Page 89 of The Perfect Divorce

I hear Olson yell my name.

“Marcus.”

She never uses my first name on the job... so I know she’s scared, but I don’t answer because my eyes are fixated on the motionless person lying in the cellar.

“Prince William County Sheriff’s Office!” I call down.

“Please, you have to help me!” a woman yells back.

I start to descend the stairs, gun drawn in front of me, taking them slowly. They creak beneath my boots, and I notice drops of blood leading all the way down them. Pam is now at my back, but she’s quiet. She rests her hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, letting me know she has my six covered. I crouch slightly as I move down the stairs, so I’m able to see beneath the ceiling line into the basement before I reach the bottom of the steps. The first thing I notice is Bob Miller, lying face down on the concrete, his head craned to the side, eyes still open, lifeless. I don’t have to check his pulse to know he’s already gone. Descending another step and looking to the right, I can see an old, stained mattress, a chain tethered to a support beam, and a pool of dried blood. One more step, and I can finally see the woman a little off to the left, her ankle chained to a pole and her arms outstretched in front of her with a revolver clutched in her hands.

“Ma’am! Put the gun down,” I say calmly.

“He killed her, and he was going to kill me too,” she cries out.

“I hear you and I believe you, but you have to put the gun down,” I say, planting my boots firmly on the concrete floor, so we’re in full view of each other. I hold up one hand while the other grips my gun at my side. I don’t want her to feel any more in danger than she already does, but if I have to draw up again to protect myself and Pam, I will. Her red hair is matted, going in all directions, and tears streak her face, which is covered in dirt and grime. I recognize her immediately. How could I not? Her photo has hung on the wall of the briefing room for the past week.

Stacy Howard blinks several times like she can’t believe her own eyes, as though she’s trying to convince herself that I’m real and she truly is safe now. She looks at the gun clasped in her hands, then at the body on the floor, and then back to the gun. The firearm shakes, and with a quick movement, she finally pitches it toward me, sending it skidding across the floor.

I holster my weapon and bend down, placing two fingers on Bob’s neck. No pulse, just as I suspected. I glance back at Olson and shake my head, signaling that he’s dead.

I move toward Stacy, not too fast. “You’re going to be okay now.”

She holds her face in her hands, rocking back and forth, trembling, and I don’t blame her. From what I can make of this cellar, it’s the stuff of nightmares.

“I had to do it. I had to do it,” Stacy says, weeping uncontrollably.

FORTY-NINE

SHERIFF HUDSON

Stacy Howard is lying in a hospital bed, tucked snugly under the scratchy, sterile sheets. The beeping from the vital monitoring system punctuates a healthy, normal heart rate—hopefully she’ll be ready to speak with us now. She’s hooked up to an IV, providing her with the fluids and nutrients needed to restore her strength. Other than dehydration and the wounds on her hands and ankle from the chain, she was mostly unharmed. But not all injuries are borne on the body. Doctors also found she had trace amounts of scopolamine in her system, a powerful anticholinergic drug that, if taken in large doses, can render a person unconscious for twenty-four hours or more.

Olson and I take a seat in the guest chairs beside her bed. “Stacy, can you tell us how long you were down in that basement?” I ask.

Her voice is weak, and she strains to talk. “It was hard to tell without any light, but I would guess at least a week, maybe. What day is it?”

“Thursday, June 8,” Olson says.

“Were you taken to another location before the basement?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Sorry,” she says, tears rolling out of her eyes. “I just woke up down there.”

“Don’t apologize. Every little piece of information you can give us is helpful, and don’t worry about the parts you can’t remember.” Olson reaches out her hand, touching Stacy’s.

We know, given the drug that showed up in her blood analysis, she probably won’t remember much.

“There was someone else down there with me, not the whole time though. She said her name was Carissa. But...” Stacy stops as pain twists her face, a sob threatening to pour out of her. “I think he killed her. She was screaming, calling out my name, begging me for help, but I couldn’t. And then... then... I didn’t hear her anymore.” Stacy meets Olson’s gaze and begins to weep, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Pam brushes away the hair caught in her tears. “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you anymore. You can just rest.” Olson looks back at me and shakes her head.

Now isn’t the time for questioning, despite how badly we need information in relation to Carissa’s whereabouts. But the last thing we want to do is push a tortured woman back into the recesses of the hell she just crawled out of.

Olson and I say our goodbyes and tell Stacy not to worry. We leave the room and continue through the hospital, stopping off at a vending machine area to grab what will surely be a horrendous cup of fifty-cent coffee.

“Forensics came back with the results from the blood on that knife that was dropped off at the station,” Olson says as the machine dispenses the hot, brown liquid into a matching brown paper cup.

“That fast?” I ask, shocked at the turnaround.

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