Los Angeles
June, 1927
It was supposed to be simple. Martin ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and scowled into the night. It was supposed to be just a simple task—grab and go, get back before midnight, get paid, and go home. But it wasn't working out that way. Nothing was going as planned. He lit his last cigarette and settled in to wait for Brian, his partner. "If he isn't back by the time I finish," he muttered, "I'm leaving without him."
"Why didn't ya leave the motor running like I said?" Brian hissed.
Martin turned around as the van's back door slammed shut. "Because I didn't want to have to stop and search for a filling station the second we get out of the city," he shot back.
Brian climbed into the van. "Well, let's get going," he said. "I don't want to be here all night."
Martin rolled his eyes. "It's you that took so long," he muttered.
"I didn't see you doing nothing," Brian said as the van began to move. "I was the one doing the snatching." He straightened his ruffled shirt. "I nearly lost my skin tonight."
"What’s the matter? Can't grab a girl?"
Brian glared at him. "I'd like to see you try to get your hands on that hellcat." He held up his arm. Deep scratches ran from his wrist to his elbow. Martin let out a whistle. "It's not funny," Brian said sullenly.
*****
Cal never saw them coming. One moment, he was rounding the last corner before his house, and the next, everything was black. He awoke to the overwhelming stench of gasoline and an ache behind his eyes. "What the hell?" he said. He sat up slowly. A hard bump sent him back down. He squeezed his eyes closed, breathing slowly.
He heard a voice say, "I think one of ‘em's moving."
He resisted the urge to open his eyes.
A second voice replied, "Then check."
What is going on? he wondered frantically. He heard a quiet moaning next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to see who the noise came from, but it was impossible without moving his head. It's not worth it.
He pretended to be unconscious even as Brian and Martin lifted him out of the van and carried him into the house. He briefly considered trying to fight his way out, but abandoned the idea. Most likely, one of them had a gun. I would. He lay still even after they deposited him on a cold dirt floor and he heard their footsteps recede into the distance.
*****
"Rose?" Jack called as he flipped on the kitchen light. He grabbed an apple from the counter. "I'm sorry I'm so late," he added, taking a bite. "You'll never believe what happened." He munched hungrily. "So, you remember that new kid, the one who'll only do watercolors?" He stopped in the empty living room. "Rose?" he called again. Apple forgotten, he moved slowly through the rest of the small house. It was dark, the windows and back door shut and locked; everything was in place.
He found himself back in the kitchen, staring around confusedly. "Where is she?"
*****
Jack spent the night sitting at the kitchen table. He jumped at every sound, calling Rose's name every time. Where is she? he wondered yet again as the sun rose. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting his head fall forward. She wouldn't just leave—not without telling me—she wouldn't just… He sighed heavily. His head ached. His eyes burned. Tension filled his body. "She's all right. She couldn't have been dragged out of here and the place not be a mess." But the words rang hollow.
*****
"Jack?"
Cal opened his eyes. In the dim light, he could just make out the shape of her body. Her hair was held back in a loose bun. She rolled over, reaching for him. "Jack?" she mumbled again. Her hand brushed his arm. She grabbed it. He froze as she moved closer. "There you are," she murmured, satisfied. The fabric of his shirt didn't feel right. He didn't smell right, either. But her head hurt too much to even begin processing those details. She settled for snuggling against him and letting herself fall back into the blackness.
Frowning, Cal gingerly removed her hand from his arm. He slowly backed away from her. Of all the names she could have called him, it had to be that one. Coincidence, he told himself. A dim ray of light shone through a small window on the other side of the room. He chose to ignore the reddish tint it gave her hair.
*****
"What the hell do you mean, you'll get to it?" Jack demanded. "Isn't this what you're supposed to be doing? Finding people? Solving crimes?"
He received a tight frown as a reply. The cop behind the desk that morning was Wallace Hogan, middle-aged and irritated at being pulled away from the exciting world of harassing pedestrians to answer phones. He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out to his full five feet and eight inches. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice," he said. "I can't have you disturbing the peace."
Jack's hand clenched into a fist at his side; he breathed slowly and deeply. "Look, I know how things work. If I weren't a poor guy you'd care about finding out what happened to my wife."
"Now, sir, that is just not—" Wallace stopped short as the door burst open. In strode the most well-dressed woman he had ever seen. He gaped at her. "May I help you, ma'am?" he finally managed to say.
She brushed past Jack with a curt glance. Her chestnut hair, piled on top of her head and held down with silver pins, shone. Jack glared at her back. "I need to speak to someone with the competence to locate my husband," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," Wallace said, obsequiousness oozing from each word. "We can help you with that. Why don't you step back here so we can get the necessary information."
Her gray eyes looked through him. "Thank you," she said. "I—"
"And what about me?" Jack interrupted. She turned around, shock written all over her face. Her eyes narrowed as though just the sight of him was sickening. He ignored her. "I've been here for half an hour," he said. "When are you going to get around to helping me?"
"When it's your turn," Wallace spat. "I'm sure your wife hasn't gone far."
Jack's hand began to rise. He took a step forward. "How dare—"
The woman's expression shifted. "Your wife is missing?"
"What?"
"Your wife," she said. "She's missing?"
Jack stared at the strange woman. "Yeah," he said. "Since last night."
"That's when my husband disappeared," she said. "He never came back to the house after his dinner out. At first, I thought he might have gotten lost. He's terrible with directions and we've only been in this city for a few days." She sighed. "What a stupid place to choose for a summer trip. It's been nothing but trouble since we arrived."
"I'm sorry," Jack said, doing his best to sound kind. "Really, I am."
She smiled, pleased at having someone willing to listen to her complaints. "I don't know why I rushed down here," she said. "I'm sure Cal's fine."
Jack's heart skipped a beat. "What did you say your husband's name is?"
"Cal," she said. "Caledon, actually. I'm Amanda Hockley."
"That's what I thought you said."
*****
The first thing Rose became aware of was the scent of dirt. Tentatively, she ran a hand over the area next to her. Her blood ran cold. Her eyes flew open. "What the hell?" She jumped up, only to be knocked over by a cold ache in the back of her head. Tears stung her eyes. She curled into a ball, burying her face in her knees. "Jack?" she called weakly.
"I don't think he's here," Cal said.
She tensed at the sound of his voice. As calmly as she could, she asked, "Where is here?"
"I don't know."
"Why am I here?" Ignoring the pain, she sat up. "How did I get here?"
"They—whoever they are—brought us here last night. They already had you when they got me," he said. "Do you remember anything?"
"I remember taking a walk," she said. "It was too hot inside. I needed some air, and Jack wasn't coming home for another hour. Oh, God! Jack!" she cried, springing to her feet. She looked around in search of a door. "He must be going crazy."
"Even if he is, there isn't anything you can do about it," Cal said. "There's only one door, and it's locked."
She frowned. "There has to be another way. What about that window?"
"Do you honestly think you can fit through it?" He stepped into the light.
Her eyes widened as she saw him clearly for the first time. In the confusion, she hadn't bothered to wonder who he was. "Would you tell me the truth?" she asked, her distrust clearly visible.
He sighed. "I don't want to be here. I don't know why I am here. And I sure as hell don't know why you're here."
Suddenly cold, she hugged herself. "Well, I believe you," she said with a flat laugh.