Zero Escape Read online

  Chapel cocked his head and frowned.

  “Dad and I played a memory game. He’d say something that we’d done, like the time my flip-flop fell into the water when we sat on the pier over the ocean, and I’d have to guess the town where that happened. Then it’d be my turn to try to stump him. It was a fun way to remember all the things we did together.”

  The twisted look on Chapel’s face confirmed his turmoil. Everything Charlene said indicated she’d lived a wonderful life, yet the stoic detective was still adamant she was a kidnap victim. It ate away at him. It ate away at her. And as the days rolled on and he was no closer to proving his theory, she grew more tired of the accusations.

  Her eyes scanned the years written in a thick black Sharpie at the top of the board. It was like one of those charts she’d seen in a classroom somewhere that documented the evolution of man.

  This time line documented the evolution of Charlene.

  She’d been dreading the day they arrived at her early childhood. Today was that day.

  As she perused the cards, inching along the wall as she went, Chapel silently waited with the everlasting patience she’d learned to appreciate. The oldest memory on the board at the moment was her eighth birthday. Her father had taken her to the Museum of Pop Culture in Seattle. They’d formed a fake band called Restless Natives and had dressed up to pose for a photo. She remembered giggling herself stupid at the wild wig and silver-studded leather jacket her father had worn.

  Sighing, she wondered where that photo had gone. If she knew, the card for her eighth birthday wouldn’t have a big red question mark. Charlene choked back the knot in her throat and turned to Detective Chapel. He was leaning against the table, his hands in his pockets, and the kindness in his eyes nearly reduced her to tears.

  When their gazes met, her chin dimpled. They’d arrived at the moment she’d been dreading for weeks. It wasn’t that she didn’t remember further back. Quite the opposite actually. But every slice of that memory betrayed the perfect life she’d been describing for weeks.

  “Charlene.” The way Chapel said her name, with a pleading, knowing intonation, confirmed he knew she was hiding something.

  She let out a shaky breath. “May I have a moment, please?”

  “Of course, I’ll grab us some of that crappy coffee.” Chapel slinked out the door, leaving her to her documented life.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, covered her face with her hands, and tried to make sense of the images that’d been playing across her mind for over two decades. It was always the same nameless faces. Always the same emotions. Always the same meaningless details. Ever since she was six, she’d been denying they were real. Just the figment of a child’s overactive memory, she’d reasoned. Simply confusion between reality and fiction, maybe from a movie or conversation she’d overheard.

  They weren’t, though. Every blink of that night was true. She knew it.

  But the implications were devastating.

  She was still of two minds over whether or not to reveal those images when Chapel returned with the steaming mugs.

  “Here you go. Take a seat.”

  He sat opposite her and wrapped his hands around his mug. “Take your time.”

  She nodded and lowered her eyes, not wanting to see the optimism in his gaze. It was obvious Detective Chapel believed he’d reached the precipice between speculation and confirmation. He just had to tip her over that edge.

  His certainty only increased the guilty tendrils inching up her spine.

  She sipped the bitter coffee, and the sting on her tongue perfectly represented the dread prickling her thoughts. Plonking the mug on the table, she let her breath out in a big huff. “I’ve always believed it was a dream.”

  He nodded but remained silent. She liked that about him. Chapel had immense patience. Maybe it was the perfect interrogation technique, as it was difficult not to fill the empty void with words. Words that would eventually reveal details. Details that would put Chapel on the path to answers.

  Her only hope was that the answers were not proof of his shocking accusations.

  She prolonged the silence, trying to work out the chronological order of that night. In her mind’s eye, it’d always been a jumble of mixed-up images. Like a broken film on an old movie projector. Half a picture. A word or a shout. Night. Day. Silence. Screaming. Stillness. Bedlam.

  “What were you wearing?”

  His words surprised her, and she blinked at him.

  “Do you remember?”

  Charlene stared at her fingers, picking at a flap of loose skin near her thumbnail as she went back to that night. She’d never thought about her outfit before, yet she could remember it perfectly. “It was a yellow dress. Pale yellow, like whipped butter. It had four little white daises that’d been sewn onto a panel here.” She indicated across her chest. “I loved that dress because I could put my hands in the pockets on my hips.”

  Chapel smiled, and she did too. It was a nice memory, one that she hadn’t recalled until now. But her mind wandered to what he’d do with that information. They probably had a database of kidnap victims and what they were wearing when they were last seen. The instant she left today, he’d be punching her description into his computer.

  Had she already said too much?

  It was too late now.

  I am not a kidnap victim.

  With that conviction rolling around her brain, she met his gaze. “I’m certain I was six years old. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.”

  He inclined his head. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, and his wide eyes indicated that his mind was open for every bit of information to leave her lips.

  “My mom and I were in the back of a car. I remember thinking how weird the car was, as it had no roof, and I giggled a lot because my hair whipped up in the breeze. It was only years later that I learned the car model was a type of jeep. It was olive green, like the ones you see in those army movies.” She tried to smile, yet she was certain it’d look more like a grimace.

  “Two men were in the front, and the drive seemed to go on forever. They drove us through town after town, with miles of nothing between each one.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yeah, trees, open paddocks. Not farms as such, just . . . nothing.”

  “Hmm. Who was driving?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. Two men were in the front, and they never spoke to my mom. In fact, I can’t recall her saying a word to them for the whole trip either.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Oh.” He caught her off guard again. So far, Chapel had remained silent whenever she told her stories. “Mom was beautiful. She was always hugging me and telling me stories, and she tucked me into bed every night. Sometimes we slept in the same bed.”

  “Hmm.” Frown lines dented his forehead.

  “Hmm what?”

  “Where do you think your father was when you slept in her bed?”

  Charlene blinked at him, searching her brain for an answer. In the end, there wasn’t one. “I don’t know.” She snapped. She hadn’t meant to yell, and the venom behind it had surprised her as much as it appeared to shock Chapel.

  “It’s okay, Charlene. You’re doing great.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “It’s just random memories. I can’t put them in order.”

  “That’s okay. Tell me about this trip. Was it day or night? What sights do you remember? Did you stop anywhere along the way?”

  Uncurling her fists, she stood and strode to the board. With her back to him, she said, “I’ll just tell you the bits I remember.”

  “Okay, take your time.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “Once the sun set, it got cold, and I climbed onto my mother’s lap. I was straddling her legs, facing her so I could snuggle into her chest. She wrapped her arms around me, and I can remember hearing her heart beat. Between that and the bumpy road, I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was waking up after we’d stopped.”

/>   Charlene returned to her chair, but she was no longer seeing Chapel; she was seeing that night like she’d just lived through it. “I was pulled from the car, and Mom was screaming at the men. They had guns, big long rifles that were slung over their shoulders. Some of them aimed their weapons as us, but most were just standing around, smoking and laughing.”

  “Do you remember what your Mom was saying?”

  She blinked at him, suddenly recalling that her mother had been speaking in Spanish. She’d never realized it until now.

  “What?” Chapel must’ve seen her confusion.

  “She spoke in Spanish.”

  “Spanish? Like the woman who stabbed Peter?”

  “Yes. I didn’t remember that until now.”

  “Hmm. So, what happened after you were out of the jeep?”

  “I . . . I just stood there as they pulled Mom out of the car and tied her to a pole near this shed.”

  His brows shot up, and the muscles in his jaw bulged. “Can you describe the shed? What else do you see?”

  “It was dark. Trees everywhere. There were about five or six men. All in green uniforms. All carrying guns. I clutched my arms around her waist, and a few of the men just laughed at me. At us. There was this really loud noise, and the men started shouting. Some ran into the bushes. Two hid behind the jeeps. But this one man just stood there in the jeep’s headlights. His feet were apart, and the gun was aimed at something. We couldn’t see past the shed.”

  As Charlene twisted her fingers, bolts of memories flashed across her eyes, and she blurted out the snippets like she was tripping in a drug-induced high. “A brilliant light lit up the area. It grew brighter by the second. A huge gush of wind peppered us with rocks and bits of trees. Years later, when I saw a movie, I realized that it’d been a plane that’d landed near us. I remember screaming at how loud it was. Mom’s hands were tied behind her so she couldn’t hug me, and when I looked up at her I saw the whites in her eyes. But she smiled down at me like she’d done thousands of times, and I knew that everything was going to be okay.”

  She sipped her coffee, but the now cold brew stung her taste buds, and she put it back down. “But it wasn’t okay.”

  He shook his head as if knowing exactly what Charlene was talking about.

  “When the noise stopped, the shouts started. Mom was trembling. Then they started shooting. I don’t know who or what they were shooting at. A man fell over right near us, clutching his neck. Mom told me to close my eyes. But I didn’t. I just clung to her and watched the man roll about with blood gushing through his fingers.”

  Chapel’s lips drew to a thin line, turning them pale. “What happened next?”

  “There was more shouting and more guns going off. But the shouts got more distant. I think the men were all running into the trees. It was almost silent for a bit. But then I felt Mom stiffen, and she looked down at me. This time she told me to run. But I shook my head. She screamed at me to run. I didn’t want to let go of her.”

  A memory came to her like a bolt of lightning. She’d never had it before.

  “What?” Chapel’s eyes bulged.

  “It’s Peter.”

  “What’s Peter? Tell me what you remember.”

  “Mom kept screaming at me to run. But when I didn’t, Peter grabbed me. He was dressed in that uniform. He had a gun too.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He dragged me from her and scooped me up. As I screamed for my mother, he took me into the bushes. His gun dug into my thighs, and I remember having a bruise there for days.” It’s funny what she’d blocked out. She’d always pictured that bruise and had recalled it many times over the decades, but she’d had zero recollection of how she’d gotten it. Had she deliberately blocked out that it was Peter’s gun? Had she forced the image away, not wanting to believe it was true? But it was true. And the implications were brutal. Peter had been one of those soldiers. Or whatever they were.

  “That was the last time I ever saw my mother.”

  “So you ran into the bushes. What happened then?”

  Charlene searched for the answer. But it wasn’t there. It was as though a black cloud had smothered every recollection. After a few thumping heartbeats, her shoulders sagged, and she shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know. One minute, we were hiding in a rusted-out old car in the middle of the woods, with guns booming and lights flashing in the distance. The next memory I have is sitting in the sunshine on a beach, sharing an ice cream with Peter. It’s like I’ve lived two different lives.”

  Chapel moaned as he reached forward and placed his hand on hers. “Charlene, I think you have.”

  Chapter Five

  Charlene was completely drained by the time Chapel drove her home. After saying good-bye and making promises to return to the station in the morning, she entered her apartment and locked the door behind her.

  Her mind was in a fog as she went through the motions of showering and dressing in her pajamas. After that, she was torn between curling up in a ball on her bed and pacing the length of the tiny kitchen. She did the latter.

  The apartment consisted of a combined kitchen and living room area, a bathroom and two bedrooms. None of the furniture belonged to them. Not a single knife or fork. Not the bedding. Not even the decorations.

  It’d never bothered her before. But after weeks of defending her lifestyle with Detective Chapel, she’d begun to second-guess her upbringing.

  Scanning the meaningless objects in the room—the flower print on the wall, the plain white lamp with the yellowing edges, even the hardcover books on the shelves—she had never felt so foreign in her own home.

  Peter’s absence added to her alienation. All the energy had been sucked from her life. She felt empty. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of care. Devoid of love.

  She was hollow.

  Nothing but an empty soul.

  She stomped across the tiny space, and before she knew what she was doing, she plucked her beloved coffee mug off the sink and hurled it at the wall, smashing it to pieces.

  Her chest heaved, and staring at the shards, she slid down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest.

  A sob burst from her throat, and tears flowed. Great heaving pain spilled from her body. She’d cried more in the last month than she had in her entire life, yet the tears that gripped her now tore a hole through her heart.

  Retelling that shocking night to Chapel had opened this wound.

  Charlene had thought she’d remembered all the important aspects of that night. But she hadn’t. It surprised her how many memories she’d repressed. Her mind had rewound and played that night over and over many times in the last two decades, but she couldn’t understand why she’d never recalled Peter in that uniform nor the gun that he’d slung over his shoulder. Until today.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d played into Chapel’s hands. Had she just given him what he wanted to hear?

  No!

  She refused to believe that. Yet when she squeezed her eyes shut, she could picture with perfect clarity the moment Peter had snatched her from her mother’s arms.

  His uniform matched those of the other men.

  The gun he’d carried had given her the bruise on her inner thigh.

  Her mother had screamed something at him, yet he hadn’t even looked back as he’d carried Charlene into the bushes.

  She never saw her mother again.

  Charlene collected one of the broken pieces from the floor. It was the handle, still attached to a chunk of the mug. She pushed it onto her finger and absently spun it around.

  Chapel’s allegations burned in her soul. He had a one-track mind, and he had so many reasons to believe he was right. But the worst thing was that he’d tapped into her own doubts. She was no longer one hundred percent certain of Peter’s innocence.

  Did Peter kidnap me?

  The absurd notion began seeping into her brain like black ink, redesigning her memories, giving Peter new motives. Wicked sinister motives.
Suddenly her past took on a whole new light. A dark fragmented light.

  She heard her own breaths, short and sharp. And her pulse thumping in her ears. With each harrowing thought, dread stacked on another layer, threatening to engulf her in a giant quivering mess.

  Was her whole life a lie?

  Their constant moving and lack of records would’ve made it impossible for anyone to find them. She sat bolt upright as a new thought blazed across her brain. All this time, she’d been so fixated on what had happened to her that she’d never stopped to think about what had happened to her mother.

  Did she try to find me?

  As the plain white clock on the kitchen wall ticked away, thoughts rolled around her mind. Tick. Kidnap victim. Tick. Move every six months. Tick. No identity.

  Tick. Is my mother still alive?

  With that critical question burning in her brain, she tossed the broken crockery on the linoleum floor, pushed to her feet, and strode into Peter’s bedroom.

  No matter what the outcome, she had to know what had happened to her mother.

  And Peter was the only link she had to her.

  The police had already been through Peter’s measly possessions, as had she, but they’d found nothing. But they didn’t know him like she did, and now she was more focused.

  She yanked out the painted wooden drawers and examined every item of his clothing more thoroughly. His familiar scent lingered. As she tugged out each item, her neck hairs bristled at the notion that this was all some kind of sick joke. She half expected Peter to step into the room at any moment.

  Casting the creepy feeling aside, she moved from the drawers to the closet.

  After checking the pockets on his four pairs of trousers, she’d only found one cash receipt that Chapel and his team must’ve missed. She contemplated giving it to Chapel for his proof wall. But that was the last thing she wanted to do. Chapel didn’t need any more ammunition. She did.

  She went through his jacket pockets and his hanging shirts. She checked the bottom of the closet and the top. And just like the drawers, the closet offered nothing. His battered old suitcase gave her a momentary hope, and she tugged it out, flopped the flimsy case onto the bed, and zipped it open. Nothing. She checked under the bed, tugged off the bedding, examined the pillow, and even flipped the mattress. Still zero. In the bathroom, she found nothing either.