FIND HER by Lisa Gardner

Be afraid for your daughter...very afraid!

8

I dreamed of French fries. Hot, golden greasiness. Salt-encrusted decadence. Licking them, smashing them, stuffing them in my mouth. I wanted dozens. Bagfuls. Boxes full. Dipped in ketchup. Smothered in mayonnaise. Coated in ranch dressing.
    And a burger dripping grease on a pillow-soft white bun and piled high with fresh-sliced tomatoes, onions and pickles. I’d take greedy, gulping bites, sinking in my teeth, feeling the fat and carbs explode against my tongue.
    I dreamed of food. As my stomach growled and my muscles clenched and I whimpered in physical pain.
    Then I woke up.
    And I could smell it. Here, in the room. Full fast-food glory. Cheeseburgers. French fries. Chicken McNuggets. I could hear it too, the rustle of food wrappings, the pop of a straw being thrust through a plastic lid.
    I think I whimpered again. There’s no pride in starvation. Only desperation.
    Footsteps. Coming closer. For once, I prayed for him to step faster, advance more quickly. Insert the key in the padlock, twist it open. Please. Pretty please.
    Whatever he wanted me to do. Whatever he needed.
    French fries. The smell of French fries.
    When he lifted the lid, I had to blink against the flood of light. From narrow beams through finger-size holes to a wash of bright white. My eyes welled. Maybe in response to the sudden onslaught of visual stimulation, but mostly due to the smell. The wonderful, intoxicating smell.
    Memories. Hazy. Humanizing. Running through sprinklers on short chubby legs, laughing with little-kid glee as I tried to catch droplets of spray on my tongue. Then a voice, distant but familiar. ‘Tired, love? Let’s go for a milkshake…’
    Fast-forward a couple of years. Fresh memory: hands age-spotted, shaking unsteadily as they set down the brown plastic tray. ‘Ketchup? Nah. Best thing for fries is mayo. Now, looky here…’
    For a moment, I am four, or six, or eight, or ten. I’m a child, a girl, a woman. I am me. With a past and a present. With family and friends. With people who love me.
    Then he spoke, and I disappeared again.
    There was only the food, and I’d do anything for it.
    He had to help me out of the box. I did my best to exercise as much as I could in the narrow space, but time had grown long and I didn’t always remember what I should do or if I’d already done it. I slept a lot. Slept and slept and slept.
    Then I didn’t have to hurt as much anymore.
    When I finally rose to standing, my legs shook uncontrollably. I hunched reflexively, as if expecting a blow, but I couldn’t blame my posture on the box. I was always lying tall and straight in the box.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked me.
    I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Besides my stomach growled loudly enough for words.
    He laughed. He was in a good mood. Cheerful even. I found myself standing up straighter. He was cleaner tonight, I noticed. Hair damp, as if he’d recently showered. And he was steady on his feet, gaze clear, which wasn’t always the case. I found myself looking past him, to the battered gray card table. Food. Bags and bags. McDonald’s. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Burger King. Subway sandwiches. A fast-food banquet.
    He’s bingeing, I realized. Food, not drugs this time. But why? And what about me?
    ‘Are you hungry/’ he asked again.
    I still didn’t know what to say. I whimpered instead.

10

.
.
    There were days it was good to be a cop. When you got to browbeat some lowlife schmuck into a righteous confession. Then, there were the days you made a clean-cut nineteen-year-old college boy cry.
    D.D. hadn’t loved that day on the job. Or, frankly, anything that had to do with the Stacey Summers case. They could place the girl at a local bar, where she’d gone to hang out with half a dozen female friends. Two beers under her belt, probably a little buzzed as she wasn’t a big drinker, she’d excused herself to use the restroom.
    Next thing anyone knew, a local business’s security camera had captured video of the petite blonde being forcefully led away by a hulking male, face hidden from view. After that, nothing at all.
    Not a single eyewitness, not another video frame. In a city heavily populated by nosy people and observant cameras, 105-pound Stacey Summers ceased to exist.
    ‘I’m told this Devon Goulding was a big guy,’ Horgan was saying now. ‘Pumped-up. Steroid-sculpted. Sounds like our camera man.’
    ‘Size is right,’ D.D. agreed. ‘MO…last night’s victim he grabbed by the arm and dragged away. According to her, Goulding’s posture, the way he looked away from the cameras, reminded her of the Summers abduction video.’
    ‘So we got a lead?’ Horgan pressed, half impatient, half hopeful. D.D. understood his pain. If Boston PD as an organisation was under pressure to find cute, perky, never-hurt-a-fly Stacey Summers, then Horgan, as deputy superintendent of homicide, was feeling personally responsible. Welcome to the chain of command.
    ‘I’m not convinced.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Assuming the two licences we recovered tie to past victims, there’s nothing linking back to Stacey Summers. We also found photographs consistent with one of the females from the licenses, Natalie Draga, but again no evidence of Stacey Summers.’
    ‘But you have at least two possible victims?’
    ‘Natalie Draga and Kristy Kilker. According to Mrs Kilker, her daughter is currently studying abroad in Italy.’
    Horgan arched a brow.
    ‘We’re working on corroborating that now,’ she assured him. ‘Same with Natalie Draga. Her driver’s licence is from Alabama. We’re tracking down her family there.’
    ‘So you don’t know if these two women are missing or not?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘But you know he attacked a third girl, the one who burned him.’
    ‘You mean the one who killed him?’
    Horgan shrugged. Apparently a dead alleged rapist didn’t bother him much. D.D. knew many on the force who would agree.
    ‘I have some concerns about this “new victim”, Florence Dane.’
    Horgan frowned. D.D. watched him mentally work his way back from the initial spark of name recognition, then: ‘You’re kidding. Florence Dane? The Boston girl who was kidnapped in Florida? Held for over a year? That Florence Dane?’

Copyright © 2016 Lisa Gardner, Inc