As Sick as Our Secrets Page 13

  She removes a hand from the steering wheel and presses her fist into her thigh, face red, lips forced together. “Well, I do want to talk about it. Come on! Spill it! I mean, after all these years, I deserve to know your opinion, don’t I?” She pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the middle compartment and puts one in her mouth.

  I can’t risk Richard smelling cigarette smoke on me. I told Margit I was out looking for a good book to read at Barnes and Noble. “Do you mind?”

  Ashley looks at me with penetrating eyes as she lights the cigarette. “Don’t try to divert the topic. I want to hear what’s bugging you.”

  An incoming call saves me from an awkward explanation. Nothing is ever Ashley’s fault. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her apologize. Not that I care.

  “Betty! I’m glad you called back.” She pushes the cigarette into the ashtray and leans forward to make sure the microphone catches her words.

  “Why are you calling me, Ashley? Brad’s home. Can you imagine the trouble I’d find myself in if he heard us talking?”

  “Chill, Betty! Okay? I don’t think your husband would be suspicious if an old friend called you up.”

  “Hi, Betty. It’s Olivia.”

  A wry laugh. “Isn’t that nice. What’s this? A reunion?”

  “Look, I didn’t call to cause trouble or to argue with you. Can we just forget about the past?”

  “It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose. I have children, Ashley, and a husband who happens to be a cop. You know what would have happened to my life, to my children’s lives, if that man talked?”

  “His ass has been deported back to whatever shithole place he came from in Colombia. Besides, we paid him handsomely. I don’t think we’ll ever hear from him again. But that’s not why I called you.”

  “So, do I owe you now? It’s time for me to pay you back for your generously offered money?”

  “Would you please stop and listen?” Ashley turns to me. “Could you talk to her? She doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” The dashboard resonates with the tone of Betty’s voice. “You fucked us, Ashley. At least admit it. It was supposed to be a weekend of fun, and now I can never rest in peace because there might be photos of me circulating online. If Brad ever finds them, my marriage will be over.”

  “Nobody held a gun to your head, Betty. If you want someone to blame, blame yourself.” Ashley disconnects the line.

  “Oh, God, Ashley. Can’t you just say you’re sorry?” I admonish her.

  “No, I will not, Olivia. She rode that guy like a rodeo horse. You can blame it on the alcohol or the drugs, but ultimately it was Betty who went along with all of it. Did I know the guy was a scam artist when I hired him? Of course not! So don’t make me apologize for organizing Betty’s best night ever. She’s only mad because she got caught. If the guy hadn’t blackmailed her with the photos, she would be asking me to put together another girls’ night out in Vegas.”

  “Just call her back and say you’re sorry, for Christ’s sake. Jesus!”

  The incoming call from Betty sent us both back in our seats.

  “I can’t believe you hung up on me, Ashley. That’s messed up.”

  “I’m sorry, Betty, but we have bigger problems than arguing about things from years ago. We need your help. Are you in or out?”

  Silence.

  “I’m getting off at Temecula Parkway,” Ashley says, pushing Betty to respond. “So? What’s your answer?”

  “We can’t talk here. Whatever it is we need to talk about, we need to do it someplace else. Let me think. There is a Mexican place on Temecula Parkway. They have the best ceviche in town. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  Ashley

  Wednesday

  The O’Neills’ place is as I expected. A ten-mile dirt road reaching from the outskirts of the popular wine-country city of Temecula, past the vineyards and civilization, branching toward isolated acres. Listening to the lulling, rickety sound of the tires riding across gravel, I ponder the dirty little secrets people hide behind the walls of these secluded homes. The idea of driving by undisclosed rooms where innocent people may be forced into sex slavery or by a meth lab or marijuana hydroponic farm fills me with despair.

  As I slow down at a “yield to crossing horses” sign, I glimpse Betty’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Since I’ve seen her last, she’s lost weight. To admit she looks healthier and somewhat more feminine than me is not easy. My mother never stopped emphasizing to me how raising me took years off her life, even though I was an only child. Betty has three children, yet she glows with a sense of contentment I’ve never known.

  Olivia volunteered to keep her in good company. We agreed on this as we pulled into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant prior to meeting Betty. Thawing the ice between the two of us will take more time than a quick lunch and a short drive.

  While scooping up ceviche with tortilla chips, we learned from Betty that Brad had never mentioned anything to her about a serial killer. However, my story of Skyler piqued her interest enough to promise Olivia and me that she would fish for more info at the first chance.

  She had heard about an active drug ring that the Riverside County Sheriff Department had its eyes on for some time and the local bust of a massive human trafficking organization about four months ago. On the night of the raid, over four hundred people were taken into custody.

  And here I was thinking that life in the suburbs was so perfectly boring.

  Betty also mentioned the rising number of homeless people moving into her once off-radar, quiet town. The rumor is that big liberal cities like San Francisco and Los Angeles are losing their grip on their social programs and were accused of offering free bus tickets for their undesirable homeless residents, whose numbers rose to unmanageable levels, to take up residence in Temecula—a rapidly expanding city with growing popularity—to try their luck in a place where citizen kindness and helpfulness had not yet turned into annoyance and indifference.

  Based on Skyler’s description of her captor, it is highly unlikely that a homeless guy is responsible for her previous kidnapping. Yet, as amateur detectives, we don’t have the luxury of excluding any possibilities, so we made a note to ourselves to check out the underground scene in Old Town Temecula, just to get a better picture of what we are dealing with.

  Once our lunch concluded and we began bidding farewell to each other in front of the food joint, Betty climbed into the back seat of my car and announced her plan of joining us on our drive to Skyler’s childhood home.

  Following the GPS’s instructions, we come upon Longshadow Drive after a good fifteen-minute bumpy ride on uneven dirt roads.

  As I slowly roll onto the O’Neills’ street, I turn on the windshield wipers to brush off the fine dust that’s obscuring my view.

  This last leg of our trip leads to a narrow, unpaved street stretching out between two bare hills and leading to two fenced properties. The first one on our right is number 33328, the address I was given by Peter.

  The other house is perched on the hill at a safe distance, like a secluded monastery.

  I pull up to the wrought-iron gate designed to keep people out with its high, spiked bars.

  I reach out to ring the bell, but I parked too far from the keypad speaker to reach the buttons. I roll down my window and lean out with half my body, ignoring Betty’s mockery.

  After two delightful rings, there is a click followed by the disconcerted barking of a pack of dogs.

  “Shut up! Shut the hell up!” yells a croaky male voice.

  A pain-induced yelp stops the chorus of barking for an instant before it starts up again. I picture a skinny old man, hunching over his cane and kicking the dogs with his yellow-toenailed foot, then beating them with his cane for hurting his toe.

  “Who is it?” His voice rises above the barking.

  “Hi, my name is Ashley Hansen. I’m Skyler’s psychologist from Los Angeles. Ma
y I come in, please?”

  “What do you want to come in for?”

  I feel a hand on my back. “Tell him that you believe she’s fallen victim to a crime,” Betty whispers from the back seat.

  I repeat her words into the microphone.

  A grunt. A sigh. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “May I ask when was the last time you saw her, sir?”

  “I don’t see how that is any of your business,” he groans. “SHUT UP, YOU FILTHY RATS!” he yells at the horde of excited dogs. “I’m busy. I don’t have time to talk.” He spits his words into the intercom, making me pull back a bit.

  “You are Skyler’s father, correct, Mr. O’Neill?”

  “So?”

  “So it’s very important for us to find your daughter, sir. She might be in serious danger.”

  Betty wedges herself between the two front seats, eager and determined. “Tell him that you’ll call the police if he doesn’t let you in.” It was the old Betty again, the Betty from before Vegas, the strong-willed and intense girl.

  “Look, Mr. O’Neill. I only have a few questions, and I’d rather not get the police involved unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  No answer. I look at my companions. They look crestfallen, shocked. None of us had considered the possibility that we would be denied entry to the house.

  From the blinding disappointment that comes over me, I get back into my seat and face the girls.

  “Now what?” Olivia asks.

  “We can scale that fence over there easily,” Betty suggests, pointing to the chicken-wire-like structure that encloses the property.

  As I weigh our options of getting arrested for breaking and entering, the gate starts to emit a rattling sound as it drags open sluggishly, as if the motor would be too weak to move the weight.

  Although it’s a small success, I don’t feel glorious. If anything, I’m nervous. This place must be a horrible home if Skyler deemed living alone on the streets a better option than staying here with her parents.

  The narrow road to the house is steep and climbs over a yellow weed-covered hillside. Beneath the house there is an acre of flat land divided by vacant horse stalls. In the absence of any landscaping, the lime-green stucco on the house is coated with dirt up to the windowsills.

  I pull in front of the open garage filled with junk and stop between an outdated ATV and a corroded old pickup truck.

  I catch Olivia slipping a can of pepper spray into her coat pocket. I guess I’m not the only one who feels the need to be on alert. But since it was my idea to come here, I take charge and step out of the car and walk to the porch.

  A pale girl who looks to be fourteen or fifteen years old holds the front door open. Over her skinny frame hang a loose, white T-shirt and a pair of corduroy pants with holes at the knees. She has Skyler’s eyes.

  “Go straight ahead. My parents are in the TV room,” she says.

  The hallway air is stale and thick with dust and dog hair. The sun struggles to penetrate the dirty windows and yellowed lace curtains that line our path to the inside of the house. Small dogs are jumping against a door in front of us. Their nails scrape on the milk glass.

  “Close that damned cage already.” A male voice pierces the air in the hallway.

  “How ’bout you get your fat ass off that couch and help me.” A woman is talking now, or at least I think it’s a woman.

  I open the door to an elongated living room furnished with not much regard to home décor. A blob of fat wrapped in stained clothes rises from the couch with difficulty. He is the opposite of what I imagined after hearing his voice through the intercom. Stocky legs poke out from his waistless, round bottom. There is a limp to his right leg, and as he drags himself toward us, pain distorts his face. He kicks an eager shepherd mix out of his path and grabs a little white fur ball by the skin of his back and tosses him across the room.

  “It’s okay, Mr. O’Neill. They don’t bother us,” Olivia says with urgency.

  By the TV, a woman with greasy, long hair is shoving dogs into cages with a somewhat frantic effort. We push our way through the little whimpering dogs to the couch. I’m careful not to step on them because they are too stupid to move out of the way. Most of the big dogs are already locked away in cages that take up half the room. The angry woman kicks at the cage doors. Her aggressive reaction subdues them momentarily, but there are a few dogs that seem to be resilient to the threat.

  “Damned dogs. We rescued them from the shelter, and that’s the thanks we get?” She snatches a Yorkshire terrier and hurls it into a two-by-two cage before slamming the door on its muzzle.

  “Stop your whining, woman. I’m sure these young ladies didn’t drive out here to listen to you blabber.”

  She waves her hand at her husband as she clicks her tongue, and then she drops herself onto a dirty sofa covered with stained blankets and hairy towels. From her massive weight, a thick cloud of hair and dust lifts into the air, triggering my allergies.

  I open my mouth to talk, but I can taste the putrid air and dog hair on my tongue, and I gag instead.

  “I was wondering when was the last time you saw your daughter?” I manage to say, forcing every syllable out of my mouth. My body is fighting me to shut my mouth and stop inhaling this toxic air.

  “That little bitch left us around last Easter. She asked the court to separate her from us, like she’s an adult, you know? Do you think I give a shit about her after she disrespected us like that?” Mrs. O’Neill spits the words at me.

  Her husband pays no attention to us. He is back in his recliner, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. In the glass panel of the patio door behind him, I can see the reflection from his screen. He’s looking at naked women.

  I tear my eyes from him. “She went missing, and we’re trying to locate her. I understand how you feel about her, but it would be really helpful if you could give us the names of places you think she might be staying?”

  Mrs. O’Neill lays her head on a pillow, and a cat climbs onto her face and rolls up on her forehead. I brace myself for her malevolent act, but instead she carefully reaches for the remote and changes the channel on the TV to a cooking show, balancing the cat with care.

  Dishes clang together in the kitchen behind us. The young girl who let us in is engaged in a seemingly impossible task: tidying up the countertop.

  “Go sniff around a little while I keep them talking,” I whisper to the girls.

  Betty asks permission to use the restroom, and Olivia announces her plan to go out front for a smoke. Mrs. O’Neill gives her permission to light up inside and asks for a smoke too. I handle the cigarette exchange while Olivia slips out the front door.

  “What was your question, darling?” She waves at me with her hand, and the ash from her cigarette falls to the carpet. I wipe my tearing eyes onto my sleeve and repeat my question.

  Mrs. O’Neill shrugs, taking a long hit from her cigarette. “She called yesterday or the day before, I dunno.” The smoke is stuck in her mouth like a fog on the forest floor. “She wanted to come home. The nerve of that girl.”

  “Takes after your mother,” Mr. O’Neill chimes in, pulling the level of his recliner into a more relaxed, laying position. His movements give me a weird vibe. If he puts his hand in his sweatpants, I’ll scream.

  My stomach turns over. “Did she say where she was calling you from?” I ask, still hoping for a helpful detail. After watching Betty interact with her children and experiencing my own mother’s smothering love, it is difficult for me to understand the O’Neills’ complete lack of compassion for their daughter.

  “Look, honey. I’m sure she’s fine. She lives with some rich guy in Hollywood. That’s what she was always dreaming of, the Land of the Movie Stars.” She says this dreamily, as if Hollywood isn’t even a real place. “She traded us for money. You think I can forgive her for that and let her come back to us? To flaunt her riches? I don’t think so.”

  “She came to see me in my
office. I’m a psychologist, and I can tell you, Mrs. O’Neill, she isn’t living the high life in Hollywood. Far from it.” It takes all my strength to talk to these people in a civilized manner.

  The woman pushes the cat off her face and twists her swollen, overfed body toward me. “And I should feel sorry for her? She got what she deserved. That’s what happens to ungrateful girls who trade their parents for money.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a vacuum cleaner roars up, followed by a chorus of yelping dogs.

  “Shut up!” Mr. O’Neill yells toward the cages. At his voice, most of the rescues lower their tails and pull their ears back in fear. I bet they dream about their peaceful days at the animal shelter.

  “What the hell?” says Mrs. O’Neill, peeking over the back of the couch.

  I follow the sound down the hallway, past a bathroom that smells of cat piss and human feces, to a storage room with wall-to-wall plastic bins filled with stuff. I find Betty pushing a vacuum cleaner back and forth on a filthy, tattered carpet. Next to her, lying on a bare mattress with big, round yellow spots, is an elderly woman. The bedpan next to her is full; it hasn’t been emptied in weeks. The entire room reeks like an outhouse. A plate with a moldy, half-eaten sandwich is about to fall off the nightstand. I can hear the rodent droppings beating against the plastic canister of the vacuum cleaner.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, horrified.

  Betty doesn’t stop and keeps yanking the vacuum cleaner back and forth with determined force. “I couldn’t leave her like this. I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t the plan, but I just can’t.”

  I sense a body behind me.

  “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE. NOW!” roars Mr. O’Neill, filling the air with his putrid garlic breath.

  “Just let me finish, okay?” Betty pleads, covering the woman, whose only movement is her toothless mouth gaping open like a fish out of water, with a blanket.

  Mr. O’Neill pushes into the room, rips the vacuum cleaner from Betty’s hand, and slams it into the corner. “There. Now you don’t have a reason to stay. Get out!” He points toward the door.