Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (23 page)

Then I bring it up again, and his eyes follow. His other hand reaches out and grabs my shoulder, gripping it tightly, the force behind his grasp surprising me.
I can finish him.
I
can
stab, twist, mutilate his body, follow the actions of my countless fantasies. This is finally my moment, my opportunity. But my hand betrays me, falling harmlessly, and I stare at it, useless and quickly going limp around the knife. I reach down into my overfull reservoir that I always avoid, the one perpetually full of bloodlust, the one that scares the ever-loving crap out of me. But it is empty. Drained. I look at him, the despair in his eyes mirroring mine. His for his future, mine for my inability to fulfill my fantasy. His hand goes limp on my arm and he slumps backward, a few thin streams of blood running down his neck and pooling on the dirt and pavement beneath him.

Maybe I am not my mother. Maybe my need of bloodshed stops at the point of mutilation and dismemberment.

I stand, trying to retain my grip on the knife, and stride to Ralph’s car, yank open the door, and grab the keys from the ignition. Then I pull off my bloody sweatshirt, jog to Jeremy’s truck, and toss it behind the driver’s seat, the only thought in my head being Annie.
I need to get back to her.

HER MOTHER HAS
always told Annie that angels exist. Angels who watch over and keep us safe. Annie had prayed for an angel in the dark space of the shed, and now she prays for her angel to return. She frets, her hands turning the phone over and over, the display flashing in the light. She has never used a cell phone; their family doesn’t own one. Once, she had been given a pink plastic cell phone, its buttons squishy, the faceplate a sticker that displayed all zeros. She had coveted it, feeling oh-so-important when she would pull it out in public, making a pretend call and speaking excitedly into its plastic receiver.

She strains to remember the phone number to their house. Her mother often recited it to her, preaching the importance of knowing it by heart. It starts with a nine. That is all she knows, and she opens the phone, pressing the nine button and trying to remember more. Nine. Nothing else comes. Her stomach growls.

The angel had said to wait until the alarm went off and then dial 911. That number is easy to remember. That she can handle.

She hears an engine growl and looks up, seeing the brown-haired girl pull up in her gray truck when there is still five minutes left on the timer. Annie stands, waving excitedly, seeing the smile on the girl’s face through the truck’s windshield. The girl responds, gesturing Annie to come, and she jumps down the stairs, running up to the truck and climbing in.

“You came back!” The words burst from her, relief flowing through her body. Soon she will be home. Soon she will be with her parents. Yanking on the car handle, she pulls open the door, struggling with the weight of it, and climbs into the truck.

The girl smiles, her face scratched, black marks on parts of her skin. “You bet, sweetie. Thanks for following directions. Ready to go home?”

Annie nods, tugging on the seat belt and pulling it over her body. “Yes!”

The girl puts the truck into drive and pulls backward, the truck rolling over the soft dirt. “I know your family is ready for you to come home.”

Annie wraps her arms tightly around her body and looks out the window.

It takes ten minutes to find civilization and a parking lot to pull into. I grab my newly activated cell, the same one that had flipped through Annie’s hands just minutes before, and reach into the floorboard, digging around until my hands close over my iPad. As I pull it out, I notice Annie’s eyes locked on my bag of gas station fare. “You hungry?”

She nods quickly, and I reach over, pulling the bag up and depositing it into her lap. The plastic bag opens to reveal a plethora of chocolate and candy. She shoots me a questioning look and I wave my hand dismissively. “Whatever you want. It’s all yours.”

There is a squeal of excitement, and the sound brings a smile to my face. My fingers dart quickly over the tablet’s surface, and then my search finds an answer, one home phone number for Henry and Carolyn Thompson. I perform a second search, looking for a location close to their home, its area a good twenty minutes from our current location. I take a deep breath, lean my head back on the seat, and try to think, try to figure out the best way to go about this. Then I open the phone, block my number, and dial Annie’s home.

HENRY THOMPSON SITS
in the living room, his hands tented in front of his face, tears soaking his unshaven cheeks. He had woken up to an empty house, Carolyn having left a note on the counter stating that she had “gone to Becky’s.” Why she would be wasting time visiting family now is beside him. He called the police station twice, both times learning nothing. They knew nothing; the cops are all idiots as far as he is concerned. He has never felt so useless and curses his legs and his inability to drive down to the station himself. The phone rings next to him, and he stares at the receiver. He has waited all night and all morning for the phone to ring. And now that it finally is, he is terrified of the news that it brings. He finally picks up the phone, his voice gravelly when it works. “Hello.”

“Mr. Thompson?” It is a young girl’s voice, one he doesn’t recognize.

“Yes.”

“I have Annie with me. She is safe.”

He sits up, gripping the phone tightly. “Who is this?” he demands harshly.

“Who I am doesn’t matter. I will bring her to you, but only if there is only you and your wife present. Is your wife there now?”

“No. She’s at her sister-in-law’s. May I speak to Annie?”

“Yes, but I need to arrange things with you first. Are you comfortable with meeting me alone, without police?”

“What do you want from us? We don’t have any money,” he responds quickly, worried at the words he speaks, worried that they will affect Annie’s return.

“Mr. Thompson, I am not the one who took Annie. I am just the one returning her. I have no interest in anything other than bringing her back to you.”

He releases a breath, fresh tears running down his face. “Yes, we will meet you alone. Where?”

“I have an address if you will write it down. We can meet you there in thirty minutes. Will that give you time to get in touch with your wife?”

He nods frantically, wiping at his eyes. “Yes. Please let me speak to Annie.”

There is a pause and whispered words that he can’t catch. Then there is a breath into the phone and Annie speaks, and it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

CAROLYN STARES INTO
the woman’s face, sweet tea and wilted napkins between them on the dining room table. In the background a phone rings, and Becky’s eyes flicker to it.

“You’re not getting that phone, Becky. You’re going to answer my damn question. This is my daughter we are talking about!” Carolyn stands, leaning over and looking into the woman’s watery blue eyes. “Do you think that Michael had anything to do with this?” The phone stops ringing, and the sudden silence hangs stagnant in the room.

“You’ve been asking me the same question for thirty minutes!” Becky’s voice breaks and she pushes to her feet, stepping away from the table and to the front window, looking out the blinds. Looking at the place where the police cruiser sat last night. “He’s your blood.” she finally says, her back rigid, a hardness coming over her face, the words broken and dead. “You should know how he is. Secrets…he’s always had secrets. And he hasn’t been interested in me for a long time. We’re not like you and Henry. We live together. Not much else.” She turns to Carolyn, stubborn pride mixed with indecision in her eyes. Her hands knot together and Carolyn waits for more, the woman before her hesitating, thinking through her next words. Then the phone starts up again, a demanding shrill, and she moves quickly, hurrying to the wall, away from Carolyn, and snatches up the receiver. “Hello?”

There is a pause, and then she turns, her eyes large. “It’s Henry. He says he has news about Annie.”

I have one final item to take care of and glance over at Annie, who is fiddling with the radio, flipping through pop stations. She smiles hesitantly, and I return her smile, seeing her eyes light up when she finds a song she likes. I quickly create a bogus e-mail address and send an e-mail to John Watkins, one of two deputies listed on the Brooklet Police Department’s online roster. It is a brief e-mail, stating the address where Ralph lies, stating that he may or may not still be alive and that he was the responsible party in the Annie disappearance. I press “send” and then set down the tablet.

“Okay, sweetie. Let’s go meet your parents.”

ANNIE’S REUNION WITH
her parents is held at a church parking lot ten miles outside of Brooklet. The marquee is faded, the building poorly maintained, but Carolyn Thompson doesn’t notice anything but the empty parking lot. She had quizzed Henry from the moment she had walked in the trailer door, asking questions she knew he didn’t have the answers to, speaking just to speak, nerves frying every receptor in her body. She doesn’t trust it, this strange girl calling to return Annie, someone they don’t know, her intentions unclear. It is too good to be true. And meeting here, without police, smells like a trap. She wanted to call John, wanted to involve the police or the FBI—who have so far been utterly useless—but Henry had been adamant about following the stranger’s instructions to a T. So here they wait, alone and exposed, their sanity as much at risk as their safety. She doesn’t know if either one of them can handle disappointment at this stage.

She unloads Henry’s chair from their handicap-accessible van, and he sits in the sun, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He seems utterly at ease, a condition that infuriates her. How he can be calm baffles her. If only she had been home, had spoken to Annie, heard the words that could have been her last. Henry had had that moment, and she feels cheated—an unfair sentiment, but present all the same.

“It’s late, Henry,” she says tightly, looking at her watch. “She said eight, right? You told me she said eight.”

“Relax, Carolyn. It’s only a minute past. Give them some time.”

And then there is a sound, an engine, and Carolyn almost cries, her heart breaking as she turns, afraid to give credence to her hope. A flash of blond reflects from the passenger side of a truck, and her throat constricts. The truck comes to a stop in front of them, the sun’s glare obscuring the windshield, and she runs, oblivious to anything but the thought of Annie. She flies to the passenger side, scrambling for the handle, ripping it open, and catching Annie when she tumbles out, gripping her tightly and sobbing into her curls, her hands squeezing the small body, which squirms in her grasp. “Oh, Annie!” she gasps. There is a squeal of metal on metal and she turns, seeing Henry struggling in his chair, trying to roll over the root-filled dirt, his eyes catching her, and his hands releasing the wheels, straining outward, reaching toward her.

Cursing her inconsideration, she runs with Annie in her arms to Henry, falling into his embrace, Annie tumbling into his lap, her giggles reaching their ears. Henry’s eyes meet hers, tears spilling from them, his mouth shaking as he reaches down, cradles Annie’s face, choking on his sobs. His arms grab her tight, and the three of them embrace for a very long time.

I watch them, my throat tight, the love that they share evident. They are an older couple, Annie obviously a miracle in their life. I am surprised to see her father in a wheelchair, a scenario I had never considered and one that hadn’t been mentioned in the news reports. I hadn’t really thought of them at all. My own greed had consumed me, my need to kill giddy at the justifiable opportunity that it had been presented. Annie’s giggle reaches me, and I cover my mouth, her childish innocence breaking my heart in two. I feel like an intruder in their private reunion, and I clear my throat, stepping forward.

“I’m going to leave.” I gesture to the truck. “I have to get on the road.” The mother turns, her eyes meeting mine for the first moment. She pats Annie as if reassuring herself of her existence and then turns away, taking steps forward until she stands in front of me.

When she speaks, her words are clear, her head held high. “I don’t know your part in all of this, but my husband says you helped Annie, and for that I am forever in your debt.”

I smile, meeting the little girl’s eyes. She flashes me a winning smile. “I was happy to do what I could to help. But I do have a favor to ask, if I may.”

Her eyes sharpen, suspicion present in their depths. “I figured as much. What is it?”

“My anonymity. I couldn’t think of an easy way to return Annie, I didn’t want to leave her somewhere with people who I’d be unfamiliar with. Your husband was kind enough to meet me here without involving the police, but if you could keep details about me private, I would greatly appreciate it.”

She waits, her eyes locked on mine, but then finally speaks. “That’s it? Anonymity is all that you’re asking for?”

I grimace, torn. “Certain actions I took in the rescue of Annie you might not appreciate later. You will understand more in a few hours. I apologize in advance for any pain that I have caused your family. Please know that I, for the most part, acted with Annie’s welfare in mind.” I pause. “I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation or ask you to lie. But again, if there is a way to avoid sharing details of my involvement, I would certainly appreciate it.”

The mother looks back at her daughter, cradled in her husband’s arms. “I appreciate your actions in a way that can never be repaid. If that is all you want, I can certainly honor those requests.”

I smile at her, the action catching her off guard, and she is hesitant in returning the gesture. Annie interrupts our exchange, jumping off her father’s lap and running to me, holding her hands up and reaching for me. I lean down, and her arms wrap easily around my neck.

“Thank you,” she whispers in my ear.

I grip her, trying to ignore the memories of Summer that push at my psyche, memories of her smell, her kisses, her tugs on my clothing, messy cheeks, tangled hair. I forced myself to stand, to separate myself from her. “I need to go. She is a wonderful child. You have done a wonderful job of raising her.” I nod at both of them; the father holds out his hands to me, and I walk over to him. Bending over, I accept the hug he offers, surprised at the strength with which he grips me.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “We will forever be in your debt.”

I straighten, run a gentle hand over Annie’s hair, then turn and head back to the truck, open the door, and climb in. I watch them for a moment, the mother crouched next to the wheelchair, the three of them talking excitedly. Then I put the truck in reverse and back up. I am pulling forward when I hear a shout. I look up to see the woman running to the truck. I roll down my window and look at her, worried that something is wrong.

“Were you the girl? The one who called the hotline?”

I pause, my indecision answering her question. Her mouth tightens and her eyes close tightly. “So, it was Michael? My Michael?”

“Yes. But I don’t think he did anything to her. She was tied up when I found her. Unharmed.”

“But you told the police…you think he was planning…” Her voice falters, and she grips the truck window tightly.

“If he planned on doing what he discussed with me…that is why I came for her. Why I did what I did.” I close my eyes, squeezing the steering wheel tightly. “I’m sorry.” I open my eyes, hating to look into hers, hating the disbelief and judgment I will see there.

She sways, the pain in her eyes sharp. “I can’t…there was never any sign,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder at Annie. “To think that someone who carries my blood would hurt her…” Her mouth tightens and she straightens, strength returning to her eyes.

“I don’t know what you did to him, and I don’t care,” she spits out. “Blood doesn’t excuse taking a child. You stopped what needed to be stopped.” She shakes her head tightly, her bottom lip quivering before she pushes them together. “Our police say that there are other girls. Like Annie, who’ve disappeared in this area.” She reaches through the window and grips my wrist tightly. “Don’t you feel one bit of guilt for anything you did to him.” She stares firmly at me, waiting for a response, and I finally nod, not sure how else to respond. Then she sniffs, releases my wrist, and steps back, walking back to her family and swinging Annie up onto her hip. They turn toward me and wave together, and I wave back and pull out, hitting the highway and heading toward home, if my one-room prison can be called that.

Don’t you feel one bit of guilt…
Guilt? I search myself for it but find no trace, no emotion over what I have done. What I do feel is a lack of closure. When I stabbed my mother, I saw her die. Saw the moment when her eyes became still and her breath stopped. With Ralph, I should have stayed. Should have used the knife a few times more, ensured that the job was done correctly, waited for that final huff of breath, the dry wheeze of death.