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Ellen hadn’t had a hard time making her choice. It was as if Sam had been waiting for her. He’d watched her expectantly out of intelligent brown eyes from behind the wire mesh of his cramped cage. He gave a short bark, thumped his tail on the floor, and Ellen had said to the bald man in overalls, "This one. I’ll take this one."

Sam was much smaller than a purebred lab, hardly the sort of dog Sergeant Branscombe had had in mind for her. Ellen suspected a strain of terrier in Sam as well, which was probably why poor old Sam hadn’t readily found a home, and why he was scheduled to be "put down" in the morning. The man explained they could only hold dogs for so long, that the city didn’t want to spend the money it took to feed and care for them. He seemed genuinely pleased Sam had found someone to take him.

Other than not having enough flesh on his bones, and badly in need of soap and water, he looked healthy enough to her.

"I’m something of a mongrel myself," she said, "French Canadian on my mother’s side, Irish on my father’s." The dog was looking at her as if he understood every word. "You’ll let me know if anyone tries to get in the house, won’t you, Sam? You’ll wake me if I’m asleep?"

Sam barked once.

Ellen laughed.
"How about a little music?
Maybe it will soothe the savage beast in both of us. The good Lord only knows what you’ve been through." She turned on the radio, and instantly Gail was in the car with them, her clear, familiar voice sending shockwaves of pain through Ellen, taking her breath. Her hand shot out to turn it off, but she found she couldn’t. In the song, Gail was alive, and Ellen listened through to the end, savoring each nuance, every breath, every word, until the final note had faded. Then, exhausted by the continuing assault on her emotions, she pulled the car off onto the shoulder of the road, laid her head on the steering wheel, and quietly wept.

In a little while, she felt a warm, rough tongue lick the back of her hand, and Sam’s head nestled gently in her lap.

Thirty

"I’m sorry, Carl."

Though it was afternoon, Carl and Myra were still in their robes, playing
Scrabble
at the kitchen table.
"About what?"
Carl was holding two tiles in his hand, trying to come up with a word.

"C’mon, honey, I know you were looking forward to a little fun in the sun. God knows you earned it."

"What I was looking forward to, actually, was a little time alone with my wife. And I have that. Look, it was just lousy timing on my part. Of course you should be here for Ellen." He placed his two tiles on the board, horizontally spelling out "page", earning himself seven points. "I just don’t see how we’re helping her sitting here, that’s all."

"I just feel better knowing we can be there in less than five minutes if we need to."

An old Beatles’ tune drifted from the radio on the counter. Moments before, they’d sat silently through Gail’s
Do You Know Me?
It was the first time Myra had heard the song. Though it was very pretty, it had been hard to listen to. She wondered if Ellen had been listening. She hoped not.

"She could stay here with us if she wanted," Carl said.

"I already asked—and she doesn’t want anyone staying with her, either. She’s afraid he won’t crawl out from under his rock if she’s not alone. She’s got a gun, Carl."

Seeing the fear on her face, hearing it in her voice, he said easily, "I feel a whole lot better knowing she’s got some protection. As long as she doesn’t panic and shoot some poor vacuum cleaner salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness."

"That’s not funny, Carl."

"Sorry.
Just trying to insert a little levity.
Anyway, the police seem to be keeping a pretty close eye on her. I saw the cruiser drive by this morning."

Myra said nothing. She pretended to study the tiles in her hand.

He got the message.
"Listen, why don’t you give her a call?
Later, we can go on up if you want. I don’t think she’d object to a little company."

"I love you, Carl."

"Of course you do. That’s because I’m so lovable."

She affectionately mumbled something about him being a jerk, and went into the living room. She dialed Ellen’s number, but there was no answer.

"She must have gone out," she said, returning. "I’ll try later."

Carl reached for a celery stick from the pink-flowered bowl. When Myra was on a diet, so was he.
Not that he couldn’t stand to shed a few pounds.
It was just that his jaw ached from all the chewing.

Myra was placing an "e" under the "p" in page, following quickly with two "
r’s
" and a "y".

"Perry," Carl said, his voice teasing.
"Can’t use a proper name.
Against the rules."

As Myra continued to stare at the name on the board, the room seemed to darken. A vision of flailing, clawing hands leapt into her mind’s eye. She went absolutely dead white.

"Myra, what is it?" Carl said anxiously, all playfulness gone from his voice. "What’s the matter?"

She told him what she’d seen.

"It’s because of Ellen’s sister," he said. "You’re imagining the scene of the murder."

"I don’t know, Carl. I’m not sure that’s it at all." She continued to look down at the name she’d unconsciously spelled out. PERRY. The name meant something to her.
Something horrible.

Carl laid his hand over hers. "Why don’t you take one of your pills," he said softly.

"No. They don’t help. All they do is
make
me sleepy." She was remembering being with Ellen in McDonald’s, telling her about the girl who had yanked Miss Baddie’s wig off. But it wasn’t that girl’s face that flashed in her mind now, but a pretty blond girl with kind blue eyes who had befriended her on that first night Myra spent in the home.
I was crying.
The girl was writing in her diary. She laid the pencil down and came to sit on my bed. She didn’t care that I was fat and ugly. "Don’t cry," she’d said. "I’ll be your friend if you want. My name’s Jeannie. What’s yours?"

It was as far as Myra’s memory would take her.

~ * ~

Alvin worked his way cautiously along the edge of the woods. The back of her house was no more than fifty feet from him. Still, he’d have to be careful. The police were probably watching the place. He checked the pockets of the camouflage coveralls he’d bought at Army surplus.
All set.
The van was parked in a small clearing in the woods, out of sight.

Crouching low, he scurried as fast as he could, stopping only when he reached the house. Heart racing, he listened. But there were only the usual night sounds. He hadn’t even needed to use his flashlight. She’d left a bedroom light on. She always did. The tree was perfect. She wasn’t as smart as she thought.

Climbing the tree proved not as easy as Alvin had expected. Twice, his foot slipped on an icy limb, momentarily panicking him. He would feel the cold rough bark through his thin gloves.

But at last he was there. He’d figured the window would be locked. He was right. Taking the screwdriver from his pocket, he wedged the end under the frame, and pushed down.

The lock snapped easily.

The floorboards creaked when he stepped over the sill into the room.

Closing the window, he walked about the room, touching things, running his gloved fingers over the satin puffs and pillows, and felt anger burn in his gut. He’d never slept in a room like this. He picked up a nightie lying on the foot of her bed. It slid through his hands.
Expensive.
The sort of nightie a woman like her would never wear for him. He held it against his face, could smell her perfume. It made his head swim. She was like all those girls in school who looked down their noses at him, thought they were too good for him. Acting like he wasn’t alive.

Well, she was the one who wouldn’t be alive.

Not for long.

Thirty-one

Ellen had been on her way home, but now, with Sam curled up asleep beside her, she was heading back into town, back to the old neighborhood where she and Gail had grown up, as if drawn there by her sister’s voice.

Driving past their faded brick school, she remembered how, more than once, they had tiptoed hand-in-hand down its polished corridor, late and frightened, hearing the voices of the teachers behind their closed doors. They would sneak past the principal’s office, their own breathing and footsteps echoing as if they were inside a church.

The car bumped lightly over Smith’s Bridge. Above her, seagulls still soared and wheeled and cried out. She remembered how she used to envy them their wings.

Nearing her own street, she cracked the window open, and the familiar smells of salt air mingling with those of poverty and neglect sent her spinning back in time.

She drove past Melick’s Barber Shop. Bars now covered the plate glass window where the Siamese cat used to sleep curled up in the sun. A padlock hung on the door. The barber pole was gone.

She rounded the corner past what had been Hasson’s Grocery store, and was mildly surprised to see that it was still in business, the rusting Coca Cola sign still swaying above the door.

Finally, she turned onto Burr Street—their street. She slowed the car. The houses she passed looked sadder even than she remembered, smashed-out windows still being replaced by cardboard, doorsteps sinking ever deeper into the broken pavement.

She noticed two boys shoving a smaller one, and gave a blast on the horn. Sam woke to add a short, scolding bark. While the two boys glared after her, the young one made his escape.

As she neared the house where they had lived in the bottom flat, Ellen saw a small, fair-haired girl standing forlornly on the sidewalk, her hands drawn up inside the sleeves of her green, skimpy jacket for warmth, and for one heart-stopping second, it was Gail standing there.

She drove to the end of the street, rounded the block and drove back the way she had come, through the center of town, past the police station, down King, from where she could see the ocean against the gray horizon. Her gaze was drawn briefly to the McLeod Building, her thoughts to Cindy Miller. To the terrible sorrow of those who’d loved her. Myra told her Carl had been in Anderson Insurance installing phones on the day she went missing. He remembered her.

Ellen drove on, until the city sped away behind her, growing smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirror, until finally all signs of civilization gave way to trees and fields, and the road narrowed.

And suddenly there it was.
The Evansdale Home for Girls.
Gray and bleak, it loomed on the crest of the hill to her left. Behind the prison-like structure, Ellen could see the expanse of field where Myra had once told her they grew their own vegetables, the girls themselves doing the planting and tending. The field was grown over now, backed by dense woods.

Some of the wire fencing that had surrounded the grounds was still in evidence, though most of it appeared to have been pulled down, most likely by kids who came out here to party. She couldn’t imagine some poor derelict seeking only a night’s refuge going to so much trouble.

Gazing up at the boarded-up doors and windows, Ellen couldn’t help wondering how many girls had suffered the torments of hell inside those cold, gray walls.
You couldn’t grow up in Evansdale without hearing whispers of mistreatment.
"The home" represented a bad place where girls could be sent if they didn’t behave. Though nothing concrete had ever surfaced so far as she knew, officials must have at least suspected the sort of abuses Myra confided to her. They hadn’t closed the place down for
no
reason.

The small, urgent whine drew her attention.
"Sorry, Sam."
She went around to the passenger side and let him out, holding fast to the leash. They didn’t know one another all that well, yet; no point in taking chances. But Sam seemed quite content to simply do his business and hop back in the car.

Why am I here?
Ellen wondered.
Why did I make this journey into the past today? Did I expect to find Gail sitting on the steps of our old house? Or do I imagine she’s up there still—a small, pale figure waiting inside for me to come and rescue her.

It’s too late, Ellen. The moment when rescue was possible is gone. And you can’t bring it back.
The truth she’d been refusing to look at now rushed to the surface of her consciousness, too clear to deny.
If I had warned Gail to get out of that apartment, or even if I’d telephoned 911 the instant I hung up from talking to her, she would still be alive.