Page 179 of Cold, Cold Bones
I thanked whatever gods were looking over me that Slidell had been dogged in pursuing every lead in the copycat murders.
Having found that the sketchy gardener at MiraVia alibied out and recalling a comment the security guard, George, had made about a previous 911 call from the facility, Skinny had pulled the old B&E report. Henry was listed as one of the responders. Inspired by this finding, he did similar digging on the Happy Trails crematorium “sitch.” Found that Detective Henry had also been involved in that investigation.
Slidell had also listened to his gut.
Feeling more and more vindicated in his distrust of “the newbie,” Skinny had called the LAPD and received essentially the same report that I’d gotten from Mickey. Henry had made detective due to nepotism, was unstable and had been forced to leave the job.
Slidell got the speed dial call from my pocketed phone as he was researching Henry’s home address. Though he couldn’t make out “a goddam word” being said, he ordered a check on the annex, then secured backup and raced to Shagbark Court.
A uniformed cop approached me. Fortner.
“I understand you need transport to Atrium Health Pineville?”
“I do.”
I rose, shakily, and followed Fortner to his patrol car, again thanking that pantheon of unknown deities.
And Slidell, who’d said my statement could wait.
There was only one question that needed answering at that moment.
How was my daughter?
40
SATURDAY, MARCH12
Two weeks passed.
Spring sashayed into the Carolinas, a-bumping and a-grinding with bunnies and butterflies and baby birds. The seventy-degree days encouraged the redbuds and dogwoods to green-light their blooms, the snowdrops and crocus to venture aboveground.
On a sunny Saturday afternoon, Katy and I were in her garden, clearing dead vegetation from a clutch of daffodils struggling to make their appearance. A mockingbird high up in her magnolia had a lot to say.
To the right of the daffodils, a solo tulip stood tall and oddly alone. I wondered. Had the property’s previous occupant planted just one bulb? Had this renegade blossom offended its garden mates? Had it survived a winter its brethren hadn’t?
Katy was yanking with vigor, her face flushed, her tee damp with the effort. Her pile of discarded vines and runners was much larger than mine.
Too much time spent pondering the bulbiferous loner?
I like tulips. I liked thinking about this one. Or was I using my curiosity regarding the rebel flower to avoid pulling weeds?
To avoid thinking about Henry and her psychotic need for vengeance?
I still had flashbacks to that night in the basement. The terrifying ride to the hospital. The endless hours in the ER waiting room. The final word that Katy would recover. The overwhelming relief.
Katy continued to suffer flashbacks, too. Hers involved a different time and place. Different players. A psychotherapist was helping with the PTSD—a treatment called EMDR, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Katy had explained the process, but I’m not sure I fully understood. Something about accessing traumatic memories while simultaneously focusing on an external stimulus, like moving your eyes. Katy was “rolling with the campaign.” Whatever “the campaign” was, she was improving.
My daughter recalled little from her time with Henry. They’d met right after Katy started at Roof Above. Henry had visited the shelter to inquire about a robbery suspect, undoubtedly fictitious. They’d hit it off—a cop and a former soldier—subsequently shared craft brews and wings at the Moosehead Grill on Montford. Then nothing.
Tox testing found Versed, a benzodiazepine, in Katy’s system. Henry had probably laced her beer during that Moosehead meal. After hauling her prisoner to the farmhouse, Henry had kept her sedated via intranasal delivery.
The drug had wiped Katy’s memory as clean as a wet sponge washes a whiteboard. Versed will do that for you. Good for colonoscopy patients. Not good for crime vics.
In retrospect, we figured Henry had been tracking me for years, but had finalized her plan for Katy’s abduction the day she saw the photo on my desk. My idiot disclosure that my daughter volunteered at a men’s homeless shelter played right into her hands.
Smart move, Brennan.
Goosed by comments frommoi, my daughter had been trying to stay open to letting new people into her life. Henry had taken advantage, stalked, and eventually kidnapped her. Ironically, in the days prior to the abduction, Katy’s PTSD had been causing her tointerpret my concern as smothering. Thus, she’d been refusing to take my calls.
