Words (17 page)

Vengeance.

I walk back to the bedroom, shuffle through the papers on the nightstand, take one, tuck it into the pocket of my jeans, and dash for the front door.

I untie Van's leash from the railing of the stoop where I left him. "C'mon, boy, run. We have to run!" I stop at the tree where we spent the night just long enough to grab my backpack and then take off again.

I have to get help. Now!

By the time I reach home it's just after 7:00 a.m. The county offices don't open until 9:00. So I call the sheriff's department.

"Yes, I'd like to report a missing child. An abused child. She's being abused physically and . . . sexually, I think." The sound of my heart hammers in my ears as I speak.

"Yes, that's fine. Thank you." I'm told an officer will come to take a report sometime in the next hour. I figure I have a little time to pull myself together.

Still feeling stiff and cold from my night outdoors, I go to my bathroom and fill the tub with steaming water. I sprinkle lavender bath salts in the water and light a candle that sits on the ledge of the tub. I may only have a few minutes, but I will make myself relax. Or at least try.

I peel off my dirty jeans and the rest of my clothes, reach for a band and pull up my hair, and then step into the scorching water; my cold feet and legs prickle. I sink into the tub and almost immediately feel my pulse return to a more normal rhythm. I breathe deep and the lavender aroma calms my senses—but it doesn't clear my mind.

The images I saw in the magazine fill my head and questions fill my soul.
Why? Why would anyone do that? What has he done to her? Why . . . why would You allow that to happen to a child? Why didn't You protect her?

The last questions are the ones I've tried to keep from asking since I saw the magazine. There aren't any answers, I know that.

I want to trust You, but this makes it seem impossible. I don't understand. I want to believe, but I need You to help my unbelief—it's bigger than my belief. Help me trust that You are the loving God You say You are. Help me believe.

I find myself wanting to linger in the tub for hours, letting hot water wash over me, cleansing me of these cares. Instead I emerge, wrap myself in a towel, and then dress in fresh khaki shorts and a long-sleeved, navy blue T-shirt.

A knock on my front door just as I'm slipping into my flip-flops tells me I got out of the tub just in time.

Two officers stand on my front porch. I notice their squad car parked along the curb in front of my house. "Ma'am, I'm Officer Mackenzie, and this is my partner, Officer Jameson." Both men take off their hats and reach to shake my hand.

"Hi, I'm Sierra Bickford. Please, come in." I step aside and they walk into my living room. Both are tall, imposing men who seem to fill the space. I motion to the sofa. "Have a seat." As I take the chair across from the sofa, I realize my palms are damp and my hands are shaking. So much for relaxing.

"Ma'am, you reported a missing child? Is she your child?"

"No. I just . . . actually, I don't even really know her. I just came across her last week while hiking near Bonny Doon. I saw her in the forest up there. She was alone, which seemed strange to me. A friend encouraged me to go back and look for her again. When I did, I found her in the same area. It was evident she's not being cared for. She's very thin and she was hungry. I gave her an apple and a granola bar. Her hair was matted and . . . I don't know . . . it just didn't look like anyone was taking care of her."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't know what to do. I'm ashamed to say that I left her there. I didn't think I could force her to come with me. Yesterday morning I filed an initial report with CWS, but I only had her first name and a last initial and no address. After I called CWS, I went back to look for her again."

"Excuse me, ma'am"—this from Officer Jameson, who's just taken notes thus far—"Why are you reporting her missing? How do you know she's missing?"

"When I went back yesterday, I found her. I tried to talk to her again, but discovered that she can't talk. She's not physically able to talk, I guess. So we wrote notes back and forth. She had a large bruise on her cheek and her eye was blackened and bloodshot. I asked who'd hurt her. I finally deducted that it was whoever she lives with. She wouldn't tell me where she lives. But after seeing the bruise, I didn't want to leave her again. I thought I had her talked into coming with me. She told me she doesn't know where her mother is—she thinks she might have amnesia or something. I don't know the situation, but I offered to help her find her mom. I told her we'd come here and call the hospitals or the police. But then she ran off. Maybe she got scared, I don't know."

I pause, take a breath, and look at both officers. Do they think I'm crazy? Will they write me off? No. They are listening.

Intently.

Assured, I continue. "After she ran, I decided I had to figure out where she lived so I could give a physical address to CWS. So I searched all afternoon. Finally about dusk, I found a small cabin. Looks like one of those old logging cabins up there. I saw a man—he was obviously drunk. He had a rifle. It was the only place I'd found, so I decided to wait and watch for Kaylee. I didn't think she was in the cabin, so I spent the night outside waiting for her. I was afraid for her—if she came back . . . you know?"

"Yeah, sounds like a bad scene." Officer Mackenzie taps his pen on his clipboard. "So what happened?"

"Early this morning the guy left. Oh! I jotted down his license plate number." I get up, go to the kitchen, and pull a page out of my sketchbook. "Here it is. After he left, I . . . um . . . I went into the cabin. It wasn't locked. I know that's probably not legal . . . but . . . well . . . anyway, I went in."

"And?" He taps his pen again.

"I found her clothes—a T-shirt she was wearing the first day I saw her. And"—I hesitate—the memory still sickens me—"I found some pornography. Pictures of children . . ."

Officer Jameson mutters an expletive. Though I wouldn't have said it myself, it expresses my feelings exactly.

"Ma'am—Ms. Bickford—I assume the child didn't come back?" The pen tapping stops as he copies down the license plate number I gave him.

"No, she didn't. Not while I was there. Do you think . . . I mean . . . does the porn mean anything? I'm just worried that—"

"You're right to be concerned. The porn and the abuse usually go hand in hand." Officer Mackenzie shakes his head. "Hard to believe what people will do to a child."

I notice a gold band on his left hand and wonder if he has children of his own.

"Makes you want to take the law into your own hands sometimes. If anyone did that to my little girl"—Officer Jameson rubs his forehead and then shakes his head—"I don't know what I'd do. But I'll tell you what, he'd be sorry he ever messed with her."

"Keep your cool, man. Ms. Bickford, I assume there wasn't an address?"

"No. Nothing. In fact, I don't even know how to tell you to get there, but I could show you."

"Good. Sit tight. Let us run the plates and see what we come up with."

"Oh wait, I have one more thing for you." I get up and head to my bathroom. I grab my jeans off the floor and reach into the front left pocket and pull out the paper I took from the nightstand. "Here. Looks like a pay stub or something. It has his name on it—at least I assume it's his name." I glance at the slip of paper. "Jackson Tully."

"Thanks. That helps." Officer Mackenzie gets up. "I'll check the plates. You want to call in?"

"Ms. Bickford, may I use your phone?" Officer Jameson follows me to the kitchen as Officer Mackenzie heads for their car where, if television has taught me well, he'll radio in the license plate number.

I busy myself while they do their thing. I go back to the bathroom, pick my clothes up off the floor, and toss them in the laundry hamper. I go to the spare bedroom and move brushes and tubes of paint around to keep busy. The unfinished canvas—the abstract of Kaylee's tree—sits on an easel in the corner of the room.

I stand and look at it. I'm reminded of my dream the night I began painting it—Annie in her coffin inside the tree. The interior of the tree appeared as death to me that night, its burnt, charcoal interior a tomb. Yet for Kaylee, I realize the tree probably represents life. Safety. A place of her own.

From death comes new life. I ponder the thought a moment. It strikes me as something my mother would say—or maybe something I've heard her say. I'll have to ask her about it.

"Ms. Bickford?"

I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall. Officers Jameson and Mackenzie are standing back in my living room.

"I ran the plates and the truck is registered to a Jackson Emerson Tully, which matches the name on the stub you found. He lists a San Jose address, but that doesn't mean much. He has several unpaid tickets so there's a warrant out for him. We don't typically pursue unpaid tickets by tracking someone down and arresting them, but we can use them to bring him in if we need to." Officer Mackenzie glances at Jameson. "Are we cleared to go?"

"Yep. Another unit will meet us in Bonny Doon and we'll all go up from there."

"Once we meet up with the other officers, we'll have you give us a description of the girl. Ms. Bickford, you okay to follow us up there? If we make an arrest, we'll need the room in the squad car to take him in."

"Sure, that's fine."

"Okay, in case we get separated, we're meeting the other car at the elementary school. Know where it is?"

"I do. I'll see you there."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kaylee

With my head resting on my knees, I scrunch my shoulders together so they cover my ears and block out the sound of something rustling leaves somewhere close by. If I don't hear it then I don't have to think about it. I swallow the lump in my throat and take deep breaths until my stomach stops clenching. With my ears covered, I focus on listening to my breathing and nothing else. This helps push away the thoughts scurrying through my mind like scenes from a scary movie. Though I can't seem to block them completely.

I open my eyes and see nothing but darkness surrounding me. I close my eyes and see him. I won't let myself think about him.

Instead, I open my imaginary box of words. There are yellow letters all jumbled inside—all the letters that make up my special words. Sometimes I take them out in alphabetical order. I have to do this with my eyes closed so I can see them in my head. I take them out and put them in a list. It takes lots of concentration. I can't think about anything else when I do this or I'll forget a word.

Allocate.

I like that word. I like words with double
L
s. I like the way they feel in my mouth when I say them. Even if no sound comes out, I like the feel of the tip of my tongue hitting the back of my front teeth.

I like some words just because of the way they feel in my mouth. I like other words because of what they mean. Sometimes I like a word for both reasons.

Zoology.

That's good for both reasons.
Z
words tickle my tongue. Maybe I'll be a zoologist when I grow up. I like animals.

I go back to alphabetizing my words.

Anteater.

That's my second word. Anteaters look funny. We saw a movie about them in school. I might like animals but I don't like skunks. And I smell one.

I lift my head off my arms and look around. Even in the dark, I can see the white stripe on the back of the skunk waddling straight toward me. I jump up and press my back against the tree I was leaning against. My heart flutters in my chest as I turn to run.

When I'm sure the skunk can't catch me, I find another tree to rest against and sit down. The bottoms of my feet sting, so I cross one leg over my other knee and turn my foot so I can see the bottom of it. It's too dark to see much, but when I run my hand over it, it feels sticky—like it's bleeding. I feel things sticking into my foot—pine needles, splinters, thorns, little rocks. I try to pull them out but it hurts so much. I do the same to the other foot. Then I lean my head back against the tree trunk, close my eyes, and take deep breaths again until the waves of nausea go away.

Azure.

Bazooka.

Colossal.

I get to the
Z
words and then start all over. When I'm back to my favorite
L
word for the second time—lackadaisical—I decide I can't be lackadaisical anymore. I have to get up and keep walking. I have to figure out where I am and how to get back to the cabin.

I stand and try walking on the outsides of my feet, but then my ankles hurt. I just have to walk normal. I take slow, careful steps and hope that I don't step on anything else that's sharp. Every step hurts.

I walk the rest of the night. I walk until I can't take another step. When I finally sit down, I hear birds chirping. I look up through the trees and see that the sky is starting to get light. Exhausted, I lie down.

I decide to just stay right where I am. I can't walk anymore and I still don't know where I am. I'll probably just lay here and die. That's the last thing I think. That I'll probably just die right here.

Maybe, just a little bit, I even want to.

I don't know how long I sleep, but when I wake up the sun is up and the birds have quieted some. I stretch and the muscles in my legs cramp and my feet ache—the pain makes my stomach clench again. I try to work the cramps out of my calves by rubbing them and then standing on each leg and taking small steps until my legs finally loosen up. As I stand there, I think I hear something. Something I didn't notice before.

Water?

Is it the stream?

The sound is faint; I can barely hear it. But it sounds like it's straight ahead.

Each step I take hurts, but I can't miss another day at the cabin. It's okay to be gone for an hour or two sometimes. But I can't be gone whole days. I have to get back in case today is the day. She might come back today.

With each step I take, that's what I tell myself.

Today might be the day.

Today might be the day.

My mom might come back today.