She's Not There
Marla Madison
She's Not There
Copyright © 2011 by Marla Madison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely accidental.
Published by Marla Madison.
Copyright 2011 Marla Madison
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Aric Zabel.
Edited by Red Pen Proofreading and Editing
ISBN 13: 978-1-4681-9595-8 (print)
ISBN 10: 1-4681-9595-6(print)
This novel in no way attempts to duplicate the police procedures or actual police departments in the cities of Milwaukee, Brookfield, Oconomowoc, Pewaukee and Waukesha. Any discrepancies in procedure, locations, or fact, may be attributed to the author's creativity.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the members of my writer’s group for taking this journey with me and encouraging me to keep writing even when I believed an outcome would be impossible; their support and instruction have been invaluable. Donna Glaser, Helen Block, Marjorie Doering, April Solberg, Gail Francis, Darren Kirby, and the dearly departed Bob Stokes you’ve each helped me in your own individual way.
Thanks to Terry Lee, my significant other, and my dear pets, Skygge and Poncho, for staying away when I was in the middle of an important chapter and encouraging me when I wasn’t.
Interested readers, please contact me at marla@marla
madison.com or on my blog at marlamadison.blogspot.com. I would love to hear from you. All emails will be answered as soon as possible.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Epilogue
She’s Not There
No one told me about her, the way she lied.
Well, no one told me about her, how many people cried.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Ooh, nobody told me about her. What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her though they all knew.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Well, let me tell you ‘bout the way she looks,
the way she acts and the color of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool,
her eyes were clear and bright but she’s no there.
But it’s too late to say you’re sorry.
How would I know, why should I care?
Please, don’t bother tryin’ to find her,
she’s not there.
Well, let me tell you ‘bout the way she looks,
the way she acted, the color of her hair.
Her voice was soft and cool,
her eyes were clear and bright, but she’s not there.
Words and music by Rod Argent
(c) 1965 Marquis Songs USA BMI (Marquis Music LTD PRS)
Eight years earlier
A black pickup raced along a narrow road that twisted sharply left before crossing a bridge over a deep ravine, the river below marking the division between adjoining counties. Lit by the oncoming headlights, four pine crosses stood out in the ground fog shrouding the opposite riverbank. Faded to weather-beaten gray, they stood as a reminder of young lives foolishly lost, the flowers, candles and stuffed animals that were left in tribute, long gone.
Years back, four varsity football players from a nearby high school were killed when the car they were riding in left the road at an impossibly high speed in a mad attempt to cross the narrow river without traveling the bridge. The vehicle didn’t make it over the river. Airborne, the car wedged into the opposite bank, leaving no survivors. It was rumored that the same car had successfully completed the daredevil crossing many times before the deadly impact.
Imagining the impact of his vehicle against the riverbank, the driver of the pickup pressed hard on the accelerator as the truck approached the bridge. After tonight there would be five crosses on the riverba
nk. It was unlikely anyone would cover the fifth with sentimental memorabilia.
The driver’s last thoughts—and he was certain in that split second before the truck sailed over the river that they would be his last—were not of his life flashing before him. They were gratitude, rather, for a life ended.
1
Autumn Leaves, Women’s Getaway Weekend
UWM Campus, Milwaukee
Friday 7 p.m.
Lisa Rayburn had hardly been able to focus on her class. She and Tyler didn’t get together all that often, but when they did, the magic she found in his arms kept her smiling for days. Knowing she’d be with him soon, her senses tingled as she stuffed the leftover handouts into her briefcase. She’d had one eye on the clock since she’d walked into the room.
The annual Autumn Leaves event for women offered classes on everything from money management to how to handle a divorce. For the third year running, Lisa Rayburn’s class on How To Prevent Domestic Abuse was well received by her audience. It was one of many things Lisa did in an effort to get her message out to women—don’t stay in an abusive relationship. Better yet, avoid beginning one. The early signs weren’t difficult to spot. The hard part was walking away.
Lisa looked up to see a young woman standing in front of her wearing a brown dress that covered her thin body to the ankles. She had a manila file-folder clutched to her chest as if she were afraid someone would snatch it from her.
In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, ”My name is Jennifer Hansen. I’m gathering statistics for my thesis on abused women. I need to talk to you.”
Lisa motioned her to the student desks. The girl appeared upset, frightened even, her pale hands tightly clenching the folder. When they were seated, Jennifer handed Lisa a sheet of paper. “I wanted you to see this.”
Lisa scanned the page, her eyes stopping on a line highlighted in fluorescent yellow. It revealed a dramatic rise in the percentage of abused women who’d gone missing in Milwaukee and its neighboring counties.
The line seemed to levitate from the paper—the number far too high to be a statistical aberration. If accurate, what was happening? A predator—targeting abused women? There had to be another explanation.
Her eyes could not leave the number. Lisa whispered, “Abused women were the topic of my dissertation too.”
“I know. I read it. I thought you’d know what I should do.” Jennifer’s honey-brown eyes looked to Lisa for guidance. “What’s happening to them?”
Lisa reviewed the testing method for accuracy. Everything seemed to be in order. “There has to be a mistake somewhere. I’d recommend you recount your data and run the numbers again.”
When she looked up, the girl had vanished from the room as silently as she’d arrived. Lisa squirmed in her seat. She’d dressed in anticipation of meeting Tyler. The new, yellow lace lingerie she was wearing under her sedate, gray pantsuit wasn’t meant for sitting in plastic classroom chairs. What she’d just learned had her heart racing but no longer with anticipatory lust. It seemed that Jennifer Hansen had dumped the matter into Lisa’s hands.
2
Pewaukee Lake
10:00 p.m.
A Dodge Magnum purred into a dark parking lot, its lowered chassis and darkened windows giving it a hearse-like appearance in the moonlight. A few yards downhill, Pewaukee Lake shimmered with the rays of the moon.
Across the parking lot, Jamie Denison eased slowly out of her sleek, red sports car, trying not to disturb a painful broken rib. She moved toward the door of the Sombrero Club, a popular bar and restaurant on the southwestern shore of Pewaukee Lake. The largest lake in Waukesha County, it was circled with expensive homes. The few remaining businesses clung to the edges of the small town of Pewaukee, located about twenty miles west of Milwaukee.
Jamie entered a large, noisy room with a country rock band playing loudly behind a crowded dance floor. Squeezing between a couple seated at the bar, Jamie ordered a glass of wine. While she sipped at the tart, fruity liquid, she watched the couples on the dance floor, remembering a time when she would have rejected every dance offer before she managed to entice the most attractive man in the place to her side. The lifestyle she’d enjoyed before she was married felt like it had been decades in the past. Coming here was probably a bad idea.
The lights went down as the raspy-voiced lead singer began to wail a slow, mournful version of “House of the Rising Sun,” a song she loved, but its soulful sounds seemed to stoke her unease. Part of her wanted to bolt.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of her stomach growling. Maybe that nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach had been hunger. She’d skipped supper to feel trim in her smallest jeans.
When a waitress passed near the bar hefting a huge tray piled with orders of quesadillas, burritos and nacho chips, the scent of the spicy food convinced Jamie food was what she really wanted. She walked into the adjoining restaurant, and after placing a takeout order, took a seat in the waiting area.
Through the glass doors that opened to a deck surrounding the building, she could see a sliver of moon sending a beam of light down to the lake, breaking into tiny, sparkling crescents that danced on its surface. Lured by the beauty of the scene, Jamie stepped out onto the deck and felt the warm night air caress her skin like a lover’s touch. Wineglass in hand, she lowered herself into one of the Adirondack chairs facing the lake. A couple sitting on the far side of the deck held hands and talked softly. A few young children, bored with the dining process, ran back and forth, giggling.
Jamie didn’t notice the man approaching her until he stood in front of her chair. In a warm, intimate voice, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”
She motioned to the chair beside her.
“You seemed to be deep in thought. Problems?”
When she didn’t reply, he added, “I’m a good listener.”
At three the next morning, long after closing, a lone busboy rolled a squeaky cart out onto the deck, picking up empty glassware and trash. He gave no thought to the unopened containers of food that he tossed into the plastic bag lining his cart.
Or to the red sports car that sat deserted in the dark parking lot.
3
As a volunteer counselor on Monday afternoons, Lisa Rayburn had a schedule that was usually full, downtime a rare occurrence. She sat staring at the clock, wondering why her 5:00 appointment hadn’t arrived. During the five weeks she’d been seeing Jamie Denison at the Oconomowoc Women’s Center, she’d never known her to be late. She’d liked Jamie, a lovely young woman unsure whether to stay in a marriage no longer fulfilling.
Filled with a plethora of emotions, her mind wandered. She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to the director of the Center about the statistics on the missing women; Amanda wouldn’t be in until the next day. And Tyler’s face, with its wide smile and rakish features kept intruding in her thoughts. Their night together had been wondrously passionate. But over coffee the next morning, he’d broken the news he’d gotten engaged, finishing with, “I’m sorry. But we can still get together sometimes.”
Lisa had wanted to throw something at him. She wondered what the fiancé would say if she knew about her. Lisa had never expected their relationship to be exclusive, although something as serious as an engagement had taken her by surprise. Lisa found endings painful, even when she knew them to be inevitable. One of these days she’d have to do something about the cycle of self-destruction she tolerated in her relationships.
At five-thirty she picked up the phone and dialed Jamie’s cell number. When there was no answer, she tried calling her work number—Jamie hadn’t come in that day. Worried about the girl, Lisa’s last resort was her home phone.
A male voice picked up. “Jamie? Jamie?”
Now she had a problem; confidentiality rules prevented her from revealing Jamie Denison as a client. “I’m sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”
Lisa wished she hadn’t called Jamie’s home phone. She’d be co
ncerned about her until she heard from her. Something was wrong if Jamie wasn’t at work and her husband, assuming that was who’d answered the phone, didn’t know where she was.
After filling out a Missed Appointment Form, Lisa gathered her things and checked out at the front desk before heading to her car for the short trip home.
The next morning Lisa rolled over in bed, intending to sleep in. Her first client wasn’t scheduled to come into the office until eleven, giving her the luxury of a morning at home. A part-time insomniac, Lisa treasured nights that she got a full seven or eight hours sleep. This morning sleep eluded her. Maybe it had something to do with the phone call she’d gotten when she came in the night before. It had been after ten because she had group therapy in her office on Monday nights. Tyler’s words kept playing back in her brain.
“Hey. I didn’t like the way we left things. You okay?”
Tired, she hadn’t felt like hashing over the abrupt demise of their affair, and dating a man fifteen years your junior, had to be considered an affair, not a serious relationship. “It’s late. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Did I say I’m hurt?” She heard him exhale.
“We always said it was a casual thing.”
Lisa couldn’t argue with that and broke the connection.
There’d been nothing remotely stable about their relationship. Exciting, yes, predictable, no. She had to put him out of her mind. His pathetic attempt to smooth things over now that he was engaged angered her. It was no wonder she hadn’t slept well.
She saw Phanny, her mixed-breed dog, sitting patiently next to the bed, her dark eyes hopeful. She looked at the dog fondly, reached over and stroked her silky head. Lisa couldn’t imagine her life without her.