Pretty Girl Thirteen (29 page)

“We’ve got a positive ID as well,” Brogan said. “On prints. Recently, he came out of Arizona, where he’d been living and working in a bank for ten years. No conviction record there, but he’d been pulled in for repeatedly loitering too near a middle school. Clean driver’s license and an apartment he always paid for on time. His name was Brett Samuelson.” He waited for my reaction, for confirmation, maybe.

“I never knew his name,” I said simply. “None of my alters did. He was very careful to keep everyone away from his briefcase and wallet.”

“I’ve shown his photo around, tried to track his movements locally. We’ve found the grocery where he shopped, the office where he worked—”

I couldn’t help myself. “And I bet they said, ‘He was always such a quiet, polite man,’ like they always do.”

Brogan quirked a smile. “Actually, yes. They did. Anyway, I wanted to prepare you for what I hope will be the last media onslaught. We’re going to run his photo in the Sunday paper, asking for any more leads or helpful information. The article won’t mention you by name, but I think with a case as high profile as yours, people may put two and two together. I’m sorry I can’t predict what the local news station will do with it, beyond trying to get the most mileage possible.”

Dad jumped in, a sour look on his face. “If it bleeds, it leads, right?”

“I’m afraid so,” Brogan replied.

“Any way of avoiding putting Angie through all this?” Dad’s voice held a squeaky, pleading note.

I took pity on him. “Dad. I’ve handled worse. I’ll be okay.”

“Atta girl,” Brogan said. “Do you want to put up in a hotel for a few days so they can’t stake out your front lawn?”

Mom laughed wickedly. “I’ll set up the lawn sprinklers. Let’s see them try.”

She would, too. I could see her turning the hoses on all their expensive video equipment.

“So is that it?” I asked.

To my surprise, Brogan shrugged a little uncomfortably. “Almost. Are you busy today, Angie?”

“I’ve got babysitting tonight. The Harrises have another Christmas party. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you’d be willing to drive up to the cabin with me, go over the site. See if there’s anything you left behind that you’d like or … or just get some sort of closure for yourself.”

Mom rose to her feet. “Phil, I don’t think—”

“Margie, you and Mitch are welcome to come along too.”

Dad looked sick to his stomach at the very idea. And I realized I didn’t want to fill Mom’s head with mental images of the cabin, especially the bedroom.

My voice came out just a little too loud. “No, not them.” At Mom’s stricken face, I got control of my tone, serious and steady. “You both have to go to work. And anyway, this is something I have to do by myself.”

Her cheeks sagged. “Oh, hon. Are you really prepared for—”

“It’s okay, Mom.” I wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned against her. “I think it might actually be a good idea.”

Closure. Girl Scout had spent her whole life in that house. I owed it to her to pay my last respects, in some weird way. “As long as I’m home by four to get ready.”

And let’s face it. I was a little curious. Which might not have been the best reason to go.

The silence on the drive up the Crest Highway lasted all the way up the mountains, with Brogan absorbed in his own thoughts. He drove with one huge hand draped over the top of the wheel, bent at the wrist.

I watched the scenery, low chaparral on both sides of the car as far as I could see. The blackened ground, still scarred from the last big fire, had erupted into that bright green of new growth, fertilized by the ashes. Manzanita bushes, naturally fireproof, still twisted like a black-and-chestnut-red sculpture garden. Trees that still stood were spread wide apart, enough for the understory to take hold again.

“What happened?” I asked.

Brogan grunted. “Arson. Some fool hiker got lost and set a signal fire for the Forestry Service to find him.”

“Did they?”

“Sure. What was left. After they put out over fifty thousand flaming acres.”

“Idiot,” I commented.

The road wound up and up. At higher altitudes, the untouched pines were close and dry, a fire waiting to happen. Deep in here, an off-grid cabin could easily hide.

Brogan pulled off the main highway, taking a narrow dirt road that led into a dense forested area. The smell of pine penetrated the car. A minute later, a smaller lane branched off, rutted and rocky. The SUV lurched along until Brogan unexpectedly stopped in the middle of nowhere. The way was completely blocked by trees. He opened his door and came around to let me out.

He gestured to the dense stand of trees. “You can understand why we never found this place. See how the ground is too dry to hold noticeable tracks?”

I looked behind the wheels of his car and saw what he meant.

“This is where Samuelson parked his car every night. We found it abandoned.”

“How come I never heard it?” I asked. “Is the cabin far?”

“Not that far,” he answered. “But the trees absorb sound, and his car was all-electric to begin with. Very quiet. It must have seemed like magic, the way he came and went.”

“Yeah. Black magic,” I agreed.

We walked straight into the trees, and I noticed how a path had been crushed from repeated use by the investigators, or by the man himself. I’d never seen this path before, or the “parking spot.” Girl Scout had come out another way to get down to the road. I remembered hours of walking between trees before I came to the miles and miles of winding asphalt—cars that gave me strange looks but didn’t slow—sun and wind battering me equally. An epic journey.

Now the cabin came into view, and through the memories of Girl Scout, I recognized the well pump that tapped into an underground spring. The water had been cold and minerally, but clear and clean. I discovered I missed the taste.

“Where was the grave?” I asked.

Brogan pointed a ways off, and I spied a blue tarp peeking through the trees. “A long way for a girl to move a body all alone,” he said in a somber tone. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t have a reply. What was he looking for here? Forgiveness? From me?

As we approached the cabin, I tested my emotions. Nothing stood out—not terror, not happiness—just a numb sense that this was how things always were.

I suddenly had the impression that Brogan had stopped walking. I turned to see him, hands on his hips, staring up at the trees.

“I have a daughter,” he said. “Two of them. The oldest is just the age you were when Samuelson grabbed you.” His voice trembled, and I realized with horror that his eyes were wet. “Angie, there’s one more thing we discovered when we investigated him. I wanted to tell you before your parents. I’m just not entirely sure how to start.”

“At the very beginning?” I suggested lightly.

“Maybe.” He thumbed his eyes. “Let’s go inside.”

Crime-scene ribbon was staked around the cabin, and a padlock had been screwed into the door. Brogan pulled a key from his shirt pocket and unlatched the padlock, which he left dangling from the hook.

Everything was just the way Girl Scout remembered it, except far dustier, I noted with concern. I brushed the thought away. I wasn’t the housekeeper anymore. The iron stove, the small kitchen table, the chipped chamber pot in the corner, the pantry, the woodpile—running low. Stop, I told myself. I looked with dread toward the bedroom door—my dread or the dread I inherited from Girl Scout? I can face this, I reminded myself. I am a survivor.

I stood on the threshold, one I’d never crossed, and stepped through. The room looked ordinary. Faded comforter, sheets rumpled. Books on a shelf nailed to the wall. Oil lamps on another shelf.

I felt Brogan’s eyes on me. I turned. “What?”

He sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know how else to tell you this, kid. About eight months ago, Samuelson gave up an infant to County Children and Family Services.”

My head throbbed behind my eyes. I raised my hands to my temples and pressed.

Brogan misunderstood. He patted my back. “Given the timing and the age of the infant, it’s likely … it’s quite likely …”

“He’s mine.” I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. It didn’t help.

Brogan’s arm tightened on my shoulder, offering support.

“I can’t believe he used his real name on the adoption papers,” I said. “That must be why the Harrises named him Sam.”

Brogan’s eyebrows practically popped off his head. “You know? Knew?”

I shrugged. “I half remembered, half figured it out. You haven’t told the Harrises, have you?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Obviously, though, to regain custody we’ll have to tell them, and you’ll have to take a maternity test, all those legal hoops.”

“Don’t,” I said bluntly.

“Don’t?”

“Don’t tell them. Don’t tell my parents. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Angie …”

“Please. Not yet. I haven’t decided what to do. I don’t know what the best thing is for Sam. Or me. Or my parents. I only know what’s best for the Harrises.”

“Complicated.” Brogan scratched his cheek. He watched me carefully.

I spoke into his waiting silence. “The Harrises are wonderful parents. They adore Sammy. He adores them. I don’t want to taint his precious life with any hint of … of where he came from. Can you imagine? Can you imagine what that would do to a kid?”

Brogan sighed. He ran a hand across the top of his short cut, scratched his eyebrow. “Yes. Unfortunately, I can. But are you sure, Angie? Not even your parents? They could help you with this decision.”

“They’re still raw and grieving for their lost little girl. I can’t layer another thing on top. I think Dad would totally crack. He’s barely holding it together now.”

“How long do you need? The longer the child stays with them, the harder—”

“I know. Look, I think I already know the answer. I just have to convince … myself.”

Silence fell like the dust motes we’d stirred up with our breath and movement through the room.

“Okay,” he said. “Are we done here? See anything you want to take away?”

I glanced around the two-room cabin, familiar and strange. “Nothing,” I answered. “Let’s get out of here. The light’s going.”

I followed Brogan through the kitchen. “Oh, wait. There is one thing. I’ll be right out.” I went back into the bedroom for a battered copy of
Song of Myself
propped on a shelf. No wonder I loved it in school. Girl Scout had read it over and over here.

As I reached for the worn paperback, a shattering pain exploded in my head, as if something had smashed me from behind. My skull echoed with the impact. Blind with agony, I fell to the bed. A terrible cracking and wrenching noise came from a distance. Then a slam. I staggered up, lurching toward the front door. Through squinted eyes, I found my way, heaved on the door handle. Pushed on the door. It was jammed. Or locked.

“Brogan? Detective Brogan,” I yelled. “Help me! I’m stuck.”

I tugged and tugged on the door, hammered with my fists. Useless. It wouldn’t budge. A window. I could break a window. Get his attention that way.

No windows? Where were the damned windows?

In the bedroom? I rushed back toward the bedroom and slammed into a wall. My head spun. Pinpoint stars danced at the edges of my vision, then winked out, leaving me in the gray gloom. I reached around frantically. The stove was gone, the table was gone, the pantry—gone.

Walls pushed in, closer and tighter. In the shadows, I made out the silhouette of a rocking chair, just a chair in the middle of a dark, dusty floor dimly outlined by an oil lamp sitting in the corner. And I knew where I was.

I heard my own voice from far outside of myself. “All set, Detective. Thanks for waiting. Let’s go.”

H
OW? HOW HAD SHE BROKEN OUT
?

As my voice faded into the distance, chatting with Detective Brogan, I knew Lonely One was running the show. Would he be able to tell the difference? Would she give herself away?

I paced her room in near panic. The walls felt tight. I found it hard to breathe, which was stupid. I didn’t need to breathe. She was breathing for us.

I pinched myself experimentally. Yes, it hurt. Of course it did, because I expected it to hurt. So I kept breathing, because I expected myself to breathe.

Six steps across, six steps back. Again. I avoided the chair. No way was I going to sit down there and wait passively for Lonely One to come back for me. What if she left me here for three more years? Oh God. What if she left me here … forever?

I imagined all the terrible things she could be planning now—stealing Sammy and running away, dropping out of school, saying unforgivable things to Mom and Dad, ditching Lynn—the only person who might realize what had happened. If I could imagine them, surely she’d thought of them too.

My footsteps took on the rhythm of heartbeats or ticks of the clock, and I realized I’d lost any sense of time. Time had no meaning in here. It could be minutes, hours, even days since she’d switched places and locked me in.

I rattled the door again, banged and yelled till my imaginary voice was hoarse. No response. I stared at my hands, trying to will an ax to appear so I could chop my way out. It didn’t work. Maybe my mental conjuring only worked when I was the one in charge.