Pretty Girls Dancing(10)
“Now why can’t you be that smooth in front of a microphone?” Ben Craw searched inside his suit jacket pockets for some gum. He fought a continually losing battle against smoking. He’d quit at least a dozen times in the last year. Mark had kept track. Craw found a piece and unwrapped it, popping it into his mouth as he scanned the open space outside the room.
“Then what would you do?”
“Put out fires before they start.” He jerked a thumb at the door they’d just exited. “Did you hear the question shouted out there at the end by the loudmouth from KKXT?” At Mark’s head shake, he continued. “Wanted to know if this was the work of the Ten Mile Killer. Christ on a cracker.” He shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got no forced entry, evidence that the girl left the house of her own accord, and some bozo already has her the victim of a serial killer.”
“One who’s probably died of old age by now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Craw’s blue eyes narrowed, and he jabbed a finger at Mark’s chest. “There’s no evidence linking this girl to the TMK. That case over in West Bend deep-sixed Tom Hannity’s career. He’s a damn fine agent and a good friend of mine. It’s always easy to second-guess, but the guy did everything right near as I could tell but couldn’t catch a break in the investigation. And because of it, every runaway, every Amber Alert, every kid who gets lost in the tristate area has the press dragging that case out again. Anything for a story, right? But mark my words, when the DeVrieses hear it brought up—and they will—they’re going to make your life a living hell.”
He started off toward Masterson’s office. Mark followed more slowly. “Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re good with parents, remember? I’m the guy who handles the media.”
Whitney DeVries
November 2
5:32 p.m.
He was back. She could hear him breathing.
Whitney guiltily scrambled off the blow-up mattress, the chain attached to the manacle on her wrist jangling. Her prison was a large shadowy room with a raised stage at one end, where she was shackled to a long barre attached to the back wall. The place was nearly dark. The only light came from a computer screen and a projector, centered somewhere in the middle of the room. And the flickering, illuminated scene it cast on the white cement-block wall behind her.
“Whitney, dear.”
She hugged her arms around her middle, feeling chilly and exposed in the thin leotard. His voice made her feel that way. Like a fingernail lightly running down her spine. Quickly she made her way to the center of the stage.
“What are rules one and seven?”
Her mind went blank like it did whenever Mrs. Zaner called on her in math because Whitney and a friend were whispering. But this time she knew the answer. She did! But there were so very many rules . . .
“Not to . . . not to . . . ,” she stuttered, buying time. And then her mind cleared, and a spasm of relief shook her. “Not to stop practicing before the film is over.”
“Very good. And rule number one?” The voice was deep and slow and sort of hollow sounding. Maybe it seemed freakier because it always came from the dark. No matter how hard she peered, she could never make out more than a shadow.
Or maybe it was because it never changed. Happy? Angry? Who knew with the freak. It was always even. “I may use the bed from nine p.m. to seven fifteen a.m.”
“Well, now I’m confused. It’s only five thirty. You do seem to know the rules. You just didn’t obey them.”
The flesh on her arms rose. She began to shake.
“I want to be fair, Whitney. I really do. If you have a logical reason for your disobedience, now’s your chance to tell me.”
How could crazy sound so normal? He could have been her dad, telling her for the tenth time to turn off her iPod and do her chores. Except her dad didn’t have that creepiness in his voice. That wet, syrupy evil.
“I . . .” Her throat dried out. When the projector was on, it was impossible to see beyond its beam to the darkness beyond. It was like having a conversation with a psycho ghost.
“I . . . got tired. I couldn’t sleep last night.” Couldn’t because she’d been crying for her mom and dad. For her little brother, Ryan, and her cat, Freckles. She wanted her family. She wanted her room. She wanted her friends. She even wanted witchy Mrs. Zaner.
“Is there anything else?”
“I want to go home!” She stomped her foot, the words tumbling out of her as rage shoved aside fear for the moment. “Let me go!” She yanked at the chain securing one wrist to the steel barre. It clanked in rhythm with her shouts. “Take me home! Take me home now, you fucking freak!” The demand ended on a shriek.
“I’m afraid you’ve made your situation worse.” The voice was mild, but disapproval threaded through it. “Now you’ve broken rules four and five, as well. I can only assume that you’re willfully disobeying.”
The fury that had welled up inside her vanished as if it had been sucked away by a vacuum. Fear did a fast sprint up her spine. “I didn’t mean to.” What would he do now? Would he come up here? Would he touch her? Would he make her do disgusting things with him? Her mind scrambled away from that thought. Please, no. Please, God, no.
“I’m sorry.”