was needed on that, he quit thinking about Troy and Tommy Douglass and focused on Tamara. Priority. When one of your own was in trouble and there was something you could do about it, you back-burnered everything else.
16
TAMARA
The interior of Lemoyne’s SUV was like a prison cell.
No, not like one-it was a prison cell. Not much larger than the closet in his basement room, not much smaller than the room itself. He’d taken out the rear seats, fixed the hatchback door so it couldn’t be opened from inside, walled off the rear compartment from the front seat with a thick sheet of tinted plastic bolted to the frame. Windows were all tinted; you could see out-everything outside had a faint grayish tinge, the way they said things did for cats-but nobody could see in.
Lauren wasn’t the first little girl he’d kidnapped. For damn sure now.
The floor in there was carpeted and he’d unrolled a couple of cheap, thin futons over it. Real thoughtful. Wasn’t anything else in the cell except her and Lauren and the big white-faced, pink-dressed doll he’d made Lauren take along; she still wouldn’t have anything to do with it, kicked at it whenever it rolled over her way. No matter how much Tamara tried to keep herself and Lauren braced, the two of them kept sliding around like the doll on those skinny futons. She kept a tight hold on the kid so she wouldn’t hurt herself banging into metal and glass whenever the SUV swerved or hit a bump.
Where were they now? Still on Highway 80, somewhere up around Sacramento. She’d been up here a few times with the folks and once with Horace, but not recently; had to keep checking road signs to pinpoint their location. City girl, San Francisco girl. Scared girl.
So far Lemoyne hadn’t hurt her. Thought he was going to when he ripped open that closet door last night, but all he’d done was shake her a few times, get in her face, and yell questions at her. How’d she find out about him? Who else knew about him and Angie? That damn printout in her purse. Stupid not to’ve left it in the office. One more stupid thing she’d done or hadn’t done.
She’d ’fessed up the truth about seeing him bring the girl home with him Monday night. No gain in lying about that. Rest of what she threw at him was pure lie: she’d told her partner all about it, if she turned up missing he’d go straight to the cops and the cops’d come straight to 1109 Willard. Lemoyne hadn’t bought it. “If your partner knew about this, he wouldn’t’ve let you come back here alone. Nobody knows but you.” Sick bastard, but a smart sick bastard.
He calmed down some after that. Hadn’t even shoved her back in the closet when he was done ragging on her. “You spend the night in here with Angie. Take care of her, I don’t want her crying or wetting herself anymore.”
“Then what?”
“We’re leaving in the morning, early, the three of us.”
“Where’re we going?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
“Trailer in the woods?”
That almost set him off again. “How’d you find out about that? What do you know about that?”
“Lauren… Angie told me. Said you were taking her up there to show her a big surprise, have some fun.”
“Angie and me’ll have fun. Not you.”
“What you gonna do to me?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t made up my mind.”
This morning, when he came down to get them-six-fifteen by her watch, still dark outside-he hadn’t looked in the closet. She’d shut the door, but worried the whole time she was awake that he’d think to look in there. If he had… But he hadn’t. Just took them out at gunpoint and locked them in this rolling prison cell and headed out. Small hope anyway. One of the other small hopes she’d had was already dead: before he’d shoved them into the SUV, she had a look at the street and the Toyota wasn’t there anymore, he must’ve moved it out of the neighborhood sometime during the night. The small hopes that were left wouldn’t fit in a gnat’s eye. But any hope was something to hang on to, like a lifeline.
The SUV lurched again and Lauren grabbed hold of her blouse, pressed tight against her the way she had on the bed last night. Couldn’t get close enough. Funny how that little girl made her feel. She’d never thought much about kids, beyond a vague notion that if she and Horace ever got married, maybe they’d have one or two someday, like maybe after she was thirty-five. Too much ambition, too many plans, to dive into motherhood before then. But last night, today, holding Lauren, trying to comfort her… it’d unleashed maternal feelings she hadn’t thought she owned. Now she understood how Bill felt about Emily. Really understood, for the first time, how Ma and Pop felt about her.
Amazing thing was, her mothering instincts must be true because Lauren trusted her, took strength from her even though she was a stranger. Hadn’t wet the bed or thrown up or cried much in the dark hours; hadn’t cried at all the whole time they were on the road. Just sat there quiet, hanging on and now and then looking up at her with those big trusting eyes. Didn’t look too good now, though. Kind of sweaty and splotchy. Carsick? The way they kept bouncing around in here, it was a wonder she wasn’t carsick herself.
Surrogate mama, that’s me, Tamara thought, and tightened her arm around the girl, felt little shivers rippling across the thin shoulders. Anger crawled into her again, bleak and black.
He’s not gonna mess with her if I can help it. Word. He’ll have to kill me first.
Freeway signs slid past, gray-green in gray-tinged sunlight. Reno. Highway 80. Downtown Sacramento. They kept riding 80. Cars whizzed by in the other lanes, people just a few feet away. Yo, in here! Help, call the cops, kidnap victims locked up in here! But there was too much traffic noise for shouting to do any good, and no other way to signal through those tinted windows.
How about when he stopped for gas? He’d have to do it sooner or later, these big-boat SUVs were gas hogs. But he’d warned her about making any noise back here. Somebody’d get hurt if she did, he said. Meant it, all right-you could see it in his hard, light-skinned half-and-half face. Like that psycho last Christmas. Not as far off the hook, pretty much in control, but capable of using that gun of his if push came to shove. Wasn’t worth the risk, not with Lauren in the line of fire. Take care of my little girl. Yeah, well, that was just what she would do.
The kid made a little whimpering sound. Tamara put her face down close, smoothed sweat-damp strands of hair off her forehead. “You doing okay, honey?”
“I feel sick.”
“Sick to your stomach?”
“Uh-huh. I hate throwing up.”
“You won’t. Take deep breaths and hold on. We’ll be stopping pretty soon.”
A short silence. Then, “Tamara?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I’m so scared. Are you scared?”
“Some. Don’t you fret. We’ll be all right.”
“Am I gonna see my mama and daddy again?”
“Sure you will. Sure.”
“Promise?”
She said, “Promise,” and bit her tongue and added a little silent prayer: Don’t you make a liar out of me.
Miles unrolling under them. More signs: Roseville. Rocklin. Places she’d heard of but never been to. Whole lot of places she’d never been, places she wanted to go someday. Whole lot of life ahead of her, ahead of Lauren Pay attention to the signs.
Another one: Auburn. Highway 49, Grass Valley.