The Girls Are Missing (23 page)

Except this wasn’t winter. And the fireplace was upstairs, but she could smell the smoke down here.

27
 

They were back in the country now. Joyce was not sure where, in the dark. It was one of those winding roads between Cedarville and Croton. They didn’t even have names, as far as she could tell, although she supposed they must. Where did he think he was going?

The gas tank read empty. She knew it would run for a while even after it reached the empty mark. And if they ran out in these backwoods, he would probably shoot her and start walking. She was so tired she might not even care.

Except for Adam. And if Gail was still alive.

“Pull over there,” he said.

Pull over? She saw a clearing off the road, sort of a dirt ramp that led into the bushes.

“Watch it,” he told her as she nosed down the ramp. The earth dropped off just beyond it.

“Out.”

He opened the door and made her slide over to his side. He would shoot her now. Her legs were stiff and they nearly buckled when she first stepped onto the ground.

Then he made her get back in, turn off the headlights, remove the trunk key from the set in the ignition, and take a flashlight from the glove compartment. And then they went to the back of the car.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“Shut up.”

He told her to stand where he could keep an eye on her. He held out his hand for the key, and unlocked the trunk.

The lid flew up. There was a body inside. She screamed. The body moved and let out a moan.

“My God, Mary Ellen, are you alive?”

Carl took something out of the trunk and slammed the lid.

Joyce grabbed for the lock. “Carl, she’ll die!”

He stopped her with the gun muzzle in her belly. She couldn’t have opened it anyway, he had pocketed the key. He handed her a wrench and a large screwdriver and told her to remove the license plates.

She knelt in the dirt and began to struggle with a corroded nut and bolt. Mary Ellen was here and Gail dead. A penance for her not being sure, not speaking. For Anita’s death. He had left her in the basement at home.

Mary Ellen had been tied and gagged and in that trunk for a good three hours. How could she breathe?

He kept the flashlight shielded, the gun against her neck, and told her to hurry. What if she couldn’t get it off? She knew now what he planned to do.

“Carl, it’s almost out of gas.”

He didn’t bother to answer. With the new plates, he would never be spotted. And Vermont plates at that. Where had he gotten them?

She was ready to try anything. Leave the bolts loose and hope the plates would fall off, and someone would stop the car. He noticed what she was doing and made her tighten them.

She stood up. The plate was secure.

Got to get Mary Ellen out of there. Get the key somehow.

“Carl, let her out. She’ll die in there.”

Tantalizingly he tossed the key and caught it, dropped

it back into his pocket. He motioned her to the front of the car.

“The front plate,” he said. “And speed it up.”

Through the trees she caught a glimmer of light. Could she run out onto the road?

He would shoot her if she tried. But Frank had said—
run.

He was standing over her with the gun. She crouched and loosened the bolts that held the plate. The bushes concealed her, and the car ran past and was gone.

Finally she was able to straighten up. Her knees barely held her. She slipped the tools into her pocket.

“Go over there”—he pointed to where the earth dropped off beyond where they were parked—”and throw those plates over.”

It was not as deep as she had thought. Down at the bottom she could see the glimmer of beer cans and paper, the outline of an old tire. She tossed the plates, heard them crash, and turned to go back.

His arm was raised, pointing the gun at her head.

She screamed.

RUN, Frank had said. There was no place to run. Bushes everywhere. Only back up the slope.

Her scream, her sudden dodge, caught him off guard. A shot exploded and missed. She veered, and suddenly—

Into the car.

Thank God he had left the ignition key. The wheels spun on loose gravel. He lunged at the door beside her. She snapped the lock.

He raised the gun. The car lurched forward and a back window shattered.

She caught the flash of his shirt and then his face before her. He was on the hood.

She couldn’t see.

He grinned at her. He lay sprawled across the hood, clutching a wiper and pointing the gun at her face. She couldn’t see the road.

Lights. She turned on the lights. Now she could see a little.

She couldn’t stop the car, couldn’t get out, not with him there. Get Mary Ellen out. Get him off.

28
 

“We got the license number, Frank.”

“Get out an APB.”

He didn’t have much hope. They’d have ditched the car by now. At least, if it were found, he could tell which direction they were going. Maybe.

The car? He’d have ditched them all. The guy couldn’t travel with a wife and kids.

He felt like a jerk, sitting around the station. Nothing he could do.

“I’m going back up there.”

He suddenly saw them all, maybe upstairs in a bedroom or down in the basement. He saw her with blood in her hair, lying on the floor.

He was in his car, at the wheel, not thinking. Finneran slid in on the other side. “Want me to drive?”

Frank started the car. If she had blood in her hair, a few seconds wouldn’t make any difference, but he wanted to drive.

“Watch for that number,” he said. Not that it would be anywhere around here.

They were up the hill in maybe two minutes.

“Jesus,” he yelped when he saw the house.

Finneran grabbed the radio and called the fire department. It was a small, volunteer department. It’d take forever.

How did this happen? If Gilwood had done it, it would have burned hours ago.

Unless he came back.

No time to force the doors. There was an open basement window, but that was where the fire was. Two chairs and a woodpile. Jesus. He reached in to close the window, hoping to cut off some air, and then he heard the screams.

She was driving toward Cedarville. In town, they’d see him.

She felt as if she was going about eighty miles an hour. Twice the car skidded onto the shoulder. Couldn’t see. If someone came—Please, someone.

The road to Cedarville …

He jerked his gun arm, pointing urgently. Another road. Not the one to Cedarville.

She started to turn.

He was going to kill her anyway. She spun the wheel back. The car swerved. He slipped, and grabbed tighter to the wiper.

She lost all fear. She was cool, calm. He had slipped. He pointed the gun at her eyes.

She swerved again. Zigzagged across the road. He clung to the wiper but couldn’t aim the gun.

And then he vanished.

She couldn’t believe it. A trick.

The wiper was gone.

She pressed the gas pedal. The road danced before her. Adam. And home. She would go home.

Little Adam upstairs.

Suddenly the steering wheel flew out of her hand. She saw trees ahead, and fought to control the car.

She slammed the brake. It barely slowed. Dear God, power steering and power brakes and out of gas. She pumped the brake, held with all her strength to the wheel, but she hadn’t any strength. The trees hurtled toward her.

She felt the crash and waited for worse. Nothing came. The car was off the road, the headlights smashed, but the underbrush had acted as a cushion.

Her leg hurt and there was blood where the screwdriver in her pocket had stabbed her. It woke her up. She snatched the key from the ignition, forced open the door, and ran to the trunk.

The key. He had taken the trunk key. She tried the one she had. It jammed in the lock and she couldn’t get it out.

The screwdriver was a big one, half an inch thick. She pried at the lock, bent the metal of the lid, but the lock would not break.

She looked back, hearing a sound. How far had she come before the crash? Did he still have his gun?

She wrenched again at the lid. Finally she ripped the metal so it tore away from the lock.

“Mary Ellen!”

The girl whimpered. Her hands and feet were tied, her mouth gagged. The bonds on her feet were clumsily wrapped, probably after he had thrown her in there

She heard the sound again. Like running footsteps. She tugged at the bonds on Mary Ellen’s feet. They were clumsy but strong, and it was too dark to see.

“You’ll have to try—I can’t carry you.”

Ridiculous to think anyone could run like that. At least she could pull the gag off Mary Ellen’s mouth.

As soon as it was off, Mary Ellen began to choke and cry.

“Oh, Joyce … my own father … it makes me sick. I’m going to be sick.”

“Sshh, I think he’s coming.” She struggled with the rope,

pulling, tugging. One strand slackened, another tightened. Mary Ellen cried out. She pulled still tighter and at last worked a loop over the bare feet.

The rest of the rope slid off. She helped Mary Ellen from the trunk. She would have to guide her. The girl was stiff from her hours of confinement. It would be hard to run with her hands still tied, and with her tender bare feet.

Now she heard the footsteps clearly. He was coming around the b6nd, running heavily, his whole body bent forward. He lifted his arm. He still had the gun.

“Run
, Mary Ellen.”

How far to Cedarville? It was miles. Maybe three. More than they could run, the way they were. She heard his feet, a heavy
slap, slap
. The rubber thongs.

“Run,” she said to Mary Ellen. “Run!” Their only hope: their feet. He had a gun. And longer legs.

“Joyce, there’s a house. Joyce.” Mary Ellen doubled over, holding her side. “I’m going to die.”

She could see it through the trees. The lights. They couldn’t draw him to the house.

“You go,” she said. “I’ll keep on the road. Don’t let him see you.”

“No.”

Only twelve years old. She was afraid to go alone.

“Mary Ellen, we have to, there’s no other way. If we both go, he’ll get us both. Tell them to call the police, Cedarville police.” She pushed Mary Ellen up the short driveway, and as she ran on, watched her darting through the shadows.

Please be good to her
. At least they would believe her. They’d see her hands.

Too late she realized that Carl might assume they had both gone to the house. She couldn’t see him now, there had been another bend. If she went back, she would waste precious time.

But she couldn’t let him get Mary Ellen.

She heard his
slap, slap.
Heard him stop. She could see the house lights, but no longer the driveway. Or him.

She picked up a stone and threw it across the road.

“Get up, Mary Ellen,” she said. “You’ve got to get up and
run.
Get
up.”

She began to run again. She couldn’t hear his feet for the sound of her own. She stopped. There was nothing.

Slowly, silently, she crept back until she could see him. He was standing at the end of the driveway, watching the house.

Carl, that was Carl. Her husband. And now a stranger. With a gun.

He didn’t know she was there, watching him.

She picked up another stone and moved closer. Could she do it? Outside the house, a floodlight sprang on.

If she missed, he would know exactly what she was doing. And then he would have to choose—her or Mary Ellen.

She took another step, and lowered the stone. She couldn’t. Not him. Not anyone, in spite of the gun.

She couldn’t—but what about Mary Ellen? The people in the house, innocently involved? Just because she couldn’t.

She swung back her arm and carefully aimed. Couldn’t see him very well. Couldn’t get closer. She aimed and threw the stone.

It sailed past his head and crashed into a bush at the foot of the driveway. She saw the blur of his face as he whirled around.

She ran into the underbrush at the side of the road. It slowed her, but at least he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see she was the only one. The bushes scraped and tore at her.

She saw him on the road, pointing the gun at her. She screamed as he fired.

She felt nothing. He had missed.

“Run, Mary Ellen,” she called again. “You go that way. I’ll—”

Another shot. And then moving lights. A car.

She stumbled from the bushes, waving her arms. The car veered to miss her and sped on. Unbelieving, she saw its taillights vanish around a bend. One unbelieving instant, and then Carl leaped from the bushes.

She ran, knowing no one would save her. No one cared. How many shots left? Just keep moving, and it was dark. Only the dark would help her. Run to Cedarville. Three miles.

Another car. Two. She turned her face to shield her eyes from the light.

Then it slowed, blazing in her face. It hurt. She didn’t understand at first that it stopped. She heard a door open. Strong arms went around her and held her up.

“It’s okay now,” said Frank D’Amico’s voice. “It’s okay.”

He started to help her into the car, then flung her against it as shots resounded in the woods.

She tried to see, but he blocked her, protecting her. There were voices, more shots, crashing of bushes.

Then someone said, “We got him, Chief. I think he’s dead.”

Frank turned back to her and held her tightly against his broad chest. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s all over now.”

“Mary Ellen,” she whimpered. “My children. My Gail.”

29
 

She would not go back to the house. The fire was only a minor reason. They told her it smelled of smoke, but was not really damaged. It had smoldered in the chairs and then the woodpile. Probably a cigarette, Finneran allowed.

Frank nodded, and said nothing. She could see it on his face. It was no accident that a cigarette, or whatever, had gotten inside the house. She could hardly blame them, whoever had done it. But how did they know? How had they known it was Carl?