For the dark places of the earth are full of the haunts of cruelty.
Asaph, 586 BC
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by R.G. Ryan.
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Dream Chasers Media Group
Las Vegas, NV
ISBN: 9781543942958
Edited by Cheryl D. Gollner
Cover Design by Rob Weidenfeld for Vision Studios
It was a few minutes before midnight, and all was quiet on the fog-shrouded streets of the sleepy Southern California seaside township. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean waves raking the shoreline in their tireless, timeless assault added a hypnotic quality to the scene. The lonely cry of a gull pierced the stillness, its clarity standing in stark contrast to the muffled braying of a distant foghorn.
In the park across the street from an upscale condominium complex, a homeless man drained the last of a devilish potion before falling once more into the bony arms of alcoholic oblivion.
Beyond the park, on the bluff overlooking the main beach, a single car was parked, its two teenaged occupants locked in passionate embrace.
Up the street, at Bridgett’s Petite Bistro, the night crew cleaned and helped themselves to whatever food they calculated would go unnoticed when the owners returned at 4:00 a.m.
It was just another night in paradise.
Two figures, clad all in black, crouched behind a large hedge next to the entrance to the condominium complex’s underground parking garage.
“I’m cold,” the woman said through clenched, chattering teeth.
The man shot her a withering look, grabbing her painfully around the elbow.
“If you don’t stop whining, I swear…”
He abruptly stopped speaking as a diehard skateboarder appeared briefly out of the fog like a ghostly apparition, cutting and shredding an imaginary wave, only to be absorbed once more into the murky vapor with no evidence of his passing save the sound of wheels against uneven pavement.
The man continued, “Look, dimwit, I’ve worked too long and hard on this plan for you to screw it up! Just sit there and be quiet.” He gave her arm an extra squeeze before adding, “Do you think you can do that?”
The woman looked at him and nodded in agreement, fear etched on her once pretty face. What else could she do but agree. It was how she had come to be here in the first place. When she thought of what they were about to do, it made her want to run as fast as she could in any direction as long as it was away from this insanity. But she knew she wouldn’t, for wherever she ran, he would track her down.
And when he found her…he would kill her.
Letting go of her arm, the man turned his gaze toward the parking area as he thought through each step of what had to happen over the next fifteen minutes. To think he would possess his treasure once again caused his already elevated heart rate to accelerate.
Soon, now…very soon.
His attention was diverted as a classic British sports car entered the parking area and slowly drove toward the underground parking garage.
“Okay,” said the man. “Get ready to move.”
The gate swung open and the car drove slowly past their position, through the entrance and then turned a corner. As soon as it was out of sight, they quickly moved from their hiding place and rushed in after it before the gate could completely close.
Throwing an arm across the woman’s chest blocking her progress, the man peered around the corner to where the car was pulling into a designated parking place.
He pointed toward a large SUV parked right beside the elevator that would offer concealment while at the same time providing a clear view of the sports car’s occupant.
“Over there,” the man whispered, and the two of them headed toward the SUV as quickly as stealth would allow. Once there, they crouched down and waited for their prey to approach.
After idling for a moment, the car’s lights blinked out, the engine shut off, and a lone female figure emerged. Dressed in well-worn workout attire, she walked unhurriedly, confidently through the parking garage, passing within just a few feet of the hidden danger.
He had forgotten how stunning she was—not perfect, but stunning nonetheless. Dozens of images flashed randomly through his mind as he watched her walk—images of a time before when she had been his alone. It had all been so perfect until he had come along and ruined everything. Now, it was time for a reckoning. She would taste of his vengeance and then…what? What would happen afterwards? He was forced to admit that as elaborate as his plans for her had been, that part was, as yet, a bit foggy. But as far as her precious uncle was concerned, he would be destroyed in the most painful manner he could devise.
But that would come later, much later. For now, there was work to be done and he was on a tight schedule.
He and his partner emerged from hiding and approached their victim like Robert Frost’s fog—on “little cat feet.” Two steps from the safety of the elevator, she paused, holding her purse up in the dim light and fumbling for the keys. Before she could react, the man pounced, clamping a chloroform soaked rag over her nose and mouth.
It didn’t turn out to be anywhere near the deterrent he had imagined. Within the first two seconds she had rammed her right elbow into his ribcage and driven her heel into his right kneecap nearly taking him down. But, anesthesia will eventually conquer even the fiercest fighter and with a final mighty convulsion, she collapsed in his arms.
His accomplice came out of hiding. And with the woman’s limp form wedged between them, the three stood in an awkward embrace—one unwitting, one unwilling and the other unholy.
4:00 a.m. and sleepless.
The dream again.
That makes three times in two months!
And the dreams aren’t good! In fact, if you want to know the truth, they’re all pretty terrifying.
Night.
Always night.
In the pale light of a half-moon I can see a raggedly clad figure struggling up the face of a gigantic sand dune. A fierce, howling wind accompanies the climb, turning the sand into choking clouds that obscure all points of reference.
Once reaching the crest, the solitary wayfarer pauses—bent over at the waist, battered by the wind and breathing heavily while warily eyeing the steep decline ahead.
A moment’s hesitation, and then a single step plunges the victim headlong down the slope, rolling like a rag doll to the bottom of the dune. Sand clings to the sweat of this unknown wanderer who stops to catch a breath before casting a weary glance up the slope, turning and then starting up another impossible climb in a never-ending sequence of dunes.
Like a section of film running in a loop the scene plays repeatedly—climbing, falling, rising to plod onward. One dune after another—every detail the same. A bone-weary gait carries the traveler onward. The pace never changes as each successive obstacle is surmounted. Androgynous and yet strangely familiar in form, timeworn and weary, the proud vagabond has won my heart as I observe the dreamscape with a growing dread.
“Who are you and what drives your flight?” I ask each time at some point.
Abruptly a new scene is projected. As the figure struggles to climb a particularly steep dune, the point of view pans back cinematically revealing that just over the crest a figure lies in wait. Dressed all in black, face obscured except for the eyes, waves of pure evil seem to emanate from this form. As the ragged, exhausted wanderer moves closer and closer to the summit, my agitation increases.
“Watch out! Turn back!” I scream, but the wind catches my words and carries them away as soon as they leave my mouth.
The dark figure seems to ready himself the way a lion readies to charge his chosen prey.
Suddenly, I am in the dream and running with all my might to intercept the unsuspecting wanderer. But my feet seem to be made of lead as each step is buried deeply into the face of the dune. Realizing that I will never make it in time, with every ounce of strength I possesses I try to shout a warning, only it is as if someone has sewn my lips shut. The only thing that emerges is an unintelligible grunting.
Now merely steps away from the evil that waits, the piteous vagabond stops, turns slowly and looks directly at me. Beckoning? Pleading? I cannot tell. A gust of wind frees the tightly wound scarf revealing a face illuminated in the moonlight.
Cassie.
And that’s the dream. Every single time, I awake with a cry of alarm and sit up in bed panting and drenched in sweat.
Like I said…terrifying! But, what does it mean? Having sensed for nearly my entire life that everything means something, it troubles my soul.
Greatly!
Shuffling into my bathroom, feeling every minute of my nearly forty-four years, I turn on the shower, and while waiting for it to warm up, brush my teeth and relieve myself in the toilette.
Yes, I said “toilette”, a device sold to me on the basis of its quiet flush.
Which brings up a point that skirts dangerously close to the realm of “pet peeves.” Given that the individual occupying the master bedroom suite in virtually any house in America is also the one who purchased the house, why in bloody hell does it take longer for the hot water to reach the master bathroom shower than in any room in the entire, damn house? This isn’t right! I’m telling you, it just isn’t right! Oh, I know. I could purchase one of those instant hot water things and have it installed, but then I wouldn’t have anything to complain about—or, “about which to complain” if you want to be grammatically correct.
The hot water finally, and blessedly arrives. Easing myself under the stinging spray I stand immobile, as if hoping the torrential flow will somehow wash away the toxic residue from my dream.
It doesn’t work.
It never works.
And so I carry the dread for another day.
I say out loud to the Deity in whom I no longer believe, and yet blame for nearly every ill that comes my way, “Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
“She” is in reference to Cassie, my niece, who came to be my ward at the age of seven following the death of my sister, Alicia, and her husband Ben in a horrific car wreck.
“Is there really more horror coming her way that she will have to endure? Is that what that dream is about? Your followers insist that you are a ‘good Father.’ Please tell me what goodness is to be had if that dream bears even the slightest resemblance to reality!”
I get no answer in return.
As usual!
Which brings to mind a line from a Paul Simon song that says, “God only knows; God makes His plans; The information’s unavailable to the mortal man.”
This pushes me toward one of two conclusions: First, that the atheists are right and there is, in fact, no one there. Or, secondly, that much like a wearied parent with a petulant child God simply waves me off with a muttered, “You wouldn’t understand even if I did tell you.”
I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
Stepping out of the shower to towel off, I notice that it’s 4:40 a.m.
I was in there a long time!
Well, hell, it’s my water and I should be able to do with it as I see fit. And if I choose to have my water pour over my weary head, then who cares?
I know…I’m in a mood.
After wiping the mist from the mirror I stare at my reflection and find that I am still conflicted about my decision to grow a full beard. But, Gabi—that would be Gabriella Marcus, my girlfriend—likes it and I like Gabi. So it’ll probably work out okay.
At least having a beard cuts down on the cost of shaving products. And since I started buzzing my hair years ago, there really isn’t much more to my morning prep other than the application of deodorant and a bit of moisturizing lotion for the portion of my face not covered by the beard and a full slathering for the rest of my body.
Yes, I’m a guy and I use lotion. Lots of lotion.
It’s a Vegas thing.
If you don’t live here, I doubt that you will understand.
I turn to the left and then to the right examining my growing collection of scars—an “impressive” collection, according to one quite sarcastic medical professional. If you want to know the truth, I’m kind of over the whole getting punched, stabbed and shot at thing.
I don’t like pain.
Pain hurts and I’ve suffered far too much of it over the past year!
Besides, I promised Vanessa—my almost adopted daughter—that I wouldn’t be getting any more.
Scars, that is.
And I really hope I can make good on that promise.
My cell phone buzzed signaling an incoming text.
It was Gabi.
Hey…are you awake?
She knows that I have trouble sleeping. She does too. We had a pretty good laugh recently when we compared our text conversations and saw how many had been initiated prior to five a.m.
As a matter of fact…I am, I replied.
I might as well tell you that this woman has stolen my heart. It has been a long and painful process to arrive at the point where I can even say that. But, after seeing her regularly now for nearly three months, I find myself teetering on the brink of actually being in love. Oh, I think I probably am, but I’m just not quite ready to actually say the words.
It’ll happen.
Probably sooner rather than later.
Are you and Aaron going to the gym? She inquired.
“Aaron”, is Aaron Perry, jazz legend and also my best friend and next-door neighbor. When we are both in town at the same time—a rarity these days, or so it seems—we go to the gym together.
We talked about it last night, but didn’t confirm a time.
We’re not your typical gym rats who follow a rigorous, marginally masochistic routine every single day. Aaron and I have a more casual approach wherein we basically do whatever seems to feel good in the moment. It’s called listening to your body. Today we will probably hit a “push” routine. But it’s nothing like traditional push routines. We don’t do any bench presses or military presses. We built the routine around parallel bar dips. Why? Well, have you ever looked at the physique on an Olympic gymnast?
I rest my case.
Will you have time for lunch with me when you’re through with the bro-fest? Gabi asked.
Let’s see…lunch with the prettiest woman in Las Vegas. Hmm. That’s a tough decision.
Of course. What are you hungry for?
Now, I have to tell you that this is a question that basically has no answer. While our relationship is still relatively new—and I am arguably still getting to know her—I have come upon one unarguable reality: Gabi will never tell you what she’s hungry for. Instead, she will sit back and field suggestions, swatting them down like a tennis pro stalking the net!
Oh, I don’t know. Suggest something.
And here we go.
J: Ok. How about Café Cabo?
G: We just ate there last week.
J: Right. Then, maybe go to that one Chinese place you liked?
G: We could, but I didn’t like it as well as the first time we went.
J: Huh! Well…how about that salad place over at The District?
G: What salad place?
J: You know, the one by the casino? I can never remember its name.
G: Greens Street?
J: That’s the one.
G: I’m not really hungry for salad.
J: Yeah, I’m getting that. What are you hungry for?
G: I thought you were going to suggest something.
It’s always right about at this point that my brain sort of explodes and I suggest something stupid.
J: Want to just go to Five Guys?
G: Perfect! Pick me up at the office or meet you there?
J: I’ll pick you up.
G: See you soon. Love you.
And there it was.
“Love you.”
She put it right out there. I can’t let the poor thing just sit there dying of loneliness. It’s cruel. But am I at the point where I can return it with conviction?
You love me? Wow! Who knew?
You’re a goof!
And that’s what I do.
Every. Single. Time.
I play it off with humor.
And I don’t know why. Like I said, I’m pretty sure that I’m either in love or falling in love. It’s been so long, I’ve almost forgotten what the sensation feels like. I think Louis de Bernières got it right when he said, “Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.”
It’s that “entwining” part that I am experiencing.
And it feels good…it feels real good.
I wolfed down a quick breakfast consisting of…well…coffee, and was about to call Aaron to ask if he was ready to go when my cell started vibrating.
I checked the caller ID.
It was Michael Harvey—or as he’s known to millions of readers, novelist Charleston Hawthorn.
My niece Cassie’s fiancé.
“Hey, Mikey. How’s my favorite almost nephew?“
“Jake! It’s Cassie.”
There was something in the tone of his voice that put me immediately on high alert.
“Cassie? What about her?”
He said in a rush, “Muriel said she didn’t come home last night and when I call her cell it goes immediately to voicemail and I’m really scared because that’s not like her especially when we were—”
“Mike! Slow down. Take a breath and see if you can tell me what’s happening slowly and concisely.”
Muriel and Cassie live together in the condo that Michael bought for Cassie as an engagement gift
I said, “Are you at Cassie’s condo right now?”
“Yes,” he replied a bit breathlessly. “I texted her right before midnight to make sure that we were still on for breakfast this morning, but didn’t get an answer. That’s not like her! I mean she never turns her phone off. I’ve texted her at 3:00 a.m. before and gotten a response. But I figured…well…I don’t know what I figured. I went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. So I called her around 4:00 and it went straight to voicemail. Given how early it was, I warred with calling Muriel, but I wound up doing it anyway. That’s when she told me that Cassie hadn’t come home last night. I knew she wouldn’t go away somewhere without telling me because after breakfast Cassie was going to take me to the airport. I’m supposed to be the keynote speaker at a writer’s conference in San Francisco this weekend.”
This was not good!
“Let me talk to Muriel.”
“Okay. Here she is.”
Michael put his phone on speaker, and then Muriel came on.
“Jake…I’m really worried.”
Muriel is Cassie’s best friend and also Aaron’s fiancée. She and Cassie have been through literal hell together and survived.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions, kiddo. What time was she supposed to be home last night?”
I heard my front door open and close. Aaron came rushing into the kitchen, his face knotted up in worry.
Muriel choked back a sob.
“Well, me, Vanessa and Cassie were sitting around watching a movie on the Hallmark Channel—you know, typical chick flick. But, about 9:00 p.m. Cassie said she was bored and took off for the gym to get in a short workout. She left and we finished the movie.”
“What time?”
“What time did we finish the movie?”
“Yes.”
“Oh…probably around 10:45 or 11:00. Vanessa and I were both really tired, so we decided not to wait up for her. I was probably asleep by 11:30 and I think Vanessa was asleep even before that.”
Aaron whispered, “You talking to Muriel?”
I nodded and put the phone on speaker.
“Aaron’s here with me now. So, when did you discover she wasn’t home?”
She said, “I woke up around midnight. I don’t know why. I had this…this…I don’t know how to describe it. It was…a creepy feeling. I got out of bed and walked down the hall and knocked on her door. There wasn’t an answer, so I went in. When I saw that her bed hadn’t been slept in, I ran back down the hall and woke Vanessa up. I asked her if she had seen or heard from Cassie and she hadn’t seen or heard anything since she left for the gym. So, I texted Cassie and asked if she was okay. Nothing. She usually answers right away. Then I called and it went straight to voicemail. We threw on some sweats, I grabbed my pistol and we took the elevator down to the parking garage.”
I didn’t really want to know the answer to my next question, but I had to ask.
“Was her car there?”
“Yeah. It was. And the engine was still warm. We did a search of the whole garage…all one hundred and thirty spaces! It was like she drove in, parked and, well…vanished.”
There was silence on the other end before Vanessa asked in a voice grown small with worry, “Jake? What happened to Cassie?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. And I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves and label this as something it’s not.”
Michael asked, “Has she been kidnapped, Jake?”
Exactly what I had been pondering, but I wasn’t ready to tell him that.
“Do you know if that garage is equipped with security cameras?”
“Oh,” he replied. “I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, I believe it is.”
“Okay. We need to get permission to check those feeds. Do you know how to contact the security for the condo development?”
“Uh, maybe…no, wait…yes! I have some paperwork from when I bought it.”
Muriel said, “I have the number for security in the kitchen. I think it’s in the junk drawer. Be right back.”
I checked the time on my phone. 6:35 a.m.
“Aaron and I will be on the road in ten or fifteen minutes. This time of day, it’ll probably take us four and a half hours to get there. So start looking for us around eleven. I’d like to have permission secured to view those security videos by the time we arrive. Can you handle that, Michael?”
“I’ll make the call as soon as Muriel finds the number.”
“Good. In the meantime, keep trying Cassie’s cell and check around her room, her car, the parking garage; maybe Muriel and Vanessa can go to the gym and see if anyone there noticed anything unusual happening last night.”
When Michael spoke, his voice was brittle with tension.
“I’m scared to death, Jake.”
“I know, Mikey. Me too. See you soon.”
I stabbed the “end” button on my phone and just stood staring.
“Jake, I…” Aaron began, but couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know,” I managed before sitting heavily into one of the high-backed, padded stools that ring my kitchen island.
And then I cried.
I’m not ashamed to admit it. Cassie is my world. My mind filled with images of my beautiful niece: her naturally curly hair, which always looked as if it had been recently kissed by the sun; her face and form which had drawn so much interest from modeling agencies over the years. More than anything else, though, I saw her eyes and that special light that always shined through when she looked at me. I loved this girl, and if anyone were deliberately trying to hurt her, I would have no problem inflicting the most painful death upon the miserable wretch that I could generate from my considerable experience.
“Bro, we should get going,” Aaron said, jarring me from my self-indulgent grief.
“Yeah. Okay. I’m going to change clothes and grab my go bag.”
“I’ll do the same and meet you in your garage in five minutes.”
We both keep a “go bag” packed and outfitted with all the basic hygienic products one would need plus clothes and undergarments for a couple of days on the road. Also included are passports and five thousand dollars cash, along with backup firearms and ammunition.
Mine was kept in a cabinet above my washer and dryer just to the right of the door leading to the garage.
I visited the bathroom, locked the front door, turned off all the lights, grabbed the bag and had just thrown it into the back of my Range Rover when I remembered that Gabi didn’t know what was going on.
I hit her speed dial icon, and she answered on the second ring.
“Hey, handsome.”
“Gabi,” I said. “Something has come up.”
She must’ve sensed the tension in my voice.
“Jake, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Cassie. She’s missing.”
I could hear the quick intake of air.
“Oh, no. What—“
“I don’t have any more details. Only that she’s gone and the circumstances are very suspicious.”
“Are we talking kidnapping?”
“I don’t know what to think right now. Aaron and I are getting ready to leave for San Diego. I’ll try to keep you updated, but if things go as I fear they might, well…I’ll do my best.”
She said, “Don’t worry about me. Just go find her. And Jake?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I…I love you too, Gabi. With all my heart. God help me, I do.”
Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew the tears were there in her pretty eyes.
“Okay…well, umm, that was unexpected. But, wonderful. Definitely wonderful. Now get going and I’ll talk to you later!”
I ended the call just as Aaron ran into the garage and threw his bag in the back seat of the Rover.
“We good to go?” he asked.
“We’re not good…but we’re going.”
“Heard that!”
She felt fear, but since she didn’t know where she was or what threatened, the fear as yet had no face. In fleeting moments of lucidity she was vaguely aware of voices—voices that came to her ears the way the sound of a locomotive’s horn gradually rolls across the landscape from the edge of town.
Slowly, ever so slowly the blackness began to dissipate revealing a patchwork of images. As vague as they were, it was too much for her eyes to take and she retreated once again behind closed lids. A low keening reached her consciousness and she grasped at that one thread of awareness as a drowning soul clings to a life preserver.
A name spoken.
Again, more loudly.
Too tired to move. Better to stay here, floating, weightless.
“Cassie.”
She tried to respond but it felt as if a thousand bee stings lined her throat.
“Come on, Cassie. Time to wake up.”
Opening her eyes produced shards of pain that pierced to the back of her skull.
She screamed.
“Cover her mouth! I’m not going to stand here and listen to her scream.”
A hand closed over her mouth, the thumb and forefinger inadvertently closing off her nostrils. Reactively she bit down, her teeth gaining purchase on a carelessly close finger. She heard another scream mingle with her own until a sharp blow landed alongside her head and the darkness pulled her once more into its cold embrace.
“Are you trying to kill her, you stupid, pathetic creature!”
Edwina Madison cowered and stumbled backward in the face of this verbal onslaught, the blood flowing freely from her finger.
“But she bit me! Look at my finger!” she pleaded.
As she held up the little finger on her left hand for inspection, the monster known as Paul Morgan grabbed it and bent it backward until she was sure it would break. She knew better than to scream for screaming only made it worse. As the pain increased she felt close to passing out.
“If you ever strike her like that again, I guarantee you won’t appreciate the outcome. Understood?”
Eddie could only summon enough concentration to weakly nod her head. She had been pretty once. That much she remembered. Men had been drawn to her beauty like flies to honey.
That was before meeting Paul.
Long before.
“Was that a ‘yes,’ dear? I don’t think my hearing is quite what it used to be. Perhaps a little louder this time, hmmm?”
Her stomach roiled with nausea. The pain had become so intense that she knew there was no possible way she could speak without it turning into a full-throated wail. Then abruptly he let go and turned his attention to the girl tied to the bed. She was moaning softly and beginning to come around again.
Eddie collapsed onto the floor holding her finger tightly to her chest as she looked for some way to stem the tide of blood. Crawling painfully over to the bathroom doorway she noticed a filthy hand towel draped over the rim of the antique, clawfoot tub. The effort it took to stand weakened her to the extent that she almost didn’t make it to the sink. After pouring cold water over the finger for several minutes, then binding it up with the towel, she stood leaning against the door jam observing the scene playing out in the bedroom.
Even in her present condition the girl on the bed was beautiful. She knew that face so well, and it had only been improved upon by time.
Her memory strayed to when they had all been together before. They had been much younger and Eddie, at fifteen, the youngest of all. Life had seemed so simple—awful, but simple. They were kept in a decent home, fed—not well, but fed nonetheless—clothed with expensive garments and then given to men whose vile fantasies were lived out featuring them, and the other girls, in the starring roles. If the men didn’t want to use protection, Paul wouldn’t insist on it. After all, pregnancy could be dealt with.
And it was.
Three abortions by the time she was nineteen—performed off the grid by less than adequate medical personnel—had left her, at the age of twenty-three, no longer able to conceive.
As the only remaining member of what Paul Morgan had always been fond of calling his “harem,” she constantly dreamed of escaping and making an attempt to salvage what was left of her life. Morgan had originally found her in the same place he had found Muriel: run-a-ways living penniless on the streets of Seattle selling their bodies to anyone with an extra ten minutes and twenty dollars.
They called it, “survival sex.”
At first he had been her salvation.
Now, in her eyes, he was the devil incarnate.
The things he had made her do for money, or just for “fun”, were so shameful, so evil, that she feared never being able to have a normal life even if she did find a way out.
She had loved Cassie once.
Cassie had been kind to her, and that kindness was more seductive than anything she had ever felt for any man. Watching her now, as she lay there helpless, wrists and ankles secured by zip ties—those former feelings were stirred anew. It occurred to her just then that of all the shameful things she had done in her life, all that had gone before failed to equate to what she was doing now. And within that revelation was one greater—that her own salvation was tied part and parcel to Cassie’s.
Somewhere in the recesses of her brain a realization fought for recognition: she had been presented with a chance for redemption. There was no doubt. A plan began to form—simple, but workable. But could she go through with it?
We made it to Cassie’s condo in near record time, thanks in no small part to me flashing my FBI creds to the ever-vigilant California Highway Patrol officer who had taken exception to me going twenty-eight mph over the posted speed. By 12:30 p.m. we were entering our second hour of reviewing images from the condominium complex’s haphazardly placed and poorly maintained security cameras. I had asked to review all activity between the time Cassie left for the gym and when Muriel and Vanessa searched the parking garage. It was tedious and nerve wracking, but it absolutely had to be done for it represented our best shot at finding out what had happened.
“Stop!” I hollered to the technician, causing him to jerk involuntarily. “Back it up a few frames.”
He did as instructed and we could clearly see two figures in black pants, black hoodies and black shoes dart quickly in front of the gate and slip in behind a high hedge next to the entrance. One was taller than the other leading me to immediately think that it was a man and a woman.
“That doesn’t look good,” Aaron muttered.
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”
The timestamp noted that the action had occurred at 11:50 p.m.
I actually jumped a little when Cassie’s MG entered the frame at 11:54. The gate swung slowly open and she pulled through, making a quick right turn and moving down the aisle toward her designated parking space. Before the gate could completely close, the two black-clad figures rushed in behind her.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said half under my breath.
Switching our attention to the feed from inside the garage, we could see the two people run quickly across the camera frame and hide behind an SUV parked two spaces from the elevator.
Cassie suddenly appeared in the frame walking slowly and confidently toward the unknown danger.
With a start, I realized that I was basically watching a version of my dream play out right in front of me.
“Stop!” I shouted, startling everyone in the small room. “Nothing. Keep going…sorry.”
Cassie walked up, pushed the button to summon the elevator and had started digging around in her purse for her keys when the larger of the two figures rushed in from the right and clamped a white rag over her mouth from behind.
“Has to be chloroform or ether,” I said in speculation as everyone else stayed silent, their attention riveted to the drama being played out on the screen.
She fought her attacker. She fought him hard with every skill she had learned through many years of mixed martial arts training. From the man’s body language, it appeared that she severely injured his ribs and right knee before dropping into unconsciousness. The other figure rushed in as soon as Cassie was unconscious and helped to support her weight. In the process, the hoodie had slipped, revealing that it was, in fact, a woman.
Then the man swept back his hoodie and looked around as if in search of a security camera. Once he located the camera, he walked purposefully toward it dragging Cassie along between him and the other woman.
Coming as close as he could, he stared up into the lens, a cruel smile stretching his thin lips.
It was like looking into the face of the devil himself.
Paul Morgan!
How I hated him! And now, he had Cassie.
Aaron said, “Looks like he’s mouthing something, Jake.”
It was true. I have become quite adept at lip reading over the years. However, no expertise was required to decipher his very personal message.
Mentioning me by name, over and over he suggested that I perform a physiologically impossible sexual act on myself.
And then, he spat at the camera, turned and dragged Cassie roughly away through the gate that opened on their approach. We watched in horror as he and his accomplice manhandled her unconscious form into the back of a white, windowless van and drove away.
I stood shakily, just staring at the image frozen on the monitor.
Michael said, “Is that Paul Morgan?”
“In the flesh!”
“Cassie and Muriel have talked about him so much over the years, but I’ve never seen him. Still…he looked very familiar. Huh! Must be because they’ve described him in so much detail.”
“Maybe so.”
Muriel’s already alabaster complexion was now devoid of any color and she seemed on the verge of passing out. Aaron moved closer, wrapping one of his massive arms around her shoulders and hugging her tightly.
Vanessa had slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor and weeping openly.
Paul Morgan!
As much as I wanted to say that I couldn’t believe it, it wasn’t true. I suppose, if I’m being honest, I had feared this exact thing occurring at some point for a long, long time.
“That’s not possible!” Muriel said in a small voice.
Michael responded, “I didn’t think it was either, Mur. But you saw him; I saw him.”
“The girl with him,” Muriel mumbled quietly.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She looked up at me.
“The girl who helped him. I recognized her too. It’s Eddie. Edwina Madison, actually. But we called her Eddie. She was with us back in the day. Can’t believe she’s still with that monster.”
Vanessa sobbed, “So, is he going to demand a ransom, or something?”
I thought it over for all of two seconds before answering.
“Not a chance. This, at the core, isn’t really about Cassie. It’s about Morgan taking revenge.”
“For what?”
I glanced around the room.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
Muriel whispered, “Tell it, Jake. Tell our story.”
Michael added, “I’m not sure even I know everything.”
“Me either,” Aaron replied.
“Okay. I’ll condense it as much as possible. But I warn you…it’s not pretty.”
“Let’s go back to the condo,” Muriel suggested.
I agreed, because I didn’t really want to have a breakdown in public.
And I sensed it coming as surely as one anticipates the arrival of the dawn.
Once back inside Cassie and Muriel’s condo, I made some coffee, figuring that the busy work would help me order my thoughts into a cogent narrative.
“I guess I’ll start with you and Cassie in high school,” I said to Michael.
He replied, “Yeah, I mean, whatever you think is relevant.”
“Okay…well…Cassie and Michael dated through half of their junior year and all through their senior year. After graduation, though, they sort of went their separate ways.”
Michael interjected, “By then, we had already been talking about marriage.”
“That’s right. But, Michael went off to UCLA as Sid, his father, had always dreamed he would. Only, he went as a creative writing major instead of the star of the basketball team. Wasn’t it during your sophomore year that you had the first contact with a publisher?”
“It was,” he said. “There was this writing contest that I entered on a dare from my roommate. I won the contest, but in the process of winning I lost the will to continue my education.”
Aaron interjected, “Let me guess…an agent suggested you drop out of school and write full-time.”
“That’s right! But, in this instance, it was good advice. My first novel was published when I was twenty-one.”
“That’s young!” Vanessa said.
“It is. And to this day, I remain one of the youngest published novelists in history.”
I continued, “Cassie, because of her height, was highly recruited by several schools for their basketball and volleyball programs. It wasn’t really what she wanted to do, but she went with it as a means to an end. What she really wanted was to go to Hollywood and act.” I paused as memories of Cassie’s childhood passed in review. “As a young girl, it’s all she used to talk about. She used to compose and perform these elaborate plays for me and anyone else that would sit still long enough to observe.”
Michael said, “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard that—you know, about the acting when she was a kid.”
Muriel and Aaron said the same thing.
“It’s true.” I laughed at a memory. “I just now remembered one time when she put this elaborate little play together that included multiple characters, props and costumes. Of course, she portrayed all the characters. And right in the middle of it, the FBI called with a very pressing case. So, there I am watching Cassie’s play and trying to listen intently to Zack Hastings briefing me on the details of the case.”
Vanessa asked, “Couldn’t you have just told her to wait until you got the details?”
“Ask Cassie to wait?” Michael replied with sad amusement. “You apparently don’t know her very well.”
“Michael’s right, “ I agreed. “She actually followed me from room to room hauling her little props and costume changes with her. It was…” A knot the size of a softball lodged in my throat rendering me temporarily speechless. “It…ah…was precious. Yeah, that’s what it was. Simply precious.
Silence settled on the room, broken only by the sound of quiet sobbing.
I cleared my throat and tried to pull it together.
“Wow! Okay, well…she finally settled on a small, mostly unknown liberal arts college in the northwest where she pursued a major in communication. She didn’t really know why she had chosen that particular college other than the fact that it had the…” I mimed air quotes. “…‘coolest campus’ of any of the ones she’d visited. Other schools had offered far more scholarship money, but there was just something about that particular one that had captured her fancy.
“I believe it was around the middle of her freshman year that her roommate, who worked at Nordstrom’s Department Store, asked her if she’d be willing to participate in a charity fashion show. Since she’d never done modeling, at first Cassie said no, but eventually caved in under pressure.”
“She was a natural!” Michael said. “The hit of the show, if I remember correctly.”
“And not only that,” I continued. “A few of the big agencies tracked her down the following week and offered her developmental contracts on the spot. I remember her calling me and relaying their promises of fame and glory—not because she had a burning desire to model, but because she saw it as a natural lead-in to her dreams of being in Hollywood. She told them all the same thing: that she really needed time to think about it and discuss it with me.”
Vanessa said, “So, Cassie was a model? Something else I never knew!”
“Well, not really” I replied. “Sadly, she never made it in modeling. She never made it to Hollywood either. Cassie’s collegiate career lasted one semester longer than Michael’s.”
Michael added bitterly, “She dropped out over Christmas break during her junior year. As for the reason why…you saw his face on the video monitor!”
Vanessa had been staring at the floor and looked up.
“She told me about his sex parties and him getting her hooked on drugs. Is that why she quit school?”
I said, “Basically it was all about the drugs. When you are as hooked as she was, there isn’t a single decision you can make that doesn’t include some provision to perpetuate and feed your addiction.”
I paused to order my thoughts.
“Cassie and I had always been close. She would call me every single day, sometimes two or three times. But something changed during that third year. She stopped coming home for holidays and I started to notice a certain disinterest when we would talk, as if something or someone distracted her. I recall waking up one morning with the realization that I hadn’t spoken to her in over ten days.
“I placed a call to her dorm room, which led to the discovery that she had moved off campus the preceding weekend and was living in an apartment with three or four other students. Her roommate stressed that she had been instructed to not give Cassie’s new phone number to anyone. Omitted from the conversation was the fact that this request had come not from Cassie, but from one of the new roommates…Paul Morgan.”
Aaron said, “If I recall, that phone call right there is what finally got your butt on the plane, though…right?”
“Yeah, it was. I booked a ticket on the first flight heading that direction. I got a cab at SeaTac and arrived at the campus by early evening. The cab dropped me off by the women’s dorm and I went to her room. The roommate who had been so insistent that she not give out any information, started talking to me as soon as she opened the door.”
Muriel chuckled around her tears.
“I bet you had that look you always get when you’re feeling intense about something.”
“Yeah, man,” Aaron agreed. “I’ve seen that look make large burly men go weak in the knees.”
“Whatever!” I replied. “From the info she gave me, I figured out that Morgan’s apartment was within walking distance from the campus, so I took off and was able to find it pretty quickly. My first impression was that the place had definitely seen better days. I knocked on the door, knocked again and then beat on the door so hard I was afraid it was going to collapse. Paul Morgan finally answered the door himself. He was a skinny little dude, shirtless and wearing boxer shorts. And while I wasn’t completely sure it was him, he was standing in front of me and I was quite put out. So I grabbed him by the back of the head and punched him in the face a few times, just to get his attention, you know?
“Somewhere along the way, he figured out who I was and started stammering something about how it wasn’t his fault; how everything had been Cassie’s idea; how she was a sex fiend and a drug addict and that he had simply been trying to please her. Well, as you can imagine, that didn’t sit very well with me, so I broke a couple of body parts, tied him to a chair and tied a dirty tee shirt around his mouth.
“While he sat in the corner whimpering and bleeding, I called Cassie’s name over and over and finally heard a low, faint moan in answer. The sound had come from somewhere down a short hallway beyond the living area, so I started in that direction. The place was filthy, as if there had recently been a party and no one had gotten around to cleaning up. The door to the first bedroom I passed was partially open and I saw two girls and three guys all passed out in various stages of, well, high-ness. In the next bedroom were four people, three girls and a guy, engaged in various sexual acts.”
I glanced at Muriel, and she nodded that I continue.
“One of those girls was Muriel.”
“And one of them was Eddie,” she added.
“When I came to the last bedroom, the door was closed but not latched. I opened it cautiously and…well, the stench of dirty clothes and unwashed bodies was nearly overpowering.”
I had to stop talking as the emotion was simply too strong to overcome.
Muriel had begun sobbing uncontrollably.
“At first, all I could see was a single sheet covering a…ah…form on the bed, and that it was female. But she bore so little resemblance to Cassie that I almost turned and walked away. If the matchstick arms were any indication as to her overall condition, this poor girl looked to be close to starvation. I finally called Cassie’s name. The girl was lying on her side facing away from the door and had slowly turned her head toward me, her eyes growing large and frightened at first. Then…then she mouthed, “Uncle?” and began to weep, the sobs convulsing her body.