The Missing Page 0,65

close to her mother and heard Sheila’s soft, ragged breathing. Darby checked her mother’s pulse. It was still strong.

But not for long. Soon, very soon, Sheila would be buried next to Big Red and then Darby would be alone – alone in this house with its lifetime of collected knickknacks and pictures, the dime-store jewelry her mother bargained down at flea markets and discount stores, all of it proudly stored in one of the few valuable items she owned – a beautiful handmade jewelry box handed down from two generations of McCormick women.

No more phone calls. No more words of encouragement. No more shared birthdays and holidays and Sunday night dinners in the city. No more conversations. No more new memories.

And how would she fight to keep the memories she had from fading? Darby thought of her father’s goose-down vest, how she had worn it after he died, lost in its warmth and fading whispers of cigar smoke and Canoe aftershave, feeling close to him. What would she wear of her mother’s to keep Sheila from fading? What had Helena Cruz held of Melanie’s to keep her daughter’s memory alive? Was Dianne Cranmore lying awake in this same darkness right now, sitting in her daughter’s room leveraged between despair and hope, wondering where Carol was, wondering if she was all right, wondering if she was coming home or wondering if she was gone?

Darby lay back against her mother’s bed, the pillow damp with sweat, and wrapped the blanket around her. For no reason at all she saw Rachel Swanson lying in her hospital bed, terrified. Now she was lying inside a morgue cooler with a Y-shaped incision stitched on her chest, the fear still sealed inside of her.

What about Carol? Was she awake now, breathing this same darkness?

Darby didn’t know many things about herself, but she knew this much: she could not, would not, stop searching for Carol. Dead or alive, she would be found.

Darby went down the hallway to the spare bedroom. She clicked on the small desk lamp, turned on the computer and reviewed the photographs.

Here was Rachel Swanson with her strong, plain face and good hair.

Here was Terry Mastrangelo, average looking, black hair. Rachel’s was brown.

Now Carol Cranmore, the youngest, her body having already produced the right amount of curves to get men to look her way. She’d be a knockout in the years to come. Darby had already ruled out physical attraction as a unifying connection. The women didn’t even look the same. Was it something about their personalities?

Darby tried to imagine him sitting behind the wheel of a van, trolling through neighborhoods, searching for women who caught his eye. Had he just happened upon them and then decided to watch them for some period of time before devising an abduction plan?

Fact: he kidnapped these women and kept them somewhere they couldn’t be found. They had no bodies, no evidence. Traveler was careful.

But he had made a mistake at Carol’s house. He had left blood behind. Rachel Swanson had escaped. He planned on doing something to her – getting rid of her seemed the only rational explanation. Rachel was sick. She wasn’t any use to him anymore.

And Rachel Swanson knew that. She had outsmarted him. She was a survivor. She had used her time to devise a plan and had escaped and Traveler had found her and killed her because he was afraid Rachel knew something that would help the police find him. What? What was she missing?

Frustrated, Darby grabbed her Walkman and listened to her taped conversation with Rachel.

‘He’s got me,’ Rachel said over the headphones. ‘He’s got me real good this time.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Yes, he is. I saw him.’

‘There’s no one in here but you and me. You’re safe.’

‘He came to me last night and put on these handcuffs.’

Darby hit STOP. Handcuff key. Rachel said she had a handcuff key. Darby hadn’t found one underneath the porch.

She pressed the PLAY button and leaned forward, listening.

‘I know what he’s looking for,’ Rachel said. ‘I took it from his office. He can’t find it because I buried it.’

‘What did you bury?’

‘I’ll show you, but you’ve got to find a way to help me out of these handcuffs. I can’t find my handcuff key. I must have dropped it.’

Darby stopped the tape again and hunted through the pictures.

Here was one of Rachel Swanson in the back of the ambulance. Her arms were covered in mud. The next three photos were close-ups of the wounds on Rachel’s chest.

Here