The Mirror and the Mask (29 page)

“Come here, boy,” she said, reaching for him, letting him sniff her hands. “I know who you are, baby. You're a good boy. Such a good boy.” He retreated farther under the car. “Come on, Dooley. Come to me. I won't hurt you.”

He gave another growl, this one louder. Suddenly, he bounded out and jumped into her arms. Jane was so startled, she fell backward, but managed to hang on to him.

“He's scared to death,” said Clare.

“It's okay, Dooley, I've got you now.” She sat on the cold concrete and stroked him, scratching under his chin. He was shivering.

“Why would anyone leave a dog alone in a parking garage?” asked the manager.

“I don't think she did,” said Jane, feeling a terrible pressure in the air around her. Annie would never leave Dooley alone in a place like this.

Not willingly.

 

 

 

W
ith Annie's little dog sitting next to her, Jane waited impatiently on a wood bench in the lobby. She'd already tried calling Nolan twice. In this instance, the third time was the charm. She filled him in on what had gone down, said that as they spoke, the police were watching the same tape she and the manager had looked at a few minutes ago.

“It showed everything,” she said, the scene running through her mind with a cold, almost chilling clarity. “Two guys in black clothes and rubber masks hid behind a van. One guy Tasered her. The other jumped out and duct-taped her arms and legs, slapped a piece of tape over her mouth, a bag over her head, and then they both dumped her into the back of a silver Hyundai Sonata. The license plates had been removed. Before they slammed the hood, one guy pulled a syringe and gave her something.”

“Probably to knock her out, keep her quiet.”

“I hope that's all it was.”

“Sounds semiprofessional,” said Nolan.

“Why semi?”

“They didn't take out the security cameras. You say the MPD is looking at it now?”

“With the manager.”

“Let me get this straight. You think Curt arranged it?”

“Either Curt or Jack. Makes me wonder if the same thing didn't happen to Sunny.”

“For similar reasons.”

“Exactly. Maybe they're even being held together at the same location.” But something about that scenario didn't quite feel right. “I'm almost done here. I need to stick around to talk to the police, but then . . . honestly, I don't know what to do.”

“Sometimes you just have to wait for a break,” said Nolan. “Keep me updated.”

“Let's hope there is an update.” The desperation in her voice was hard to mask. At least Nolan hadn't felt it necessary to give her another lecture on becoming emotionally involved. He could tell that she was well past the point where a warning like that had any meaning at all.

 

The following morning, Jane stood on her back porch and watched Mouse and Dooley play in the snow. Cordelia had arrived just after eleven—“with the chirp of the first early birdies”—carrying a sack of fresh bagels, cream cheese, and strawberry jam. Jane started the coffee brewing and let the dogs out the back door.

She had spent the night on the couch, occasionally dozing but mostly thinking and worrying. She didn't fall sound asleep until sometime after four. Thankfully, Mouse had taken right away to Dooley. The little dog seemed more tenuous and confused as the evening wore on, and began whining when Jane curled up on the couch. She let him cuddle next to her. He didn't take up much space, and he was a piece of Annie she could hold on to.

“You look pretty punk,” said Cordelia, stepping out onto the porch and handing Jane a mug of coffee.

“I need to take a shower.”

“Go ahead. I'll let the dogs in.”

As awake as Jane had been for most of the night, she felt groggy now. She went upstairs and returned a while later feeling cleaner, wearing fresh jeans and a ski sweater, but not all that much clearer mentally.

When they sat down at the kitchen table, everything that had happened since Jane had said good-bye to Cordelia yesterday afternoon came rushing out. Cordelia listened, chewing with the greatest avidity during the most dramatic revelations.

“I called the hospital a couple of times during the night,” said Jane, picking at her bagel. “Curt's better. The EMTs got there in time. I've been thinking. Maybe I should run down to HCMC this morning.”

“To grill him about what happened last night?”

She threw up her hands. “I can't exactly do that, now can I. I mean, what kind of ghoul rushes into a suicidal person's room, guns blazing, demanding information?”

“I might,” said Cordelia, licking jam off her fingers.

“No, you wouldn't. And I can't either. As much as I want to talk to him—because if nothing else, it would mean I'd be doing
something
—I can't. He already hates me. He'd never open up about what I really wanted to know.”

A ringing phone interrupted their conversation. Jane got up to answer it.

“It's me,” came Nolan's deep voice. “I've got some news.”

Jane locked eyes with Cordelia. “What?”

“First, the cops found the silver Sonata down by the Mississippi, not far from Curt's condo. Turns out it was stolen yesterday afternoon. The trunk was empty.”

Jane ran a hand through her hair. “What now?”

“We'll have to wait and see. They're doing a canvas to find out if anybody saw anything.”

“And then?”

“They'll talk to Curt and Jack. I don't know anybody who works for the Stillwater PD, but I've still got ins with the MPD. If something breaks, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” said Jane. “Anything else?”

“You know that favor you asked me to take care of yesterday?” he said, sounding more upbeat. “Good instincts, Jane. She's there. Just arrived.”

Jane felt a rush of hope. “Will your guy prevent her from leaving if she tries to take off before we can get there?”

“That's the plan. Call me later.”

Jane gave Cordelia a triumphant smile. “We caught a break. It's Sunny. She's turned up.”

“Where?”

“At the cemetery. I asked Nolan to stake it out after Susan's funeral. I had a feeling that if Sunny was ever going to surface, it would be there.”

“Hot damn.”

“You've got to take the lead with this. You know her. I don't.”

Cordelia raised her chin. “Of course I'll take the lead. In another life, I probably led the Charge of the Light Brigade, or the Battle of the Little Bighorn.”

“Cordelia, they were both disasters.”

She tut-tutted as she put on her buffalo plaid coat, covering up the jeweled pink hoodie she was wearing. “Lay on, Macduff, and damn'd be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!' ”

“Why are you doing this? Making these awful comparisons? Those were Macbeth's last words—before Macduff slaughtered him.”

“Just shut up and move.”

 

 

 

A
nnie opened her eyes inside a small knotty-pine-walled room with a deeply slanted ceiling. The smell of coffee drifted in through a partially open door. As her mind struggled up through the fog of memory, pieces of what had happened began to emerge. Curt's suicide attempt. The painful attack in the parking garage. Dooley slipping out of her arms. She must have been drugged after she was dumped inside the trunk. The last thing she recalled was feeling dizzy, floating away.

The sack covering her head had been removed, as had the tape from her mouth. Her arms and feet were still bound, and a blanket had been tossed over her. She drifted in and out for the next few minutes until she heard footsteps, wood floors creaking under a heavy weight.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” said Jack, opening the door all the way. He sat down on the bed next to her, an amused look on his face. “I'm sure you've got lots of questions. We'll get to them. But first, are you hungry?”

She couldn't fathom his easy manner. “I . . . I need to use the bathroom.”

He pulled a small red-handled Swiss Army knife out of his pocket, drew back the blanket, and cut her free.

She wondered if she had the strength to fight him. She knew a few moves, but her legs nearly buckled when she stood. Maybe later, after she felt stronger—and if she got lucky—she could catch him off guard. But when she glanced at the door, her hopes dissolved. A man stood in the hallway holding a pistol. He was wearing athletic shoes with red shoelaces.

“Claud will show you the way,” said Jack. Turning to the man, he added, “When she's done, bring her down to the kitchen.”

Annie's hopes dipped even lower when she saw that there was no window in the bathroom. She searched through every drawer, every cupboard, looking for a weapon, but unless she intended to smother Jack and Claud with towels, there was nothing she could use to defend herself. She stepped back out into the hall a few minutes later.

Claud motioned with the gun. “Down the stairs.”

She saw now that she was in a two-story A-frame. It smelled new, the scent of fresh-sawed wood still lingering in the air. A wall of windows faced a frozen lake dotted with ice-fishing houses. Taking her time on the stairway, she surveyed the interior, looking for doors, windows, anything that might provide a way of escape. She judged by the light in the cold jade sky that it was around midday. Whatever they'd given her to knock her out had left her with a pounding headache.

A sofa covered in a northwoodsy-looking fabric sat in front of a huge stone fireplace. Logs sputtered and crackled on the grate. The scene was inviting, peaceful, almost serene, which in a strange way only made her more nervous.

At the bottom of the stairs, Claud ordered her to the kitchen. The entire downstairs was open, with the exception of a door in the back
that must lead somewhere. Maybe it was an office, or a bedroom. As with Jack's home in Stillwater, everything looked—even smelled—expensive.

Wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a plaid flannel shirt, Jack stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. “Hope you're hungry.”

“I'm not.”

“Don't be like that. Have a seat.”

“I'd rather stand.”

“Sit down, Annie.” He nodded to Claud, who shoved her onto a stool next to the center island. “Hey, asshole. Don't manhandle her.”

Claud grunted.

“How's it going in the icehouse?”

“Fine.”

“Let me know when you're done.”

He ducked out a side door.

“That's some gun,” said Annie, motioning to the sawed-off shotgun on the kitchen counter. “Twenty gauge?”

“Twelve.”

“Who sawed it off?”

“I did. You sound like you know something about weapons.”

She knew enough. In an adrenaline-fueled moment, she might risk dodging a handgun, but this kind of weapon was another matter entirely.

Johnny picked it up. With the stock pressed against his hip, holding the pistol grip in his right hand, he turned the heat off under the griddle.

“You know,” said Annie, crossing her arms, “all this cheerfulness from a man holding a shotgun sends a rather mixed message.”

He laughed. “I suppose it does.”

“You're in a good mood.”

“Not really.”

“Why'd you grab me like that?”

“Because . . . we need to talk.”

“We could have talked at your office. Or a coffeeshop.”

“This is better. More private.”

“What happened to my dog?”

“Dog?” He looked puzzled. “No idea.”

“Do you really need the gun?”

He studied her. “Yeah, I think I do.” He slid a pitcher of orange juice toward her. “Have some.”

“No thanks.”

“You were the kid who could never get enough orange juice.”

“No walks down memory lane, okay?”

He pulled out a stool opposite her, sat down. “What am I going to do with you?”