"That's okay."
Mary turned down the street that led to Gillian's apartment. As she spotted the crime van, her stomach dropped. Blythe was right. This couldn't be happening.
They had to park two blocks away. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung around the front yard, all the way out past the sidewalk.
"It looks like somebody's been murdered here," Blythe said.
"Nobody's been murdered," Mary reassured her. "They've cordoned everything off so no evidence is destroyed."
A police officer stopped them before they got to the yellow tape. Mary flashed her ID. "We're also the mother and sister of the victim."
They were allowed to pass.
Wakefield met them at the door. The loss of Gillian had left its mark on him too. "He cut the window with a glass cutter, removed the glass, and unlocked the lock."
"Any leads?"
"We're working on fingerprints, but so far the ones we've lifted are all small. Women's, most likely. This asshole's too smart to go without gloves."
"Anybody see or hear anything?"
"We have officers canvassing the neighborhood, but so far nothing. People aren't too cooperative this time of the morning."
"What about Sebastian Tate?"
"His roommates don't know where he is. Say he hasn't been home in two days, but we've got every cop in the state looking for him."
Inside the apartment, technicians were dusting for prints and collecting evidence. A couple of detectives stood with tablets in hand, making notes and taking the statements of the first officers on the scene.
Senatra separated himself long enough to give Mary's arm a comforting squeeze and tell Blythe how sorry he was. Then he got back to work.
"What about Holly?" Mary asked Wakefield. "You said she thinks it's the same guy."
"She seemed sure of it. If it is, it means he followed her here. Then, for some reason he took Gillian instead. Holly claims she ran for help as soon as the kidnapper left with your sister. The first officers on the scene were here within two minutes of the 911 call. At that time, six patrol units surrounded the area, but didn't find anybody."
"Did Holly have a description of the car?"
He shook his head. "Which makes me wonder how quickly she really went for help."
"Is she still at the station?"
"Let me check." He called the police station, then nodded to Mary. "Don't let her go," he said into the phone. "I have an FBI agent here who wants to talk to her."
Leaving Blythe with Wakefield and Senatra, Mary hurried back to her car and headed downtown to City Hall and the police station.
She immetliately found inconsistencies in Holly's story. Sometimes in cases in which somebody was left behind, or someone escaped uninjured, guilt played a part in their account of what happened. Mary suspected that's what was going on with Holly. Mary also suspected that the time between the kidnapper's departure and the time Holly actually went for help was longer than the "minute at the most" Holly was describing.
"Would you mind if I spoke to her alone?" Mary asked Holly's parents.
"Our daughter's been through an awful lot," Mrs. Lindstrom said. "We'd really like to take her home now."
"It's okay," Holly said, looking up. She was dressed in jeans and a yellow sweatshirt. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and there were raw areas on her cheeks where the tape she was bound with had ripped the skin away.
When they were alone, Mary said, "I know this is hard for you, but you need to tell me exactly what happened in just the way you remember. You may have information you think isn't important, but sometimes it's the things that seem unimportant that help solve a case," she added gently. "And sometimes it's the little things that don't seem important-things like time-that can send investigators in the wrong direction. Gillian is my sister. I want her back as quickly as possible."
Mary pulled out a chair and sat down on the same side of the table with Holly. "Do you know that most victims of home invasion don't call the police as soon as their assailant leaves? In most cases, the assailant will tell them not to call-and they don't. They might be in shock, and most of them are afraid he'll come back, or afraid that he hasn't really left. It's impossible to think straight in that kind of situation. You're running strictly on survival mode, and that mode is telling you to lie low and not make a sound. So, Holly… if you didn't go for help right away, nobody will blame you. Nobody will think poorly of you for doing what your natural instincts were telling you to do."
Holly stared at her pop can, turning it in her hands.
"You waited to go for help, didn't you?"
"He told me to wait fifteen minutes."
"I'll bet you waited longer, just to be sure."
Holly continued to stare at the can, as if finding it the most interesting thing in the room. "I think maybe I did."
"How much longer, would you say?"
"Five minutes. Maybe ten."
"Thanks, Holly. I appreciate your honesty." Mary called Wakefield and updated him on the time element.
"No need to have these guys beating the bushes around here," he said. "Sorry, Mary. That means he's gone."
Chapter 27
He'd blindfolded her-something Gillian knew killers did to depersonalize, disorient, and control their victims.
Fear heightened her senses as the trunk lid groaned open.
She smelled his nervous sweat, heard his rapid breathing; she smelled the rubber of the spare tire beside her, and the heavy dark stench of burnt engine oil. She felt his fingers wrap around her arm.
He pulled her from the trunk. Her legs, unprotected in cotton pajama pants, dragged across the metal latch, scraping her shinbone.
He shoved her forward, a hand to her back, one on her arm. She turned her head, listening to the echoes of his steps, feeling cold cement under her bare feet.
They were inside a building.
A garage?
Without warning, she was lifted into the air. She felt the thud of her weight against his chest, heard him strain as he carried her up a short series of steps. The way she was being held compressed her lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Had they parked in a garage attached to a house?
If so, that would explain how he got his victims inside without being noticed.
He shoved her down on something hard-a wooden chair. Deftly, he taped her legs to the chair legs, the sound of ripping tape as big in her head as a tree being hit by lightning.
Even though she couldn't see anything, she had the oddest feeling that she was viewing the scene from a distance, from a safe location far away. And suddenly it struck her as funny, hysterical. She almost expected her abductor to start saying things like, "I been lookin' fer a gal like you. Pa's gonna be mighty happy."
Instead he said, "I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth, but if you scream, if you make any kind of noise at all, I'll hit you-then I'll put the tape back on your mouth. Do you hear me?"
Had she heard a hint of a drawl, or was it just her imagination?
The hysteria was building. She couldn't get the hillbilly movie out of her head. If he removed the tape, she was afraid she might laugh.
"Do you understand?"
Frantically, Gillian shook her head. Don't take off the tape. I might laugh. I don't think you'll like it if I laugh.
He repeated his earlier warning, then removed the tape in one swift jerk. The stinging pain halted the initial threat of laughter, but then bubbles started to rebuild.
She'd once heard about an innocent woman who'd been convicted of a crime because she couldn't stop laughing on the witness stand. The jurors had mistaken her hysteria for delight over what she'd done.