Say Goodbye

NINE

THE CALL CAME THREE NIGHTS LATER. KIMBERLY’S team had finally wrapped up the crash scene and she and Mac were celebrating by eating dinner together. He’d brought home a honey-baked ham, accompanied with coleslaw and biscuits.

He ate the ham, she ate the biscuits.

“So once I had the ring all cleaned up,” she was reporting excitedly, “you wouldn’t believe the level of detail. Alpharetta High School is engraved around the center stone. Then on the right side, the word ‘Raiders’-their mascot-with a picture of a football, engraved with a number eighty-six and beneath that the initials QB.”

“Really?” Mac said, helping himself to a fresh beer. “You have the name of the kid’s high school, plus the fact that he’s the quarterback with jersey number eighty-six?”

“Oh, it gets even better. On the other side of the ring is a name: Tommy, with an emblem, Class of 2006.”

“I don’t have any of that on my class ring,” Mac said.

“You have a high school ring?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“Well, if my ring were as cool as Tommy’s, maybe you would.”

Kimberly rolled her eyes at him, decided a fourth biscuit probably wasn’t healthy for her or the baby, and went with some coleslaw. “So now I have a first name, high school, and graduating class. I figure, okay, some afternoon when I’m in the area, I’ll swing by Alpharetta High School, talk to a guidance counselor, and, ding, ding, ding, mystery will be solved. But then I have a better idea.”

“Of course.”

“I log on to the Internet. Figure I’ll see what I can learn about Alpharetta High School.”

“And what did you learn about Alpharetta High School, my dear?”

“Hey, sarcasm is only going to earn you more middle-of-the-night diaper changes.”

“Point taken.”

She gave him a look.

He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m interested. I spent the whole day sitting in a van, listening to two alleged drug dealers carry on a highly serious discussion of how Keanu Reeves is the most underappreciated actor of our time.”

“Was it his performance in Speed?”

“More like his decision not to make Speed 2.”

“So true.”

“All right, all right. Back to the ring…”

“Well,” she started again, mollified, “Alpharetta High School is frighteningly large.”

“Alpharetta is frighteningly large.” They had originally looked at buying a home there. It was a booming, upwardly mobile, decidedly professional community just south of them. In the end, it was the booming that concerned them. From three thousand residents in 1980 to over fifty thousand now, the town was bursting at the seams, with all the public resource strains and traffic woes that generally came of such things.

“Nearly two thousand kids,” Kimberly reported. “That worried me a little. School of that size, one kid could be hard to find. But then it occurred to me, check the sports page. And you’ll never believe what I found.”

“Delilah Rose?” he guessed helpfully.

“No. Tommy Mark Evans. Varsity QB of 2006. His photo, game stats, everything, right there on the information superhighway. For that matter, I found pictures and names of all the cheerleaders, JV sports teams, drama club, chess club-you name the kid, his or her information is all there online. I tell you, it’s not enough to monitor MySpace or YouTube anymore. Every public organization has a website that is freely giving away information and photos of America’s kids. Think about it: I didn’t even leave my desk and from one class ring, I surfed the Internet straight to Tommy Mark Evans’s front step.”

“Our son will never be allowed a computer in his room,” Mac announced. “Any portal out is a portal in, and I want to know what or who is coming into our home at all times.”

“Our daughter will probably never use a computer,” Kimberly countered. “By the time she can type, it’ll all be done on a cell phone and how the hell are we supposed to control that?”

“No phone privileges works for me.”

“So you’re gonna be the Draconian daddy with a curfew and a shotgun?”

“Absolutely. But I’ll also buy her a pony. I mean, er, I’ll buy him a baseball bat.”

But Kimberly had caught the slip and was already grinning at him. “I heard that. You’re thinking about a little girl…”

“Any healthy, happy baby will be fine-”

“You want to buy pretty pink dresses…”

“Hey, can I help it if the clothes in the baby girls’ section are much cuter?”

Kimberly was laughing now, mostly at the thought of her tall, dark, manly man husband going through the girls’ clothing rack. But he probably did like the little pink dresses. And he probably would buy their child a pony. As well as a handgun with basic firearms safety lessons.

“Well, if you’re done mocking me,” he said, making a show of hurt dignity as he stood and started clearing paper plates, “what are you going to do now?”

“You mean because so far I’ve processed evidence and pursued a lead in a case where I don’t actually have a case?”

“That was my thought.”

Kimberly didn’t have a good answer for that one. “What do you think of Sal?”

“Good guy. Reputation for digging his heels in and getting the job done.”

“Is he a renegade, works best by himself, alienates those in authority?”

“Actually, that would be you, dear.”

Kimberly nodded. “True.”

Cell phone rang.

Mac glanced up. “Yours, not mine.”

She got to her feet, sighing. “Knew talking about work was a bad idea. It’s like conjuring the beast into your presence.”

Second ring.

Her stomach felt a little too full. She rubbed it absently, asking Baby McCormack to please stop kicking the daylights out of the biscuits, as she crossed to her leather bag, dug around in the depths.

Third ring.

She finally found it, glancing at the screen: It was the 1-800 number for the Atlanta Field Office, which, at first blush, didn’t make sense. She received calls from her supervisor or from her fellow agents, not the duty desk. She shrugged, flipped it open. “Special Agent Quincy.”

And then…

Far away, very quiet, like a whisper in the dark, “Help me.”

“Who is this, please?”

“Help…me…”

Kimberly glanced sharply at Mac, made an urgent motion for paper and pen. He scrambled at the kitchen desk.

“You have reached a federal agent. Please state your name and I’ll do my best to assist you.”

“I don’t remember…He took it from me. Maybe…if I could just find it again…”

“Who took it from you? Talk to me.”

Mac, paper and pen in hand, arriving at her side, regarding her questioningly.

The whisper again: “Soon you will understand.”

The connection broke. Kimberly attempted dialing back, but the number was blocked.

She set down her cell phone, deeply perplexed. Mac still stood there, waiting to write up notes on a caller who hadn’t provided any information.

“Delilah Rose?” he asked at last.

“Don’t think so,” she said. “It sounded like a boy.”

The phone rang again shortly after two a.m. Kimberly wasn’t sleeping well, as if some part of her was expecting this moment. Beside her, she felt Mac tense at the first shrill note, and knew he’d been waiting, too.

She sat up and flipped on a lamp. On the bedside table, she had positioned her cell phone, notepad, pen, and mini-recorder. Once again the display screen registered the toll-free number for the Atlanta FBI. This time, Kimberly wasn’t fooled.

She gave Mac a slow nod of acknowledgment, then snapped on the mini-recorder. She answered her phone in the hands-free mode, so they could both hear.

“Special Agent Quincy.”

Nothing at first. No greeting, or crackle of a bad connection. Then, somewhere distant, as if in the background, that faint whisper again: “Shhhh…”

Kimberly glanced at Mac. She brought the phone up between them, and with her ear closer, suddenly she could hear.

Moaning. Panting. The slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh. A muffled cry of distress.

“Do you like that? Is that good for you? Answer me!”

A small, whimpered plea.

“That’s what I thought.”

Kimberly put her hand over her mouth to stifle her automatic cry of protest. Beside her, Mac had gone still. He’d heard it, too, and understood what it meant. They were eavesdropping on a sexual assault. Kimberly knew, because she had heard such tapes before, part of the work her father used to bring home before he realized his young daughters had taken to sneaking into his office and going through his things.

Recorded? Live? She didn’t know, but she had seen the visuals that went with such sounds and already her stomach roiled…

The whisper again, closer to the phone: “Shhhh…”

Banging now. Hard, metallic. Handcuffs, pounding brutally against a metal headboard, as someone struggled to escape. Then, a low, unmistakable rasp. The sound of a blade, slowly sliding across a sharpening stone.

All of a sudden, Kimberly understood this call was going to get much worse.

Frantically, her shaking hand trying to scrawl the words across the page: TRACE IT!!!

Mac throwing back the covers, leaping out of bed, grabbing for their landline.

“You know what I want.”

“Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

“A name. Is one name really so hard? You just have to love her, that’s all. Give me someone you trust, call a friend, adore. That’s all I require of you. One single name. Then I promise your death will be quick.”

“This is Special Agent Michael McCormack, requesting Special Agent Lynn Stoudt. I require immediate assistance-”

A quick, short rip. Duct tape torn from the mouth.

A wail. A long, thin, horrified scream that went on and on until Kimberly had her hand stuffed into her mouth and even then could feel that poor, exhausted cry reverberating down her spine.

The voice, even closer now: “Shhhh…”

“Tell me!”

“Please…”

The wick wick of metal slicing. A fresh, throaty scream.

“I can skin you alive. Do you want to watch?”

“Dear God, dear God, dear God…”

“Darling, didn’t your mama ever tell you? There is no God! Just me. I am your savior and I am your damnation and you had better make me happy or I will flay the cheeks from your skinny white face. GIVE ME A NAME!”

“I don’t kno-AAAGGH!”

“ONE NAME!”

“Please no, dear God no, please, please…”

The girl was screaming. Wailing hysterically, and now the man was yelling, too, demanding a name over and over again while in between came terrible wet noises and a violent banging.

Kimberly could feel herself start to disconnect. To disappear inside her skin, to spiral away from this moment, where a young girl begged for her life and a madman worked his knife.

The voice in her ear: “Shhh…”

Mac across the room: “Lynn, I need to be able to trace a phone call immediately. On my wife’s cell. Number-”

“How does that feel? How does that fucking feel? It’s gonna get worse. I’m just going on and on and on, until you tell me a name…”

“God, God, God.”

“Didn’t you hear me? There is no GOD!”

“AAAAAGH.”

“Name, name, name. Tell me a-”

“Karen. K-K-K-Karen.”

“Karen who? What is her last name? How do you know her?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

A fresh sharp scream as he did something terrible.

“Liar! If you cared about her, you would know her full name. If she mattered, you could remember her fucking details.”

“Please, please, please…”

“One last chance. Make me happy. Or I swear to you, next cut will be someplace you really value. I’m counting. One…two…”

“Virginia!” the female gasped. “Her name is Virginia. Ginny Jones.”

“And why do you love her?!”

“She is my daughter.”

A pause.

“Excellent,” the man said.

And the next sound needed no explanation at all.

Mac was shaking her. Had she blacked out? Kimberly didn’t want to think so. She had never fainted before in her life. She glanced down in bewilderment at the bed. Her cell phone was there, the screen blank.

Had it all been a bad dream?

And then she looked up, saw the somber expression on Mac’s face, the worry bracketing his eyes.

“The caller hung up,” he said quietly. “It’s over now.”

But she shook her head. “No, Mac. It’s just begun.”