Three months had passed and there was still no sign of Laney.
Travis Kasperbauer did go to the police station back in December to report the attack, but the woman who he spoke to didn’t seem that interested. The next week, he learned from Vinny Johnson that the police officially closed the investigation without ever having pursued his lead.
Missy encouraged him to keep trying, to keep working with Vinny to find the little girl, but Travis had had enough. He started getting headaches all the time, probably from the concussion, and no amount of Asprin could make them go away. The nightmares he had about that day woke him up almost every night, so he just stopped going to sleep altogether. He stayed up for days at a time, consuming nothing but coffee and Red Bull until he finally crashed again. He did most of his sleeping in class, and he would have flunked out of Character Design II if Missy hadn’t covered for him all the time. He also took up smoking and could go through a pack a day on weekends. He left the apartment only to buy more cigarettes and go to class; whenever he needed anything, he either ordered it on the internet or made Missy go get it.
She knew Travis was going through a hard time, so she didn’t mind picking up a few extra items at the grocery store, but his behavior was really starting to worry her. This was not the Travis she knew, not the Travis she used to watch Deadliest Warrior with on Friday nights because neither of them had plans. This kidnapping business had changed him.
The worst part, though, was his obsession with his attacker.
One day in late March, as Travis dozed off in his illustration class, Missy worked on a painting back at the apartment. She reached for her sable brush but couldn’t find it, so, knowing Travis had one, she ventured into his room for the first time since the attack.
One thing you should know about Missy is that she is not easily scared. She laughs at horror films, keeps her eyes open on roller coasters, and never, ever screams. Ever.
But when she opened the door to Travis’s room, a weak little scream escaped her mouth. Not loud enough for any neighbors to hear, but a scream nonetheless.
Nearly every surface in the room was covered with sketches of the same hooded man. Though some aspects of the image changed subtly from sketch to sketch–shading, stroke size, etc.– the eyes remained the same: dark, intense, and angry.
Meanwhile in Illustration class, Travis had woken up from his nap when Bridget took a seat beside him. For some reason, she had recently developed an interest in him again. He noticed, but didn’t really care. That’s how he felt about a lot of things lately; he just couldn’t make himself care.
And when Bridget started talking to him, he couldn’t make himself listen, either. Instead, he drew a picture.
He was sitting alone on a little island only big enough for some palm trees and a hammock. With a cold Miller Highlife in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Travis admired the magnificent sunset before him.
The picture was simple and seemed somewhat empty, but Travis liked it that way. He thought to himself: If I ever have the chance to go on a vacation, this is what I want to do. I want to be alone on a beach where no one can bother me or attack me or give me stupid homework assignments. More than anything, I want to get away from all of this and just be.
Bridget was still talking when his cell phone buzzed, waking him up from his daydream. He had two missed calls and a text from Missy. The text read:
Travis Kasperbauer did go to the police station back in December to report the attack, but the woman who he spoke to didn’t seem that interested. The next week, he learned from Vinny Johnson that the police officially closed the investigation without ever having pursued his lead.
Missy encouraged him to keep trying, to keep working with Vinny to find the little girl, but Travis had had enough. He started getting headaches all the time, probably from the concussion, and no amount of Asprin could make them go away. The nightmares he had about that day woke him up almost every night, so he just stopped going to sleep altogether. He stayed up for days at a time, consuming nothing but coffee and Red Bull until he finally crashed again. He did most of his sleeping in class, and he would have flunked out of Character Design II if Missy hadn’t covered for him all the time. He also took up smoking and could go through a pack a day on weekends. He left the apartment only to buy more cigarettes and go to class; whenever he needed anything, he either ordered it on the internet or made Missy go get it.
She knew Travis was going through a hard time, so she didn’t mind picking up a few extra items at the grocery store, but his behavior was really starting to worry her. This was not the Travis she knew, not the Travis she used to watch Deadliest Warrior with on Friday nights because neither of them had plans. This kidnapping business had changed him.
The worst part, though, was his obsession with his attacker.
One day in late March, as Travis dozed off in his illustration class, Missy worked on a painting back at the apartment. She reached for her sable brush but couldn’t find it, so, knowing Travis had one, she ventured into his room for the first time since the attack.
One thing you should know about Missy is that she is not easily scared. She laughs at horror films, keeps her eyes open on roller coasters, and never, ever screams. Ever.
But when she opened the door to Travis’s room, a weak little scream escaped her mouth. Not loud enough for any neighbors to hear, but a scream nonetheless.
Nearly every surface in the room was covered with sketches of the same hooded man. Though some aspects of the image changed subtly from sketch to sketch–shading, stroke size, etc.– the eyes remained the same: dark, intense, and angry.
Meanwhile in Illustration class, Travis had woken up from his nap when Bridget took a seat beside him. For some reason, she had recently developed an interest in him again. He noticed, but didn’t really care. That’s how he felt about a lot of things lately; he just couldn’t make himself care.
And when Bridget started talking to him, he couldn’t make himself listen, either. Instead, he drew a picture.
He was sitting alone on a little island only big enough for some palm trees and a hammock. With a cold Miller Highlife in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Travis admired the magnificent sunset before him.
The picture was simple and seemed somewhat empty, but Travis liked it that way. He thought to himself: If I ever have the chance to go on a vacation, this is what I want to do. I want to be alone on a beach where no one can bother me or attack me or give me stupid homework assignments. More than anything, I want to get away from all of this and just be.
Bridget was still talking when his cell phone buzzed, waking him up from his daydream. He had two missed calls and a text from Missy. The text read:
Call me when you get this. I really need to talk to you.
That’s my cue, Travis thought. My excuse to leave.
He grabbed his sketchbook, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and walked out of the classroom.
For the first time since she sat down next to him, Bridget was silent. She had been telling Travis how much she missed him and their late-night conversations, how he was so observant and such a good listener, how she really loved that about him.
But he didn’t hear a word she said.
As Travis stepped onto the bus, a woman named Kindra Lee stepped off. He didn’t know her name was Kindra Lee, though, until he sat on her wallet.
Before he could call after her, the bus jerked forward. As he watched her walk away, he noticed something slightly peculiar: she was carrying a cell phone and a pack of cigarettes and nothing else. Travis tried to think of a time when he saw a woman in public with so few possessions, but he drew a blank.
Odd, he thought.
Examining her driver’s license more thoroughly, he was pleasantly surprised to see that she also lived in Castle Apartments, so returning the wallet to her would be easy.
Travis knocked on the door of apt. #7083 and waited. No response. He knocked again, this time more loudly, and once more heard no response.
He then ripped a sheet out of his sketchbook and wrote:
Kindra,
I found your wallet on the bus. Just come up to apt. #1212 to pick it up when you get this.
-Travis K.
He folded the paper, slipped it under the door, and continued up the stairs.
During the two minutes it took him to get to the 12th floor, he wondered why Missy needed to talk to him. She never had anything to say that was so important that it couldn’t wait until he got out of class.
Once he entered the apartment, though, it didn’t take him long to figure it out.
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