Page 57 of Traces of Kara

Ted waited until Detective Grant disappeared around the back of the building before getting back out of his car. What the hell was going on? Mimi had just gone to the bathroom. Creases crept across Ted’s forehead. Kara. Had Mimi been right? Oh God, were Mimi and Kara both in trouble? Why hadn’t he taken Mimi more seriously? Jealousy and fear consumed him. Mimi was his wife and his lover, and Kara was his family, not Mitchell Grant’s. There was no way in hell he’d let Mitch step in and be their hero.

Ted zipped his jacket and stepped out of his car, taking a deep breath of the cold, wet air. He walked around to the rear of his car, the rain pelting his head, back, and shoulders, and popped the trunk open. He reached in and removed the spare tire, lifted the carpet beneath, and uncovered the well where the car jack was supposed to rest. In its place was a black box. Ted removed the heavy metal box, ignoring the seeping wetness that soaked through his clothing. He pushed the numbers two and four, then pressed the number three. He turned the thick, metal knob, feeling the click of the latch beneath his fingers. The top of the box sprung open, revealing a shiny, black handgun. The Smith and Wesson wasn’t a large gun, and Ted hadn’t really anticipated ever needing to use it. He’d bought the gun a few months earlier, when word of break-ins in neighboring towns spread into Williamsport. Mimi refused to allow the gun in the house, so Ted had stored it in the trunk. He’d almost forgotten about it, until tonight.

He ran his finger along the shiny metal, took the partially loaded magazine from inside the box and slid it into the chamber. His hands shook. He was far from comfortable with the heft of the gun. It felt as foreign to him as an apron might. He had only shot the gun a handful of times at a firing range, and at that moment, it seemed a million years ago that he had done that.

Ted gripped the gun in his right hand, his index finger around the trigger guard, the handle thick in his palm. Guilt pinched his heart; he’d gone home to change his clothes, and Mimi had been in trouble. He thrust his left hand into his pocket, and headed for the hole in the fence he’d spied just before he’d fallen.

The trees whipped in the wind, an eerie swishing sound mixed with the driving rain and the fast running water of the canal just beyond. The sound of the rushing water added urgency to his stride.

Ted stepped carefully into the deep, slushy mud where he’d fallen earlier, careful to take purchase of the ground beneath his feet. He worried that if he fell, he might shoot himself by accident. He held the gun away from his body, the barrel pointed toward the ground.

Standing in the pouring rain, his feet covered with mud, gun in hand, Ted felt like a criminal. Detective Grant was nowhere in sight. Tension pulled at Ted’s neck as he stared at the mangled fence. He looked back toward the parking lot, his car barely visible through the downpour. His chest rose up and down in quick, even breaths. What if there was someone in there? Could he shoot them? Would he shoot them? What if they had a gun and shot first? His legs became lead. Fear paralyzed him.

The ring of a cell phone broke through his paralysis, sending a shock of fear through his veins like fire. He grabbed for his phone, quickly realizing the ringing was not coming from his pocket, but rather, from inside the fence. Ted’s eyes grew wide. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and the muddy ground below, where Ted caught a flash of something shiny. He stood, staring at the muddied cell phone, unable to move forward. That’s what he had heard earlier. It wasn’t Jackson in the basement, it was his cell phone, outside, in the mud. Fear traveled up Ted’s spine like ice. The ringing stopped, and Ted let out the breath he’d been holding.

Water puddled around his feet. Ted stepped through the fence, his heart racing. The rushing water from the canal drowned out the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He crouched, reaching into the mud with fingers that stung from the cold and trembled with fright. He picked up the discarded cell phone, wiping it against his sopping wet jeans. He pushed the Menu button and viewed his missed calls. Nancy.

Roland carried what was left of the two jugs of antifreeze in one hand, and stormed from the darkened room, leaving the man tied, his mouth bound. His fear of being found was overridden by his need to find Marissa. He huffed his way down the corridors, his shoulders rounded, eyes set on the ground before him, nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily through them.

“Marissa!” he yelled. Roland reached the elevators, the doors were slightly open. He grabbed the doors and tried to pry them open, peering inside with one eye. “I’ll find you,” he said through gritted teeth. His muscles bulged beneath his jacket, and sweat poured from his head and body. Roland moved past the elevators, looking down each passageway.

His fury disoriented him. He came to a door, closed his hand around the handle, and pushed against it until it swung open. Roland was assaulted by the smell of rotting flesh. The memory of killing that nosey employee came back to him. He scanned the darkness, unable to make out a thing, and swung the door closed again. He backtracked to the room with all of the old equipment. He’d find that bitch and do them both in. It had to be done on their birthday. The last thing he needed was for their birthday to pass them by. He’d planned it perfectly, and she was not going to ruin it. They couldn’t die on some random date. That would be meaningless. The thought brought with it a cloud of renewed anger. Heat spread up his chest, tightening his pectoral muscles, making the veins in his neck bulge. He’d planned for too long, and worked too hard to lose this battle to that woman. He’d show her. She’d never be able to take Marissa away again.

Roland turned around, looking down the dark, narrow hallway, then spun back around. He slammed the side of his burned, sore fist against the wall, and cried out, “Marissa!”

The room was empty, the computers and machinery idle. Grant gripped the handle of his gun in his right hand, using his left to feel his surroundings. The lights from the generator barely lit more than a few inches from their perch on the ceiling. He scanned the room, noting the disarray of the open drawers, the man’s jacket on the floor, papers strewn across the desktop. The hall outside the door was dark. He turned the doorknob and slowly pulled it open a crack. Sheets of rain pelted the windows in the front of the building, echoing like pebbles on glass within the massive open structure.

Mark stood behind Grant, against the wall, gun raised.

Grant nodded, then slipped outside the door and into the hall. He looked from side to side, his eyes quickly scanning the grated walkway, the opening below, and the expanse above him. Mark moved beside him, pointing toward the stairs to their left.

Grant nodded and headed for the stairs. Mark trailed behind, arm outstretched, gun in hand. His arm moved from left to right in careful, practiced movements.

Grant’s nerves were afire. He listened past the storm and his own pounding heartbeat for anything out of the ordinary: footsteps, working machinery, anything. The sheer size of the building and the darkness chipped away at his confidence. He wished they’d been able to reach the station to request backup. At first, he hadn’t been sure there was even a situation, and then they’d found the body and he’d been intent on one mission and one mission alone—finding Mimi. He was definitely too close to this investigation. Maybe he should wait for the FBI. But he couldn’t take that chance. They might not even show up without a PFA. He wished he were only on a ghost hunt, that they’d find Jackson holed up in his office and Mimi by his side. They’d all laugh when Kara rolled up in her friend’s car. Yeah, right. The dead body had already told him that wouldn’t be the case. He could smell when things weren’t right, and this place smelled rotten.

Chapter Forty-Five

At first Mimi thought the voice was in her head—an echo of her fears. The words were unclear, just a burst of syllables coming closer. She grabbed Kara under her arms and tugged her limp body onto her lap. What could she do? If he found them, they were as good as dead. Damn it, Jackson. But she couldn’t really place blame on that poor man. This was all about her—her lies, and her inability to protect her child. Tears spilled down her cheeks and her lower lip trembled. She had to figure out a plan. She looked around in the darkness, still unable to see anything at all.

Could she block the door? With what? Should she run out and away from Kara, causing a distraction that might save her daughter? She placed her fingers on Kara’s neck, closing her eyes as she felt for her pulse. The faint beat beneath her fingertips sent adrenaline racing through her veins. If he found them, she’d protect Kara. She’d kill him. With what? She lowered Kara to the floor and felt around for anything that would work as a weapon. The steel contraptions beside her were too heavy with no loose parts. She crawled into the center of the small room, reaching from side to side, contemplating everything she touched, trying desperately not to make noise.

A loud crash came from outside the walls of the tiny room. Mimi froze, her eyes wide, her heart racing at a frantic pace. No, no, no. God, please, no. She inched backward in the darkness, feeling behind her, her eyes trained in the direction of the door.

Another loud crash—metal against concrete—followed by a heavy thud that sent a vibration beneath her knees. He must have thrown something. Oh, God.

“Where are you, bitch?” Roland’s voice boomed just beyond the door, fading and growing louder as he changed directions, then neared again.

Mimi scrambled back to Kara, folding her daughter’s unconscious body into as small of a bundle as she was able. She tucked her daughter’s knees to her chest, and placed her own body between Kara and the door. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kara.

Her arms hurt. She realized her fingers were digging into her own skin. She released her grasp and clasped her fingers together. Mimi closed her eyes and prayed. “Please, God, let him kill me, not her. Please, I didn’t mean to put her in danger. I didn’t mean to…to burn him. I didn’t throw him away. I loved him.” She thought about those words. Loved him. Had she loved him? As a tiny boy, maybe? It was so long ago, and they’d only spent ten months together. She closed her eyes, trying to mentally locate her buried memories of Roland as a child—a malleable, innocent child. His smooth, unmarred face rose to the surface of her memory. His smile when Al had given him his first baseball hat. She could feel his lanky little boy arms wrapped around her neck, his breath on her cheek as he said, “I love you, Mommy.” Yes, she had loved him. She was sure of it. The change that had overtaken him happened so suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped. Overnight, he’d morphed from a sweet, caring child to another little boy all together, possessive and aggressive. She’d blamed herself—an outsider entering his world, which had already been upended enough. It was Al who had tamped down that worry, with his talk of how Roland had most likely inherited his mother’s chemical imbalance, that the trauma of his mother’s institutionalization was likely what had triggered it, even if it had revealed itself several months after her disappearance.

“Marissa!” Roland’s irate voice boomed through the closed door.

Mimi reached for Kara’s hand, clenching it, then releasing it. Kara might suddenly wake and make a noise, leading to their discovery. Mimi covered her mouth and nose. Her own breathing seemed too loud.

The gears of the doorknob turned.

Mimi gasped.