Free What Comes Next by John Katzenbach Page B

confined her, past any walls and ceilings out somewhere where she might be heard. She thought that if she could just make some noise it would help her remember who she was and that she was still alive. But she did not. Outwardly, she choked back a sob and bit down hard on her lip. Everything was a question, nothing was an answer.
    She could sense the voice was moving closer. A woman? Yes . The woman in the panel truck? It had to be.
    Jennifer tried to remember what she had seen. It was nothing more than a glimpse of someone older than her but not old like her mother, wearing a black knit cap pulled down over her hair. Blond hair . She pictured a leather jacket but that was all. The blow that had crashed into her face and rocked her had obscured everything else.
    “Here…” She heard the word, as if something was being offered to her, but she did not know what it was. She heard a metallic snipping sound, and she could not prevent herself from recoiling.
    “No. Do not move.”
    Jennifer froze.
    There was an instant—and then she could feel the loose folds of her mask being pulled forward. She was still unsure what was happening but she could hear the sound of scissors.
    A piece of the mask fell away. It was over her mouth. A small opening.
    “Water.”
    A plastic straw was thrust through the slit, bumping up against her lips. She was suddenly terribly thirsty so parched that whatever was happening took a back seat to the desire to drink. She seized the straw with her tongue and lips and pulled hard. The water was brackish, with a taste she could not recognize.
    “Better?”
    She nodded.
    “You will sleep now. Later you will learn precisely what is expected of you.”
    Jennifer felt a chalky taste on her tongue. Beneath the hood, she could sense her head spinning. Her eyes rolled back and, as once again she descended into an internal darkness, she wondered whether she had been poisoned, which didn’t make any sense to her. Nothing made sense except the awful sensation that it did to the woman with the voice and the man who had punched her into unconsciousness. She wanted to shout out something, to protest, or just to hear the sound of her own voice. But before she could form some words and thrust them past her cracked dry lips, she felt as if she were teetering on a narrow ledge. Then, as the drugs clumsily concealed in the water took hold, she felt herself tumbling.

8
    What she needed to do was to both hurry up and be patient.
    Terri Collins knew that the best chances to find Jennifer were rapidly sliding past, so she had to move quickly in the few areas that might work. But she was filled with doubt, not only of the likelihood of a quick Here she is success but of the actual reasons behind Jennifer’s third time running away from home. Too many questions, not enough answers.
    By the time she got back to her office it was well past midnight, creeping into the early morning hours. Other than the phone dispatcher and a couple of overnight duty patrolmen, there was little activity in the building. The cops watching over the nearby colleges and suburban streets were all out on patrol or holed up at a Dunkin’ Donuts fueling themselves with coffee and sweets.
    She hustled to her desk. She immediately dialed numbers for the police substations at both the main bus terminal in Springfield and the downtown train station. She also contacted the Massachusetts State Police barracks along the turnpike and the Boston Transit Police. These conversations were brisk—a general description of Jennifer, a quick plea to keep an eye out for her, a promise to follow up with a faxed photo and MISSING PERSONS flyer. In official worlds, the police needed copies of the documents in order to act; in the unofficial world, getting some phone calls and some radio traffic out to the late-night shifts working the bus stations and the highways might be all that was necessary. If they were lucky, Terri hoped, a trooper cruising the Mass Pike would