The Girl Who Disappeared Twice

Marc headed right for the reception room and the copying machine, which was in plain view. He turned it on, and it whirred to life. Opening Linda’s file, he took out the stack of handwritten pages, and fed them into the machine.

It took about fifteen minutes to complete the job, and three minutes to return the reassembled file to its pile in the back room.

Leaving the office, Marc shut and locked the door behind him. He looked up at the vent and snapped off a salute. “See you back at the van, little guy.”

I’m scared, Mommy. Please come and find me.

It’s been a bunch of days. My cartoons have been reruns five times. I counted. She puts them on for me every day. And then she sits and watches me watch them.

It’s creepy, Mommy. She’s creepy.

I keep crying and crying-not when she’s here, because it makes her act weird and mushy. And that’s scarier than when she watches me play or tries to play with me. I only cry when I’m alone with Oreo and Ruby.

I don’t want to play the stupid computer game she gave me. She said she made it. I don’t care. I want my games back. I want to play them in my room, on my computer. But every time I ask if I can go home, she says I am home. I don’t know what she means. I’m in a pink room. She says it’s my princess room. I’m afraid to tell her that it’s not mine.

She’s wearing your necklace. And she smells like you. I don’t know why. But it makes me want to hide.

Oreo’s fur is all wet. Ruby’s feathers are, too. My crying did that. But they understand because they’re crying, too.

Why does she keep telling me that she’s my mommy? She’s not my mommy. You are. But when I tell her that, she gets mad at me. She says weird stuff. I’m afraid of her. I’m afraid she’ll do something bad. So I don’t say it anymore.

She keeps coming down here. I can count the stairs by the sound of her shoes. There are fourteen.

I hate that number. I hate hearing her come. I’m so happy when she goes away.

I don’t know who’s upstairs. But when she’s up there, I can hear her talking to someone. Only they never come down. Only her.

Maybe they’re scarier than she is.

I wish she’d go away forever. I don’t care about the ice cream and the toys and the bubble baths. I just want to go home.

Please, Mommy. I’m scared.

Please come and take me home.

Casey met Marc and Ryan in the parking lot of an Armonk pub. She left her car and climbed into Ryan’s van. There, she studied the psychiatrist’s official report for the hospital’s medical review board, declaring Linda fit to return to work. She also read through Linda Turner’s file, line by line, even though Marc and Ryan had summed it up perfectly on the phone.

There was no doubt that the poor woman had come apart at the seams right after her daughter drowned. She was inconsolable and despondent when she’d first starting seeing Dr. Sherman. Anna had clearly been her entire world. And that world had died with Anna.

Linda had made very little progress in the first months. But after intensive therapy, and a chunk of time, she’d begun to come back. Dr. Sherman was very pleased with her progress. And, by the time he’d given her the green light to return to work, he’d been more than confident that she was ready to start rebuilding her life, one baby step at a time. Starting with work, which he believed would give her a sense of purpose and something to focus on besides her grief.

He had, however, recommended that Linda continue with her counseling sessions, at least on a weekly basis. And she had…for a while. Then, without warning, she’d stopped going. From the doctor’s notes, it looked as if her insurance was no longer willing to cover the visits. Dr. Sherman had offered to work out some arrangement, perhaps a reduced rate, so that Linda could continue with her sessions. But she had respectfully turned him down, assuring him that her monetary situation was fine, as was her mental health. Things in her life were looking up.

In what way? With what money?

There were no answers to Casey’s questions. Because, abruptly, the file came to an end. The progress reports stopped. So, apparently, did Linda’s association with Dr. Sherman.

That in itself was a red flag.

But the chilling part was that Linda’s psychiatric sessions ended two weeks before Felicity Akerman was kidnapped.

Casey tossed down the file. “This is it. The timeline and coincidences can’t be ignored. And it changes everything, maybe even the focus of the investigation. We’ve got to act now.”

“We can’t take this one on alone, Casey,” Marc stated flatly. “We’ve got to involve the FBI task force.”

Ryan turned to Marc. “Since when do you worry about playing by the rules?”

“He’s right, Ryan,” Casey said. “This isn’t about rules. It’s about telling law enforcement what they need to know, and increasing our manpower. Linda Turner has to be found.”

“We can’t just turn over her psychiatric file,” Ryan responded. He went back to punching in information on his laptop, searching at top speed for any trail of their suspect. “We got it illegally. That means we could go to jail. Plus, the Feds can’t use it in court, anyway.”

“We won’t turn over the file,” Marc said. Being former BAU, he had the greatest knowledge and the most experience with the FBI. “We’ll just act as confidential informants. Based on what we know, we’ll give them verbal specifics, which will convince them to act without compromising their case.”

“I agree.” Casey was already up and climbing out of the van, her car keys in her hand. “Let’s go.”

Peg, Don and Hutch-along with two other CARD team members, three agents, Sergeant Bennett of the North Castle P.D. and Patrick Lynch-gathered in the command center in the Willises’ media suite, listening while Casey and her Forensic Instincts team presented the facts they’d uncovered.

The reaction was much as Ryan had suggested.

Hutch jumped in first. “Where did you get your information?”

Casey met his gaze directly, unblinking, as she replied. “From the most reliable of sources. That’s all you need to know.”

“You mean, that’s all we’ll want to know,” Peg clarified. She rolled her eyes, torn between irritation, worry over making a potential conviction stick and the sense of urgency based on getting to a woman who might very well have Krissy. “Dammit, Casey, why do you insist on putting us in this position?”

“It’s not intentional. You know that. But it’s almost a week, Peg. Krissy’s life is in our hands.”

“Casey’s right.” It was Don who spoke up. CARD team or not, he wanted to find that child. “We can argue over protocol later. Casey’s team hasn’t compromised us by sharing physical evidence that might or might not have been illegally obtained. It’s all word of mouth. We’ll find a way to write this up and present it in court-later. Now we’ve got to pool our resources and find Linda Turner.”

Peg nodded, pursing her lips. “Agreed.”

“I understand the motivation for her to kidnap Felicity Akerman,” Sergeant Bennett interceded. “But where does Krissy Willis come in? It’s over thirty years later. Where’s the connection-besides the obvious blood ties between Felicity and Krissy?”

“It could still be someone’s vendetta,” Lynch answered. “If DeMassi and his son, or another mob soldier is pulling the strings, the choice of victims could be theirs.”

“On the other hand,” Hutch interceded, “if the psychological implications Casey is suggesting are true, then