LITMIR.BIZ

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it work? You’re awfully pensive these days.”

      “Something like that. I’m getting a drink, you want anything?”

      “Some water would be nice, thanks.”

      In the kitchen Styebeck poured himself a glass of orange juice, stood at the window over the sink, looked out at his yard and continued ruminating.

      Immediately after that reporter, Gannon, had confronted him, Styebeck made a round of calls on his cell phone to detective friends. It was odd. Few of them had time to talk, and those that did seemed cagey.

      “Yeah,” a cop from Erie County told him. “There was a joint-forces case-status meeting today out at Clarence Barracks. Hush-hush. Mike Brent was running it. You didn’t miss much, just a bunch of wild-ass theories about suspects.”

      “Any names come up?”

      “Names? No, Karl, they had no names on the board. As far as I’m concerned, Brent’s a prick. They’ve got no evidence and the way he’s headed, he’ll never clear this. Sorry, Karl, I have to go.”

       Why hadn’t he been called to that meeting?

      Now, as he finished his glass, Styebeck asked himself again.

       Why wasn’t he invited to that meeting?

      He didn’t know Brent, but he’d talked to him and his partner earlier about his theories on the Hogan homicide. They’d come to him because he had a lot of confidential informants downtown.

       That’s what they said.

      Then this reporter, Gannon, bushwhacks him with this crazy allegation.

       Where the hell was that coming from? What did he know?

      “Oh, Karl, I forgot to tell you.” Alice entered the kitchen, startling him. “Some guy called for you when you were out.”

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know. He didn’t say. He didn’t leave a message and the number didn’t come up. I figured it had something to do with the game and told him you were at the park.”

      He said nothing.

       It was likely Gannon, he thought. Well, he wasn’t worried. There’s no way the Sentinel would run a story based on that B.S. he was peddling. No one could possibly know what he knew about Bernice Hogan’s murder.

      “Karl, is something going on? We’ve had quite a number of strange calls over the last few weeks. And you’ve been so edgy. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

      Styebeck turned away from his wife and went back to searching the night through the kitchen window.

      “No, Alice. It’s all work related. Everything’s fine.”

      9

      Jolene Peller surfaced through the haze of semiconsciousness.

      A low monotonous rattling sounded in her head as memory and awareness fell upon her in ominous drops.

       Where was she? What happened?

       Bernice.

      She’d had a bad feeling and had gone to help Bernice; had followed her into the night where she’d heard pleading.

       Bernice begging in the confusion then a scream.

       The man.

      Jolene had glimpsed him in the chaos and he saw her; hit her with a blazing light, blinding her, locked onto her, chased her, hunted her.

      She ran but could not outrun the darkness.

      It was a nightmare. She’d had a nightmare. Okay, then wake up.

       Wake up!

       SHE WAS AWAKE!

      Jolene’s heart thumped as her memory gave way to an onslaught of crushing fear.

       What was happening?

       Bernice? What happened to Bernice?

       What’s going to happen to me?

      The blood rushing in her ears roared with the droning.

       What was that noise?

       Why was this happening?

       Why her?

      The air smelled of old wood, cardboard and something foul. Oh God. Oh God. She trembled, her stomach roiled. She kept her eyes shut tight, fought to stem her mounting hysteria and clear her mind.

       Think.

       You’re alive.

       You’ve got to get out of this.

      She was lying on something padded. A disgusting-smelling mattress. Her tongue burned with an awful aftertaste and her jaw ached. Something between her upper and lower teeth was splitting her mouth open. It felt like a leather belt strapped so tight to her head her eyes hurt.

      She raised her hand to try to relieve the pressure, but her hands were welded together by something cutting into her wrists. Some sort of binding.

       Breathe.

      The stench of the air was choking.

      Jolene clawed at the buckle at the back of her head in vain. Her nose was clear. If she stayed calm she could breathe.

       Did she dare open her eyes?

       She had to.

       Okay. All right. Easy. Breathe.

      She opened them wide to absolute blackness.

      She raised her hands to her face and saw nothing. It was as if she’d been disembodied.

       As if she were dead.

      She was terrified of the dark.

       Terrified of being buried alive.

      Overcome with vertigo, she was consumed by a sickening sense of whirling and falling. A muffled whimper escaped from deep in her throat and echoed in the silence.

      Breathe, she told herself. Stay calm.

       You’re alive.

       If you’re alive, you can fight to survive. Be strong. Don’t cry. Fight. The earth shifted.

      Jolene was jolted across the mattress. Humming, hissing and, now, mechanical grinding grew louder. What was happening? The world started moving.

      Jolene’s dark prison was now mobile and gathering speed.

      10

      The next morning, victory called out to Gannon from his front-page story.

      On every street corner with a Buffalo Sentinel newspaper box, his exclusive took up six columns on page one, above the fold, under the headline:

      Hero Cop Suspected in College Student’s Murder

      This was a clean kill against the competition, the Buffalo News. Those guys had squat. Looking at the bank of news boxes while waiting for a downtown traffic light to change, he savored the rush of pride.

       Don’t get cocky. Glory was fleeting in this business, where you’re only as good as your next story.

       But a cop? Man, he’d hit this one out of the ballpark.

      His story was the line item in the Sentinel’s morning edition.

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