Daddy's Little Girl (13 page)

Minerva stood at the basement door, saying a prayer under her breath.

Then she put out a hand and touched the doorknob.

The door opened with no problem.

Last night, after being knocked unconscious, and not by any bat, either, Minerva had made herself a promise. She was going to go into the basement and check it out thoroughly.

Over the years the curious noises had continued. Seeping up from the basement like poison gases.

There had to be an explanation.

A logical one.

Minerva, her heart hammering, widened the door even more, then peered down into the darkness of the stairs.

A strange sense of void filled the woman, as if she was looking down into the center of a vortex.

Summoning her strength, she put out a tentative foot and started down the steps, clipping on the light as she moved.

The basement was broken up into a wide, empty concrete area, to the right of which lay small cubicles constructed of wood that always smelled like autumn to Minerva, a damp, leafy odor.

The cubicles stretched back the entire length of the house. Each was dark, empty, from the days decades ago when antiques had been stored in them, the Foster clan in those days having been collectors.

Minerva had often thought that anything could be hiding in the cubicles and nobody would ever know—until it was too late.

Minerva started her inspection, walking down the line of cubicles—which put her in mind of the Catacombs she’d studied about in her Sunday school days—flicking her eyes into each one as she passed.

She had not forgotten last night, how something had appeared out of the darkness and knocked her unconscious.

A sheen of sweat appeared on her face. She ground her nails into the palms of her hands.

But she was not going to retreat. Once and for all she was going to see if something was in the basement, or if it was, just as Ruth Foster said, only animals that had somehow gotten in through a window.

The further Minerva went toward the rear of the basement, the darker it became, the narrower her passage. She began to feel as if she were in a crypt, especially when spiderwebs showed silver in the murky light, and the feeling of dampness got much heavier.

She came to one cubicle with a door in it. Odd, she thought, that one should have a door, when the rest didn’t.

Immediately, she tested the knob.

The door wouldn’t budge.

Wiping sweat off with her sleeve, Minerva stood back from the door, staring at it, as if she had magical powers to remove the padlock that kept it shut.

She did not want to tell Ruth—who was taking her afternoon nap—what she was doing. That would upset her employer, no doubt about it.

Instead, she went back to the front of the basement where a tool kit was kept. Minerva got a hammer and a large screwdriver.

Back at the door, using the screwdriver as a lever, she began work on the padlock. Three strikes of the hammer and the lock fell to the ground, clattering.

Minerva pushed open the door. It creaked on rusting hinges.

The smell inside was foul, rancid, as if spoiled meat had been stored here.

She took the flashlight that she had tucked inside her belt and sprayed light around.

This cubicle, too, was empty.

She went inside, shining the light into each corner, across the floor.

She was just about to give up when she heard what was unmistakably a footstep.

A leather shoe creaking.

She just had time to register this impression in her mind when the door in front of her closed.

Slammed tightly shut.

In her panic, Minerva dropped her flashlight. Its glass shattered on the floor, going dark.

Minerva threw herself against the door, pounding. She screamed, “Open the door! Open the door!”

The squeak of leather shoes again.

Moving closer.

Minerva got her wish.

The door opened.

A shadowy face began to peer in.

Minerva, horrified, covered her eyes.

Long seconds passed.

She could scarcely breathe.

She sensed, rather than saw, her visitor move on.

After a time, praying that the basement was safe again, Minerva started away from the wall.

Dimly, she heard the squeaking shoe leather retreating.

The basement was free.

At least for now.

She was a woman who had aged long before her time.

She sat in a rocking chair in front of a fuzzy color television set in a house filled with plastic cuckoo clocks and large lace doilies. She wore a housecoat the color of pewter, and there were enough blue veins in her face to give the impression of illness.

Despite her white hair, her thick glasses, and her old-lady shawl, she was not much older than Adam Carnes and Beth Daye, who sat across from her.

The woman was Dora Jean Williams, the same Dora Jean who had been molested in June of 1953 by somebody she’d described to the police as sounding like an animal.

“I guess it’s warm enough for iced tea,” Dora Jean’s mother said, coming back into the tiny living room with a tray loaded with iced tea glasses and cookies.

Carnes and Beth were polite enough to partake.

Carnes sat there during the next few minutes scarcely able to restrain himself. He was having one of those moments of panic. Terrible, bloody visions of his daughter’s fate filled his mind.

Grasping at straws though he was, he was hoping that maybe this woman could tell him something useful ... something that would at least get the sheriff working on his behalf instead of treating his daughter like just another runaway.

Carnes watched Mrs. Williams sit across from her daughter, staring at her fondly. Mrs. Williams had explained that a few years after the incident in the park with the would-be rapist, Dora Jean, who had always been nervous anyway, had suffered a breakdown.

Here she was now, a zombie of sorts.

Mrs. Williams had said that she was difficult to talk to, but that she didn’t see any harm in trying. She said Dora Jean didn’t get upset about the incident anymore. Talked about it freely, as a matter of fact. Her depression and anxiety were so generalized that neither their presence nor their questions would disturb her.

“Dora Jean, honey, these two nice people would like to ask you some questions.”

Dora Jean looked over at them and smiled with bad teeth.

“Honey, they want to ask you about that night in the park. That night with the man.”

For a moment Dora Jean’s face clouded. She frowned. She appeared on the verge of tears.

Then her expression cleared and she smiled at them again.

“He was a very bad man,” Dora Jean said.

“You said he sounded like an animal,” Carnes said. “What did you mean by that?”

Dora Jean shrugged, her shawl slipping down from around her shoulders. Her mother got up and went over and put the shawl back up where it belonged.

“He growled. Like a dog.” Dora Jean smiled again.

This time the smile told Carnes just how far gone the poor woman was.

Beth Daye put her tender hand on his. To steady him. Obviously, she sensed what he was going through.

“Was there anything else special you remember about him, Dora Jean?” Carnes asked.

“He ran. Very fast.”

Carnes sighed. Glanced at her mother. The woman was shaking her head at Dora Jean. Obviously the victim wasn’t getting upset by the questions, but her mother was.

Carnes tried to be as delicate as possible, “Did you see his face?”

At that Dora Jean looked puzzled.

Then suddenly she broke into tears.

Her mother was up on her feet and comforting Dora Jean in seconds.

She cuddled the woman the way she would have an infant.

Dora Jean sobbed softly into her mother’s arms.

“Kenny,” Dora Jean said.

Carnes and Beth looked at each other.

“There now, there now,” Mrs. Williams said.

But Dora Jean distinctly said it again.

“Kenny.”

“Who is Kenny?” Carnes asked, leaning forward.

“Dora Jean just gets confused sometimes, don’t you, honey?”

Dora Jean looked up at her mother. Nodded softly. “There now. You just calm yourself.”

It was obvious to Carnes that the woman did not want them to continue asking questions about the name “Kenny.”

Why, Carnes couldn’t fathom. Until a few moments ago, the woman had been extremely cooperative and helpful.

Carnes sensed that Mrs. Williams wanted them to go now. Her displeasure was on the air, thick as the dust in the sunlight.

Dora Jean had gone back to dumbly staring at the TV.

Beth was edgily tapping her nails on her knee.

“Dora Jean,” Carnes said.

Mrs. Williams glanced over at him unhappily. “Maybe it’s time for you to go, Mr. Carnes.”

“She mentioned Kenny.”

Mrs. Williams sighed. “That she did, Mr. Carnes.”

“Well, don’t I have a right to know who that is?”

“Like I said, Mr. Carnes, Dora Jean, as you might well imagine, just gets confused sometimes. She gets confused especially about that night when the incident took place. She’s described various people as being there that night—and chasing her. The psychologist we saw for a long time said that Dora Jean had always felt secretly persecuted, so that she fantasizes about any number of people being in the park that night.” Mrs. Williams smiled, trying to make the moment more pleasant. “Why, there have been times when Dora Jean imagines it was me who chased her that night. Haven’t you, honey?”

Mrs. Williams put out a big hand and patted Dora Jean’s knee.

Dora Jean smiled her vague smile.

Carnes said, “If you don’t mind, I’d still like to know who Kenny is.”

“A friend of hers. In her younger years. A playmate. But it wasn’t Kenny in the park that night.”

“How can you be sure?”

Mrs. Williams frowned. She turned to Beth Daye for support. “Your friend here is getting awfully rude, if you ask me.”

“He’s only concerned for his daughter, Mrs. Williams. Surely you can understand that.”

“I can understand it, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness. This is my house and I mean to be treated with some respect.”

Carnes sighed. “Mrs. Williams, I apologize if I irritated you.”

Mrs. Williams glowered. “I let you in here, I let you ask her questions, and you treat me like this.”

Carnes felt compassion for the woman. He heard years of irritation and loneliness in her voice. The woman was a prisoner of her daughter. No matter how much she loved Dora Jean, the mother lived her life at great sacrifice.

“I apologize,” Carnes said again.

Mrs. Williams shrugged. “All right, Mr. Carnes, I accept your apology.”

Now the mother turned back to the daughter. “Honey, was that Kenny in the park that night?”

Dora Jean looed at her mother dumbly. “Kenny?”

Dora Jean had phased out again.

“Yes, honey, Kenny. Do you remember him? Blond hair, he rode a big blue bicycle and sometimes he took you riding on it?”

“Kenny.”

“Yes, honey, Kenny.”

But Dora Jean looked blank again.

“Do you remember who was in the park that night?”

Dora Jean shook her head.

“There, Mr. Carnes,” Mrs. Williams said wearily.

“There you see what I’ve seen for the past few decades. She’s been like this ever since it happened. Kenny wasn’t in the park that night. Whoever it was, now we’ll never know.”

“Maybe the same man who took my daughter.”

“I’m sorry to say this, Mr. Carnes, but I find that extremely unlikely.”

Carnes turned his attention back to Dora Jean for a moment.

“Dora Jean, do you remember the color of the man’s hair?”

The desperation in his voice was embarrassing, even to himself.

Beth put a hand on his arm.

“Adam, maybe it’s time we leave,” she said.

Anger coursed through him. He felt blood rise in his cheeks.

Then he calmed down, realizing she was right.

Dora Jean sat there a virtual cripple in her rocking chair, only occasionally lucid.

And he was trying to pump her as if she were a state’s witness and he the prosecutor.

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess it is time to leave.”

Mrs. Williams rose, put out her hand. They shook. “Sorry she wasn’t more helpful, Mr. Carnes.”

“I knew when I came over here it was probably not going to help me a great deal. But—”

Mrs. Williams’s eyes shone. “I understand, Mr. Carnes. Remember, I’ve got a daughter of my own.”

Carnes nodded.

In the car, he said, “She was hiding something.”

Beth said, “I don’t think so.”

“She went to a great deal of trouble to not exactly talk about Kenny, whoever he is.”

“I thought she explained that pretty well,” Beth said in a cautious, kindly tone.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I think, understandably, you’re overwrought.”

“So I’m imagining that this Kenny is important somehow, and I’m also imagining that Mrs. Williams is keeping something from me?”

“I don’t think she’s keeping anything from you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He sat there and stared at her. A tenderness came into his eyes. “I couldn’t make it through all this without you, I hope you realize that.”

“You need a friend.” She sighed. “As a matter of fact, so do I. We’re fulfilling a need.”

“I hope it’s a little more than that.”

She touched his arm, smiled wanly.

“Now I’ve got to get it over with,” he said.

“What?”

“The phone call. To my ex-wife.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

He sighed. “It’s going to tear her apart.”

“I think you owe it to her, though.”

“Would you want to know?”

“Yes. At least, I think so.”

He put the car in gear.

They went looking for the first phone booth they could find.