Grace (44 page)

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Authors: T. Greenwood

BOOK: Grace
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At first he thought it was only a signal, a shift in the song: the loud percussive barking. But as he willed his eyes back open, he knew it was not music at all, but animals. Dogs. And they were coming for him.
K
urt rode with the police officers in the patrol car, and Elsbeth followed behind in Kurt's truck. She never drove his truck; it felt strange to be this high up above the road. She was grateful for the four-wheel drive though, for the sheer size of the vehicle. She followed the police car, its blue and red lights spinning kaleidoscope colors on the snow, grasping the wheel tightly.
The sun was already starting its slow descent behind the western hills. It would be dark in an hour or so. The days were so short at this time of year, just slivers of days. The slipping away of the daylight filled her with dread.
The officer said they had footage of a boy who fit Trevor's description entering the school during the holiday weekend. A tall boy in Trevor's clothes. A hulking boy with snow-white hair and a Halloween hockey mask. They had numerous witnesses who recalled the Jason mask from Halloween.
The officer had assured her that as soon as they found Trevor they would find Gracy as well. That he clearly had pulled her out of school so that she wouldn't be hurt in the explosion. The name on the sign-out sheet was “Chris Johnson.” No one she had ever heard of. The secretary insisted that she'd gotten a phone call from Elsbeth saying that Chris Johnson would be by to pick Gracy up. But after the police kept suggesting that maybe it was a male caller, she faltered. “Well, maybe. I don't remember. This day has been so insane. Maybe I'm not remembering things right. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”
Elsbeth tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that Trevor loved Gracy. That he would never put her in harm's way. If he was, indeed, the one who had done this, then he would have made sure she wasn't there. He would have done anything to keep her from getting hurt. But accepting this version of events also meant accepting that Trevor
had
done this. That something in him had finally snapped, that he'd set out to hurt, even kill, people. Her eyes filled with tears and she wiped at them futilely. Mrs. Cross had been telling them how dangerous he was for over a year now, and they hadn't believed her. They couldn't stand to believe her. And if that were the case, it was as much Elsbeth's fault,
Kurt's fault,
as it was Trevor's. Mrs. Cross had sat there as the police questioned them, smug in her pale yellow suit with her pale yellow hair and her white, white teeth.
Happy
almost that something had finally happened that proved she was right. She was a winner now. Now that a dozen kids were in the hospital. Elsbeth felt sick.
Elsbeth searched for the windshield wipers to clear away the snow, which was still falling hard from the sky. She wondered, if Trevor had taken her,
where
he would have taken her. She hoped they were both just at the house. That they were somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. They were her babies, and the thought of losing either one of them was suddenly almost more than she could stand.
There was so much snow, and the visibility was so poor, she might have missed the house completely if not for their mailbox. The red flag was up, though she knew it hadn't been when they left the house. And instinctively, she slowed the truck, rolled down the window, reached across the seat, and opened the mailbox.
Inside was a bundle of envelopes from Walgreens, Trevor's pictures.
She didn't think she had asked to have them mailed to her, but here they were. How strange. It had been so long since she dropped them off, maybe someone had decided to deliver them. But she hadn't even paid for them yet.
At the top of the driveway, the police were already out of the car, opening up the back to get the dogs out. Blood rushed in her ears, rendering her almost deaf for a moment. She hesitated at the foot of the drive, quickly opening the pictures and sifting through them as though for clues.
There were some horrible shots of Pop's house. God, she was mortified that anyone had seen these, even if it was just some Walgreens photo person. She stopped rifling through them when she got to the pictures of Gracy.
Gracy standing in the river, her bathing suit half falling off, the light in her hair. Light, like fireflies, skipping across the water. A look of pure innocence on her face. Nothing but peace. Gracy. Her sweet, beautiful Grace. And suddenly she knew that this was all the evidence in the world that she needed to know that Gracy was safe. This was how Grace looked through Trevor's eyes. He
loved
her.
After today, he would be vilified. The entire town would probably hold him up as an example of what bad parenting can do. But these pictures were proof enough to her that despite what he might or might not have done at the school, he was just a sad, gentle boy. Her boy. And now, more than anything, she just wanted to find him and tell him she loved him, even if it was already too late.
T
revor startled at the sound of the dogs. He thought for a moment that he was in the middle of some terrible dream. Or, maybe, he had simply frozen to death, and this was what hell felt like. Not fire and brimstone, but the numbing ache of snow. Dogs ready to tear him limb from limb.
He could hear footsteps crunching in the snow down at the river's edge, and he scrambled to his feet, peering out the window, which overlooked the river. He could see all of the equipment he'd discarded, stuck in the slush and snow, the river ignoring the detritus, bending around it as its icy current rushed downstream. He could hear the panting of dogs, see the steam rising from their bellies and their wet noses.
“Whoa boy, hold on,” someone said, and then Trevor saw the man in his black jacket:
Police
in reflective yellow across his back. Trevor moved away from the window, pressed his back against the wall. But then the voices and the snuffling sound of the dogs came closer.
“Holy shit,” a male voice said. “Look at all this blood.”
Trevor's hand started to throb again, reminded of its injury. His heart rapped against his chest like a knock on a door.
“I think we've got him,” another voice said.
And then the voice was amplified. It reminded him for a moment of Mrs. Cross making the daily announcements on the loudspeaker at school. But this wasn't school. And this wasn't Mrs. Cross. This was a police officer with dogs and probably guns. “Trevor, we know you're in there. You need to send Grace out.”
Grace?
“Trevor, send your sister out immediately, or else we're coming in.”
Why did they think he had Grace? His nose was running now, snot coming down both nostrils. It was hot, steaming. He rubbed his temples with his good hand; it seemed the cold had penetrated his head now and his entire brain was cold and numb.
“I don't have her,” he said, but his words were small, frozen slivers.
He could hear movement outside the caboose.
“I don't have her!” he said, listening as the words echoed inside the metal car.
“Come out with your hands above your head, Trevor,” the voice said.
And Trevor did what he was told to do.
Outside the sky had grown dark. He couldn't tell what time of day it was. It could be dawn or dusk for this twilight sky. Everything was almost bluish. If he had his camera this is what he would have seen: two German shepherds, pulling at their leashes, eyes wild. Two men, necks strained and faces like square blocks. Guns aimed at his chest, the barrels like eyes.
“Where's Grace?” they asked.
Trevor shook his head. “I don't know.”
And then he was down on the ground, face buried in the snow, arms yanked behind his back.
K
urt stood alone in the empty caboose as the police handcuffed his son and read him his rights. As Elsbeth stood shivering and crying in the doorway. As the snow continued to fall.
It was dark and cold inside the caboose. A cave. A black hole. But the light from the doorway illuminated the meager furnishings, the contents of Trevor's clandestine asylum. Kurt recognized some items from the house: a beanbag chair, an end table, a couple of milk crates fashioned into bookcases. He looked at the walls, at the photos nailed haphazardly there. He walked closer to the pictures, his head pounding as he examined them. Most of them were old black-and-white photos, like the kind you find in antique stores. Old-fashioned photographs of children, of little girls. Sullen faces, sepia faces. Creepy nineteenth-century pictures of little girls, many of them in costume. Kurt stepped back, as if changing his perspective might help him make sense of what he was seeing. There were other pictures too, snapshots. Trevor's own photos, he figured. There was one of Pop's house from a distance, one of a dead fish. One of Gracy on the swing set in the backyard.
Gracy.
Where
was
she? What was he looking for here?
He reached for something hanging from a nail on the wall. It was striped, and slippery in his fingers. Fabric? A scarf?
Tights
. A tiny pair of Gracy's tights. He dropped them as he might a live snake.
Kurt's nerve endings were raw. His entire body felt electrified, as though he'd been struck by lightning. He stumbled backward, tripping over something on the floor.
“Shit,” he said, catching himself before he fell.
He looked down and saw it was only a mattress. A filthy, bare mattress on the floor. As his heart thumped in his chest, he leaned forward to see what was on the mattress. He reached down and touched the dark spot. Blood.
His hand flew to his mouth, and he stumbled backward on his ineffectual legs, reeling as he fled the caboose. His body was so hot, the snow seemed to crack and sizzle when it hit his skin.
Through the snarl of trees, he could see the cops escorting Trevor back toward the house. He watched Elsbeth as she struggled to keep up behind them.
He sank to his knees in the snow, his legs failing him. His entire body failing him. It took every remaining bit of energy he had to stand up again and move toward his family, disappearing in the distance.
C
rystal didn't know how long they had been driving. The clock in the Volvo only worked intermittently, and her cell phone battery had died. She had a car charger somewhere in her suitcase, but she didn't want to stop again; she was worried that Gracy would wake up. She was hungry, though, and she knew that Grace would likely need to eat something soon too. She had just seen a sign announcing G
AS
—F
OOD
—L
ODGING
and could also see a pair of golden arches in the distance. Gracy might even stay asleep if she went through the drive-thru.
She pulled off at the exit and followed the signs that said FOOD and was happy to see that there wasn't a line at the McDonald's drive-thru. She glanced at Gracy in the backseat. She had shifted positions but was still fast asleep. She ordered a Happy Meal for her, trying to think whether she'd like a cheeseburger or chicken nuggets better. She got a Big Mac meal for herself, super sized; they probably wouldn't eat again until morning.
There was a gas station next to the McDonald's, and she figured it was probably a good time to gas up as well. If both the car and the people inside were fueled up, they could make it out of Vermont without having to stop again. She pulled up to the first pump, checking through the window to make sure Gracy was still sleeping. She was surprised the smell of the McDonald's food hadn't woken her up. She had to use cash to pay, which meant she was either going to have to wake Gracy up or leave her in the car. She glanced around. The place was deserted. Gracy would be safe. It would only take a couple of minutes.
She went inside the bright mini-mart, the electronic bells announcing her entrance, though the kid at the counter was watching TV, her arrival barely registered with him.
“Can I put twenty dollars in pump number two?” she said to his profile.
“You been watching this?” he asked, gesturing to the TV.
She looked up. It was a news station, and there was some sort of fire.
“That's just up in Two Rivers. I got a cousin up there.”
In the blue banner beneath the footage, it said, BOMBING AT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. SUSPECT IN CUSTODY.
“What happened?” she asked, feeling vertiginous, swirling.
“A bomb went off up at some school in Two Rivers. Some crazy kid set off a whole bunch of explosions. Boom!” he said.
Angie.
Oh my God.
The aerial shot disappeared, and a newscaster came on.“While there are no fatalities reported so far in this tragic bombing, several children are currently undergoing surgery, and several others have been airlifted to Boston Children's Hospital.”
She had to get home. Angie was at the school. Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably now, as though her heart were the epicenter of some horrific earthquake. She turned to go out the door, leaving the twenty-dollar bill on the counter, knowing she'd need the gas if she was going to make it all the way back to Two Rivers without stopping. But just as she was heading back out through the doors, the scene on the TV changed. The man said, “And beyond the obvious tragedy here today, there has been an alarming twist in this case. The suspect's six-year-old sister is currently missing. It is unclear at this time whether the suspect has anything to do with her disappearance, but the school has confirmed that she was removed from the school just prior to the first explosion.”

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