Chris Mooney - The Missing

'I thought the bass player was better looking.'

'He didn't do it for me.' Coop's face turned serious. 'When Pam disappeared, everyone in town thought we had a boogeyman prowling around at night. My mother was so paranoid, she made my sisters move up to the second floor. She wanted an alarm system, but we couldn't afford one, so she convinced my old man to change all the locks on the house and install some extra deadbolts. Sometimes at night I'd wake up and hear a noise, and it would be my mother running around downstairs making sure the doors and windows were locked. My sisters wouldn't walk anywhere alone. Not that they could. Charlestown had instituted a curfew because ofwhat happened to Pam.'

Coop wiped the sweat from his face. 'Wasn't one of Grady's victims from Belham?'

'There were two,' Darby said. 'Melanie Cruz and Stacey Stephens.'

'Did you know them?'

'We went to school together. I was friends with Melanie – good friends.'

'So you know what I'm talking about,' Coop said. 'That's what this case reminds me of, that same kind of fear.'

They jogged back to the station and hit the showers. Darby was drying her hair when her cell phone rang. The caller was Dr Hathcock from Mass General. It was difficult to hear her over the screaming.

'What did you say?' Darby asked.

'I said Jane Doe just woke up. She's yelling for someone named Terry.'

Darby was relieved to see two additional patrolmen stationed outside the ICU doors.

'Doc's waiting for you inside,' the chubby one said with a wry grin. 'Enjoy.'

Darby was wondering what he meant when she saw the tall, balding man huddled against the wall around the corner from Rachel Swanson's room, having a private conversation with Dr Hathcock. The man's name was Dr Thomas Lomborg. He was the hospital's director of psychiatry and author of several bestselling books on deviant criminal behavior.

'Damn,' Coop said, patting down his pockets.

'What's wrong?'

'I forgot to pack my pompous asshole repellent.'

'Play nice.'

Darby flinched at the painful cry coming from down the corridor: 'TERRY!'

Quick introductions all around. Lomborg spoke first.

'I gave Jane Doe a mild sedative to calm her down. As you can hear, it hasn't had much of an effect. Dr Hathcock and I both agree her physical condition is still too risky to handle an antipsychotic drug, and I'm a bit leery of prescribing one until I can diagnose her mental condition. Dr Hathcock told me Jane Doe believes you're this person named Terry?'

'She did the other night, when I found her under the porch,' Darby said. 'Her name is Rachel Swanson.'

'Is Terry a real person?'

'Yes, she is. I can't get into specifics, but Terry and Rachel knew each other for an extended period of time.'

'Can you at least tell me the circumstances of their relationship? It might help me with a diagnosis and possible treatment.'

'They endured the same trauma,' Darby said.

'Which is?'

'I don't know.'

'And Rachel Swanson? Can you tell me anything about her?'

'Nothing that would be helpful,' Darby said. 'Has she spoken at all? Said anything beyond calling out for Terry?'

'Not to my knowledge.' Lomborg looked to Dr Hathcock, who was shaking her head.

'TERRY, WHERE ARE YOU?'

'I want to go in her room and see if I can talk to her again,' Darby said.

'I'll be in there when you question her,' Lomborg said.

'Rachel won't talk if you're in there – if anyone is in there. She wouldn't talk until I was alone with her.'

'Then I'll listen outside the door.'

'I'm sorry, but I can't allow that,' Darby said. 'For whatever reason, this woman trusts me, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that trust.'

Lomborg stiffened. The dark circles under his eyes were covered with a light concealer so he'd look good for the camera crews camped out in front of the hospital.

'Are you going to record your conversation?' Lomborg asked.

'I am.'

'I want a copy before you leave.'

'You'll get one after it's been reviewed.'

'This is not only highly irregular, it's against hospital procedure.'

'TEEERRRRRRRRY!'

'Dr Lomborg, I don't want to argue, I want to get in there and calm Rachel down,' Darby said. 'What would you suggest I do?'

'That's difficult to say, since I don't have much information about the case, or the circumstances causing her trauma. She's in a highly agitated state because she wants out of her restraints. Under no circumstances are you to do that. Despite your success the previous evening, Rachel may not be as receptive this time. She attacked a nurse.'

'Yes, I know. Dr Hathcock told me what happened yesterday.'

'I was referring to this morning's incident,' Lom-borg said. 'A nurse, thinking Rachel Swanson was still sedated, reached across her face to change a bandage, and Rachel bit her arm. Speaking ofwhich, what's this business about the numbers and letters she wrote on her wrist?'

'We don't know.' Come on, you stuffy bastard, let me in there.

'You need to try and convince her that we're here to help. She seems to think she's being kept somewhere. That's all I can tell you.'

Rachel Swanson screamed for help, her bed thumping against the floor.

'Those two gentlemen standing outside her door, the ones dressed in hospital whites, they're psychiatric orderlies,' Lomborg said. 'They know how to restrain patients, if it comes to that.'

'That's fine, but I don't want them or anyone else looking through the window. It might scare her.' Darby took out her microcassette recorder. It was a small model, easily concealed inside a shirt pocket, and held a brand-new ninety-minute tape.

'I know you're anxious to get in there,' Lomborg said, 'but please understand this: If anything happens to you, the hospital will not be held liable. Are we clear on that point?'

Darby nodded. She pressed the RECORD button and tucked the recorder in her shirt pocket.

It seemed to take a long time to reach the door.

Gripping the cold steel handle, Darby fished for some scrap of memory, some thought or image she could use to keep her anchored against the rising tide of fear. The summer when she came back home for the first time, Sheila told her there was nothing in the house that could hurt her and held her hand as they walked through the house together. Her mother wasn't here, and nobody was going to hold her hand. Nobody was holding Carol Cranmore's hand.

Darby took in a deep breath and held it as she opened the door.

Rachel Swanson's body was drenched in sweat. Her eyes were clamped shut and she was whispering to herself, as if saying a prayer.

Darby walked toward the bed, taking slow, quiet steps. Rachel Swanson didn't stir, didn't move. When Darby reached the side of the bed, she leaned in close to make out the words caught between Rachel's pinched, wheezing voice:

'One R L three R L.'

Rachel was chanting the words she had written on her arm.

'Two L R two R L R R S L – no R, the last one is R.'

Darby placed the tape recorder on the pillow. She waited a moment, listening as Rachel Swanson counted all the way to six and then started over.

'Rachel, it's me. Terry.'

Rachel Swanson's eyes flew open, focused. 'Terry, oh thank God you found me.' She tugged at her restraints. 'He's got me. He's got me 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.'

'You're in a hospital,' Darby said. 'You… accidentally attacked a nurse.'

'He injected me again and before I fell asleep. I saw him look around my cell.'

'You're in a hospital. There are people here who want to help you – I want to help you.'