In the hallway, they searched for someone who could direct them to the room where the parents of the missing girl were waiting.
All schools had the same smell of floor wax and paper, books and sweaty bodies. And smells had a way of triggering dormant memories in a way nothing else could. Mary found her thoughts tumbling backward. . . .
Was it deja vu, she wondered, if the scene that was being played out and the scene you seemed to recall weren't exactly the same?
Suddenly she was standing in the high school she and Gillian had attended—Lynwood High. Rather than Anthony next to her, it was Gavin. Gavin, who was about six feet tall, with brown hair and eyes that had a compelling tilt to them.
Fiona was laughing up at him, and he was laughing back. She handed him something. When Mary looked down, she saw a folded piece of paper in Gavin's hand. On the paper was his name written in bold black letters.
She felt dizzy and confused. Sweat rushed from every pore. She became aware of a feeling of suffocation that reminded her of when she was shot. There had been the white-hot pain of the bullet ripping through her flesh, followed by a rush of perspiration.
The ground had shifted. The next thing she knew, Anthony was bending over her, fear and anguish in his face.
Voices cut through the haze. Her mind sorted them out, pulling her back to the present, to Canary Falls High School, her sister, and Anthony.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was Gillian's, but when everything came back into focus, it was Anthony she saw regarding her with concern. She was standing frozen in the center of the hallway. But at least she was standing. In her mind's eye, she could still see the note. The handwriting on it had seemed familiar, yet she couldn't place it. . . .
"Mary?" Anthony asked.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Oh, wow," she said breathlessly, attempting a light laugh. "I just had the strongest sense of deja vu I've ever had."
"For a minute," Gillian said with a worried frown, "you looked like you'd stepped into another world."
"Did it have to do with the case?" Ben suddenly seemed to find her extremely interesting.
"You mean, like something psychic?" Mary asked suspiciously.
"Well . . . yeah." He shrugged.
"Why would you think that?"
"I've heard things. About some of the cases you've been on."
So ... He was one of Gillian's projects. That knowledge added a sharper edge to her next words. "Are you trying to discredit my skills as a profiler?"
"Come on, Mary." Anthony was still watching her. "You're overreacting." His eyes seemed to be saying, He's just a kid.
"No." Ben held up both hands, palms out, and took a step back. "No way. I'm just really interested in psychic stuff, that's all. I know a guy who has a roommate that can bend spoons—"
"Whatever you've heard, I'm not psychic. What I do has nothing to do with anything psychic. Psychology, yes. But my little trip to another planet probably had more to do with an empty stomach than any kind of ESP."
Gillian laughed, sounding relieved now that Mary appeared to be back to normal. "You've insulted her, Ben," she said lightly. "Mary doesn't believe in that kind of thing."
"Sorry, man. I didn't mean anything by it. I just think psychic stuff is cool, that's all."
"I'm starved." Gillian gave Ben's arm a friendly, reassuring squeeze and a smile that verged on being conspiratorial. Don't let my crazy sister get to you, it seemed to say. "Why don't we see if there's any place in this town to grab some food?"
"Not until we interview the parents," Mary said.
Ben shrugged off his backpack and unzipped the front pocket. "My blood sugar gets weird sometimes, so I always carry a couple of these." He held a wrapped rectangle out to Mary, his arm straight. "It's a granola bar. I make them myself. Go ahead." He shook it at her. "Take it. It'll help until we get a chance to eat."
A peace offering.
It seemed they were all holding their breath, waiting to see how Mary would react. She smiled tightly. "Thanks." She unwrapped it and took a bite, hoping it didn't contain pot, quickly discovering that it was full of healthy things like raisins and nuts and sunflower seeds. It was delicious, and she told him so.
Ben beamed, happy to be of assistance.
The bar reminded her of some of Blythe's healthy concoctions. "I can see that you're going to have to meet our mother," Mary said.
The parents had been put upstairs in a small office. In an attempt to make the interview as easy as possible on the distraught couple, it was decided that Mary and Gillian would speak to them while the men waited outside.
Mary stopped her sister near the door. "It will be less confusing if only one of us does the questioning," she whispered. She waited for Gillian's response, hoping she wouldn't have to pull rank.
At first Gillian seemed prepared to argue—a conditioned reaction. Mary watched as her sister's irritation gave way to understanding and finally relief. Wisdom and experience were on Mary's side.
"Good idea," Gillian said.
The mother, dressed in a red sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, was hysterical; the father, a burly man in a heavy plaid shirt, was emotionless and brittle with shock. Two others—a man and woman—hovered nearby. They all looked as if they were farmers—hardworking and earnest.
Mary began with the standard questions: Did their daughter know anyone she may have left with? Had she been acting differently lately? Hanging around with new acquaintances? Did she know anyone who may have talked her into leaving with him or her? Know anyone who may have taken her against her will? Had she mentioned meeting anyone new, anyone strange? What was her schedule? What was she wearing?
During questioning, the parents' minds would wander, and their attention would have to be gently coaxed back. Several times the mother broke down, and the husband held her in his arms.
Then came their questions, the ones Mary always dreaded.
"You'll find her, won't you?"
"She'll be okay, won't she?"
This was always the worst part, talking to the parents. Worse than watching the autopsy of a child. Worse than staring into the cold eyes of a mass murderer.
"There's no connection between her kidnapping and the deaths of those other girls, is there? Please tell us there isn't."
Mary glanced at Gillian. Her sister's eyes were glassy with tears; she didn't look in any shape to answer. "We don't know," Mary said.
"You must have some idea. Are you hiding something? Not telling us something?"
"We aren't hiding anything. As soon as we have any information, you'll be the first to know."
The man pressed his lips together and nodded. "My daughter's a good girl, a strong girl. She grew up on a farm and knows how to take care of herself. She'll be okay. I know she'll be okay."
Both parents looked from Mary to Gillian, desperately begging for reassurance that couldn't be given.
Chapter 10
After spending all day and into the evening investigating the Canary Falls kidnapping, Gillian returned to her apartment in Dinkytown, but she couldn't sleep. As she lay in bed, the events of the day kept replaying in her mind, especially the interview with the missing girl's parents. How did Mary do it? she wondered. Deal directly with the victim's families like that? Did she have trouble sleeping? Was she awake right now?
Gillian's reflections were disturbed by the sound of someone knocking on her door. She pressed the button on her digital alarm clock, and the numbers glowed green: 12:25 A.M.
The knocking continued.
A soft, rhythmic sound.
Wearing a gray BCA T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, she went downstairs and peeked through the living room blinds to see Gavin Hitchcock's car parked next to the curb in front of the duplex.
The knocking continued. The sound was so repetitive and monotonous that it could have been a loop. The style of delivery had Gavin Hitchcock's signature all over it. It was just like him to focus his entire concentration on one thing while blocking out everything else.
She turned the dead bolt and opened the door so the chain caught.
Gavin was a shadowy form standing on her porch.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered.
"Let me in." He sounded desperate. "I have to talk to you."
"It's late."
"Please. Let me in."
She'd always had a soft spot for Gavin, mainly because she knew how tough his life had been and what a struggle it continued to be.
"What's wrong?" she asked over the security chain. Most people were afraid of him, but she wasn't.
"I—I've been having . . . bad dreams."
The words came reluctantly, like the confession of a frightened child who knew he wasn't supposed to wake his parents.
Her resolve weakened. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened the door. Gavin burst into the house.
"Don't turn on the light!" he said as she reached for the wall switch.
Instead, she crossed the room and opened the window blinds. "How's that?" Light from the street pooled inside.
He pulled a book of matches from the deep pocket of his army jacket and lit the candles on the coffee table, then tossed the matchbook down and collapsed into the sofa.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.
Gillian had grown up knowing who Gavin Hitchcock was. Everybody knew who he was. Every school had a Gavin Hitchcock. He was the kid nobody wanted to sit near. The kid who always had a runny nose. Every time there was a lice outbreak, all eyes turned to Gavin. Gillian had felt sorry for him from a distance, and secretly she'd thought he was kind of cute, that he would actually be good-looking if somebody took the time to clean him up. They didn't have any classes together—he'd been lumped in with the slow students at the beginning of his educational journey. Gavin would have remained someone she passed in the hallway, someone she saw on the playground, if she hadn't come to his rescue one day when they were both in junior high.
She'd been walking home the long way, the scenic way, taking a path over the stone bridge in Tandem Park when she heard a commotion underneath. She leaned over the side to see a group of older kids picking on Gavin, shoving him around, trying to steal the ragged coat he was wearing. On the ground was a tattered blanket, junk food wrappers, and remnants of a campfire, and she wondered if Gavin had been sleeping there.
Her moral senses were outraged, and without any thought she jumped into the battle, screaming and fighting like a wild animal. She was no match for five bullies, but the idiocy of her attack took them by surprise. They knew that what they were doing was wrong, and to be confronted by a scrawny girl made them feel ashamed. They stomped on the jacket, kicked up some dirt, and then ran away, shoving at one another as they did, laughing and acting tough so nobody would think a girl had scared them off.
Ever since then, Gavin had looked upon her with awe and hero worship. She used to subject him to her reading obsession of the moment, from Blake to Burroughs to Rimbaud—which he'd suffered with stoicism and good nature.
She dived into her role as protector, caring for Gavin with the fervor of a big sister. Maybe he filled a need in Gillian, replacing the space vacated by Mary.
Unfortunately, Gavin hadn't seen her as strictly sister material.
Soon after Gavin's release from prison, Gillian discovered he'd spent his days there looking forward to getting out and marrying her. When she tried to explain, he refused to understand. She'd had no recourse but to cut herself off from him completely.
Yet she still worried about him. Her rejection of him went so much against her nature that she had trouble accepting her decision. But what else could she do if any time she spent with him gave him false hope? And now, here he was again, a wounded creature she couldn't turn away.
She sat down in the ottoman across from him, tucking her feet under her. "What kind of dreams have you been having?"
He chewed on his thumb while staring at a candle flame. "I keep dreamin' about girls."
Her heart beat a little quicker. "Girls? What do you mean?"
He continued to chew on himself. "About doin' things to them."
"What kind of things?" Gillian asked with sinking despair.
"I can't tell you, but it's bad. It's really bad."
Gillian pressed a hand to her mouth.
"It seems so real," he whispered. He looked up at her. The flame was reflected in his tear-filled eyes. "It seems so real."
Had his release and return to society brought back what had happened years ago? Were the recent homicides preying on his mind? "Are you still seeing a psychiatrist?"
"You can help me more than any stupid shrink." He rubbed his face. "I'm so fucking tired, Gillian," he said quietly. "So fucking tired."
What should she do? Tell somebody? But they were dreams. Just dreams. Gavin was already under suspicion. She'd seen his name on the suspect list. If she said anything, it might be enough to have him thrown in jail. She couldn't do that. Gavin hadn't killed those girls.