Chris Mooney - The Missing

When the door opened, the man with the mask would think she was curled up underneath the blanket; she would be pressed up against the wall next to the door. After he stepped inside her room, she'd get behind him and kick him squarely in the crotch. Get in one good kick, and after he fell to the floor – they always did – she'd kick him in the face and in the head.

Carol, dressed in her underwear and bra, shivered inside the cool room. To stay awake and keep warm, she paced the small area near the door, knowing she had only six steps before she hit the wall. When she felt tired, when the fear started to trickle in, she pounded her hands against the wall to keep the anger close to her skin.

She thought about the tray of food and wondered if it was still in the hallway. The thought of food made her stomach rumble. She didn't need the food, she reminded herself. She could survive on water, and there was plenty of it from the sink. She had some water earlier, wanting to stay hydrated and to flush the drugs from her system -

Wait. The tray. The food was on a plastic tray. If she broke the tray, she could use the sharp pieces to defend herself. She could use it on his face. She could use it on his eyes.

Her door started to open, clank-clank-clank.

Carol pressed her back against the wall, tensing, eyes tuned to the square of dull light parting the darkness along the floor. Get ready, she had to think about getting ready, she only had one shot and she couldn't waste it.

The man with the mask didn't come into her room – he wasn't even standing outside her room. His shadow wasn't on the floor.

Music started playing – old-fashioned jazz stuff that reminded Carol of a time when men wore things like fedoras and went to places like speakeasies. No banging and no screaming.

Her door was still open. The last time, the door shut after a couple of minutes.

Was he waiting for her to come out there?

To get the tray, she'd have to risk turning the corner. She'd have to risk having him see her. If he saw her, then her plan of using the clothes and pillow underneath the blanket would be worthless.

She couldn't defend herself with her hands. The man with the mask was too strong. And he had a knife. She needed the tray. Carol edged closer to the opened door, listening for sounds, watching for movement, a shadow.

Now Carol stood at the corner. Carefully, she turned the corner and looked.

The plastic tray had been kicked down to the far end of the long hallway. Beneath the tray and looking black in the dim light was a pool of blood. It was coming from the woman lying facedown on the floor.

Don't scream, don't you dare scream or he'll hear you.

Carol bit her bottom lip and tried hard to clamp down on the scalding fear.

Get the tray.

Carol didn't move. She was thinking about the dead woman lying in all that blood. She wasn't moving.

You need to get the tray. If he comes back here with the knife -

Carol ran.

Her door started to clank shut.

Carol kept running. She focused on the tray, the prize. Keep running.

It seemed to take forever to reach the end of the corridor. She scooped up the tray, the blood warm and sticky underneath her feet. Carol turned around, about to run back to her room, when she felt the woman's hand clamp around her ankle.

Carol screamed.

'Help me,' the woman said in a sleepy voice. 'Please.'

BANG, a door slammed shut.

Get back to the room.

I can't leave her -

She's dead, Carol, get back to the room now.

Carol ran back with the tray. She ran as fast as she could, legs pumping, dear God please help me, please let me make the door.

The door to her room was shut.

There was no handle. Carol clawed at the door, her bloody fingers sliding across the cold steel, trying to find a way to pry it open. There was no way to open it. The door was shut and she was locked out, trapped out here with the dead woman -

BANG, another door slammed shut, BANG-BANG-BANG, the man with the mask was coming for her.

Darby woke to the still darkness of her mother's bedroom, her legs tangled around a blanket. Her mother must have put the blanket on. Darby had no memory of doing it.

Sheila's breath caught. Darby stood up, leaned in 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.