Run Away Baby (25 page)

Moments later she heard someone coming up the stairs. She waited for the sound of plastic crinkling and some jerk saying, “Hey, I found this bag in your bushes,” but instead she heard a woman’s voice: “Hi, Neighbor.” It was squawky and sounded like someone much older. Was this the affair person or some huge mistake? Abby gripped the tote bag in anticipation.

“Hi to
you,”
said the woman. “What are you waiting for? Get your ass over here.”

At least it wasn’t Charlie, Abby told herself. She’d begun to think everyone in the world who was fucking someone was fucking Charlie.

These two went at it forever. Like the word on the picture frame. They kept the background noise going and approached sex like it was a competitive sport. Gadgets whirred and, at one point, something that sounded like an industrial strength blender took off. It lessened Abby’s closet lurker guilt and gave her a little freedom to move around without being heard. Eventually the women stopped having sex and went into the shower together.

Abby edged out of her hiding space, straightened and unsmooshed the shoes she’d been crouching on, and got everything looking nice and orderly again. She could hear them talking about, of all things, gardening, their voices shouting over the sound of the shower and the bathroom fan.

“How are your carrots doing?”

“Good. You should come over and see.”

“I didn’t even bother planting them anymore. We get ours from the farmers’ market. It’s easier. But they’re not as nice as yours.”

“I’ll give you some of our extras.”

Clicking the closet door into place, Abby held her breath and ran down the stairs as quietly as she could manage. Once she was out the back door, she grabbed her bag of money, shoved it into the tote, and ran to the woods. As soon as she was out of view, she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, a very tightly bound one, took out the scissors, and cut it off above the ponytail holder. She folded it over upon itself and wrapped the other ponytail holder around it, careful not to let one strand of hair escape. She wrapped her dirty t-shirt around it and buried it in the bottom of the tote bag. She would find a way to dispose of it later. She gave her now less-than-shoulder-length hair a shake and put the cap on her head. Her hair had been all the way down her back. Without it she felt about ten pounds lighter and very free, and also a little sick over what she’d done. It will grow back, she told herself. She put on the sunglasses.

She started walking what she guessed to be north. As she went she ate the processed cheese slice -- now essentially a gooey slick of delicious, greasy salt -- and the apple, and drank a bottle of water. She saved the rest, in case she was out here longer than she expected.

She planned to walk in the woods until it was dark, and then find some kind of transportation. Maybe she would stumble upon a town with a bus station, or find a bicycle with a big basket to hold her things. Anything would do. Strangers walking around were peculiar, but strangers with transportation blended in. Perhaps because they would be away from you sooner. And she needed a populated area. At first remoteness had been exactly what she needed, but now that she was a little bit disguised, it was a liability to be out here in no man’s land. In a town, she could be just another lady out for a stroll or a bike ride. Once she found a town, she’d find a bus ticket. And when she was a couple of states away, no one would have ever heard about Abby Greer.

Abby spent the night in the forest again, waking off and on to the pulsing racket of helicopters flying overhead. Shortly before dawn she began walking again. At 5:49 on Wednesday morning Abby arrived in a town called Benningville. A Chevy dealership on the outskirts of town, right next to the Population 3,897 sign, told her the time and temperature (75 degrees) and invited her to TAKE YOUR NEW CAR FOR A SPIN TODAY.

She found a bicycle path to walk on, and decided to go for it. She was a lady on a walk. No mischief here, just an average woman taking a normal morning stroll. She sipped her second bottle of water, and when she came to a park bench at a spot on the path that overlooked the downtown, she sat down, pulled out her book, and casually read a few pages. A jogger went by, nodded hello, and didn’t even blink at her. For the most part, though, Benningville felt very deserted.

Emboldened, she decided to walk downtown and get herself a cup of coffee and a donut. It was now almost 7:00.

She entered the coffee shop with her sunglasses on and made a beeline to the restroom. It was a single restroom, all to herself; she had some space to breathe and sort through her things. She pulled out five twenties and shoved them in her hip pocket. The rest she buried at the bottom of the bag next to her dirty laundry and snipped off ponytail.

She removed her sunglasses and looked at herself in the mirror. She’d half expected to see an entirely different person, but it was still her. Her hair wasn’t as crooked as she’d feared. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she put her sunglasses back on and went up to the counter to order her coffee.

A boy in his teens was working. It was so early that only one other person was in the shop, an older man reading the newspaper, and he hadn’t looked up once.

“What can I get you?” asked the guy.

“A large coffee with room for cream, a blueberry scone, and,” she tried to sound like it was an afterthought, “the newspaper.”

“Benningville Gazette
or
Tampa Bay News?”

“Oh. I’ll take both.”

“For here or to go?”

“I’ll take it with me.”

He set her coffee and a white bag holding the scone on the counter. “Now that you paid for them, the papers are help yourself,” he said, pointing at the stack of them by the door.

“Thanks.” She grabbed both newspapers on her way out, tucking them beneath her arm. She crossed the street, deciding she’d like to go to the park she’d passed on her way downtown. This town was too small for a bus station, and she needed to think about how she was going to get north. She readjusted her tote bag; both shoulders were killing her. Too impatient to find a place to sit, she shoved the book, local paper, and scone in her tote, and began skimming the
Tampa Bay Times
as she lifted the cup of coffee to her lips.

She was at least an hour and a half or two hours from home, so she wasn’t sure if she should expect to find anything about her disappearance. Maybe there would be something noteworthy a few pages in.

She perused the top half of the front page, found nothing to interest her, flipped it over to the bottom half, and discovered that she was front page news. This entire half of the paper was devoted to her disappearance. She stopped right where she was, looked around for the nearest bench, and went straight to it.

There was a picture of her that had been taken a couple of years earlier when she and Randall were skiing in Vermont. She sniffed in jealousy over her old gorgeous self. Photos of Rake and Charlie, mugshots, actually, were right beside her. Charlie’s hair was shorter, his face thinner. His expression caught halfway between a sneer and total emptiness. Rake looked like Rake; he was wearing his trademark faux doe-eyed innocent look. There was also a sketch that was supposed to be Meggie, but looked like a cartoon character.

Abby Greer Still Missing, Husband Suspects the Worst
read the headline. The subhead beneath it read:
Recent vandalism incident in Grove, Florida and Fall 2012 assault on college student linked to missing woman.

Abby looked around at the nearly empty street and pushed her sunglasses a little closer to her face before she began reading.

The wife of wealthy businessman Randall Greer is still missing. Twenty-eight year old Abby Greer went jogging near her Palm Meadows home Sunday morning and did not return. Randall Greer noticed and reported her missing later that day after returning from golfing with friends.

Yesterday morning Abby Greer’s co-worker discovered a note on her desk from the missing woman, penned several days prior, indicating that if anything should happen to her, she suspected a vendor who regularly visited their business as being involved. The co-worker, who wishes to remain anonymous, had just returned from a short vacation, not finding the note until that morning. She showed the note to her boss, a friend of Randall Greer, and Greer immediately contacted local police and FBI.

The suspect Mrs. Greer named is Charles P. Stinger. Stinger is considered a suspect in Mrs. Greer’s disappearance and is considered to be armed and dangerous. Stinger was listed along with his cousin Rake Allen Shucks as a person of interest in the October 2012 assault of a Grace Lorreth College student who was raped, beaten, and left for dead near her dorm. The student’s name has never been made public, at the request of her family. She has remained in a coma and in a persistently vegetative state with little hope of recovery. She has never been able to communicate details about what happened the night of her assault. Neither Stinger nor Shucks were charged for that crime and it has remained unsolved.

Abby read this paragraph over again, confused. What could that have to do with her? She remembered hearing the story back when it happened. A girl who went to the local, private all-girls college had gotten assaulted walking back to her dorm. It had been very violent. For a while everyone in her area was on edge, waiting for it to happen again. This girl, Abby suddenly recalled with a prickling chill, had worked at Mikayla’s Coffee House, the place Charlie took her to the first time anything happened between them.

She continued reading:

On Monday morning the Bennington, Florida police department received a call from a couple living in the unincorporated town of Grove, eleven miles south of Bennington, indicating that two men had been in their area late Sunday night and were suspected of vandalizing their vehicles and home over a confrontation earlier in the evening. This incident was not originally believed to be connected to Mrs. Greer’s disappearance. However, the couple, who also wish to remain anonymous, saw Stinger’s photo on the news last night after he was identified as a suspect in Greer’s disappearance. They recognized him as one of the suspects who destroyed their property, and have since named Shucks as the other suspect in this incident. They indicated that a third person, an unidentified woman, was seen with Stinger and Shucks the night of the vandalism, prior to its occurrence. They were unsure whether she may have also been involved in the destruction of their property. This woman is being called a person of interest in both the vandalism at the Grove property and the disappearance of Abigail Greer.

Neither Stinger nor Shucks have reported to work since Greer’s disappearance.

This turn of events, linking Stinger and Shucks to Greer’s unknown whereabouts, has prompted local authorities and FBI to descend on the area south of Grove, where they are currently combing the area for clues, and have launched a full-on manhunt for Stinger, Shucks, and the unidentified woman. See photos and sketch. No details have emerged yet about their findings. If you have any information relating to these investigations, please contact local police or FBI immediately.

Abby looked around her. Cars were filling up the parking spaces. People had jobs and appointments at the real estate offices, dentist offices, and cafés that lined the downtown. Barely daring to, she picked up the
Bennington Gazette
. It was a weekly paper, and came out fresh every Wednesday morning.

A huge photo of a riding lawnmower with big dents in it was the cover story. She breathed a sigh of relief, until she looked at the headline: 
Vandals May Be Linked to Missing Woman
.

The big news story from Bennington’s point of view was that all kinds of local personal property had been damaged. It wasn’t until she turned the page that she saw a photo of herself along with reprints of the others. She skimmed the article, distracted by the flutter of activity around her, feeling conspicuous. The article ended on a positive note; it said that the night this happened, the people had lost their beloved dog, but he showed up at home on Monday evening.

Abby leaned forward and picked up her coffee, swallowing back tears that were, more than anything, made of exhaustion. She skimmed the local paper for another moment, trying to look casual and normal. She flipped through the local sports section and the school news, and lingered on the advertisements for a couple of minutes. She memorized things that might come in handy: Bennington Tigers vs. Newville Knights. Newville Outlet Mall Opening This Month! Now Hiring All Locations!

Folding the papers, she stuffed them into her bag and stood up. She started walking, unsure where she was going. Everyone would be reading the paper
right now
. What she needed was to steal a car and get the hell out of here.

There had been a time before all of this, before Randall even, when Abby was starting to blossom into who she thought she was going to be. The Derek Johnson days. That time during her early twenties when the wondrousness of things that could happen only in the night trumped the pain of getting up early.

She and Derek were in the habit of sharing a bottle of wine and then going for late night jogs. For miles, in actual running shorts and running shoes. It hadn’t seemed weird at the time. Buzzed and giddy and laughing. Arms and legs loose and wiggly. She’d never been much for running, but a couple of glasses of wine really helped. They’d run all the way to the swings by the beach and then swing for sometimes an hour. Talking and singing, and when people shouted at them and slammed their windows shut it made them talk longer, sing louder. They’d swim in the ocean in their underwear and exchange Merlot kisses. She’d felt superior and, for the first time in her life, sophisticated compared to her friends.

She was free and powerful, and felt as much an actual part of the night as the stars or the black, inky ocean. She and Derek belonged to each other, and being half owned by him took nothing away from her. She had a family still. She was normal, but she was anything but average. Enviable in a real way, not in the way she was with Randall, where she always thought,
Oh, if only you knew.

She tried to draw on that girl to revive her. That old Abby. That young Abby. That Abby was going to get her through this. She was going to help her love life and people again.

The Abby she was now didn’t know any longer how to feel special, or how to see other people as special. When she was twenty-one lots of people were special. Now no one seemed inspiring or remarkable to her. Maybe that could change.

If she made it through this, if she came out the other side, maybe she would be reborn. Maybe she could be new again.

She turned down a side street to get away from the downtown, walking several blocks. Before long she heard children shouting and laughing. In front of her was a school. There were buses lined up at the curb like they were going on a field trip. Parents and teachers everywhere, going through with something they’d planned weeks or months ago, their faces tight and stressed like they were on high-alert. Abby wanted to turn around and head back in the direction she’d come from, but she feared it would look suspicious. So she walked straight on, head down, toward it all. She evaluated her frumpy jeans, felt the weight of her tote bag bumping against her with each step. She reached up and felt for the cap on her head. She really didn’t look anything like the beautiful missing woman. Sunglasses, shorter hair, Nicholas Sparks book sticking out of the top of her bag. She was not Abby Greer. She was not the girl on the swings. She was a random, boring woman.

“Hi! There’s room on this one if you’re coming along to the Museum of Art,” yelled a woman with a visor and a clipboard. She was pointing a pencil at one of the buses.

Without hesitation, Abby went for it. “Great!” she said.

She went up the steps of the bus and settled in near the back beside a miserable looking girl who was about twelve. She kept her sunglasses on, despite the overcast weather. For the benefit of any other adult in hearing range, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t want to be bothered, but I have the
worst
migraine and I’m hoping to kick it before we get to the museum.”

The girl nodded and looked out the window. Abby noticed a couple of women look her way, curious, wondering which child she belonged to. Was she the mother of the girl beside her? No, they probably knew who her mother was. They were telling themselves they’d leave this mystery woman alone now, since she was sick, since they’d have the whole day to get the chance to know her.

Abby took a couple of aspirin from her tote bag and downed them with a big swallow of water, for dramatic effect, then she closed her eyes and stuck her fingers beneath her sunglasses, rubbing her temples. She heard a few more people getting on. The bus was loud with kids talking and laughing. It felt like a merciful barrier from anyone approaching her or trying to speak to her. Keep away, she prayed. Keep away.