Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (21 page)

THE GATE’S SOLE
purpose seems to be keeping out cars: there is a two-foot gap on either side of it. I walk through, starting to jog as soon as I hit the road, a curving, rutted path—cutting a tight hole through the heavy woods. Google Earth had shown the trailer about two hundred yards down this road. With the sun already peeking through the trees, I need to move quickly. My feet work their way over the ruts, visions of a twisted ankle sashaying mockingly through my mind. My legs tire quickly, not used to cardio, and I have a stitch in my side by the time the trailer finally comes into view. I slow, ducking into the woods. Crouching over my backpack, I unzip it.

I pull the gun out first, switching off the safety and setting it softly on the ground beside me. I check my sweatshirt pocket, closing my hand briefly around the stiletto knife, reassuring myself of its presence. I finger the ski mask I had packed but decide not to use it.
I want him to see me.
I want him to recognize me, to know that he was the cause of his own demise. My cell buzzes, quiet against the fabric of the mask. I flip it open and speak quietly into the receiver.

“Yes.”

“Police escort just left Ralph’s.”

“It’s early!” I fumble for my sleeve and pull it back to reveal the watch face: 6:16 a.m.

“There was a report of kids spraying graffiti at the local high school. They needed someone to check it out. You’re talking about a small town here. There’s only one deputy out right now.”

“Fuck.”

“I can hack into his financial grid, which will tell me if he uses his credit cards, but that has a bit of a delay. I got no eyes on his vehicle, just his phone. But I can’t see him leaving the house without that. And you know I gotta—”

“Yeah. You gotta leave soon. I know.” I hang up the cell and stuff it in my pocket, carrying the gun in my hand. I leave the pack and step out of the woods, staring at the sad excuse for a trailer.

All trees have been cleared from the patch of land it sits on. It’s a shame, really, because it makes the shabbiness of the trailer even more apparent. It just slumps there, dingy and neglected, damaged flashing around its base. It had originally been white but is now a yellowed gray, either from pollen or mildew; it’s essentially one long box with only one window visible. Two concrete blocks sit beneath the metal front door, a diamond peephole at eye level. No cars are in sight, but there are fresh tire tracks on the dirt.

Crunch.
My steps, taken as gingerly as possible, make the noise of an entire marching band on dead pine straw. I avoid the tire tracks and walk around the side, my steps quickening as I move to the back of the trailer.

The doors are locked, and I knock on the back door—hoping, wishing that for once it will be easy. That Annie will come bounding to the door, put her hand trustingly in mine, and we will go skipping out to Jeremy’s truck together—my mind free of murderous thoughts—her innocence intact, spirit unbroken. No one answers the door, so I move to the first window and use my knife to pop the screen, then try to pull up the uncooperative glass.

The third and last window to the trailer is my salvation. It slides up stiffly, dirt in its tracks, and my gut clenches in excitement and anticipation. I place both hands on the sill and heave my body up and into the dark space.

The interior of the trailer smells of emptiness, stale old cigarettes, and wet towels. I know, standing in the empty bedroom, pale green wallpaper peeling off the walls, that the trailer is empty. The structure is too still, too quiet. Nevertheless I move, stepping into a hall, through another bedroom, a bath, living room, and finally a kitchen.

I search the trailer twice, first with careful trepidation, then in desperation, but the minimal furniture makes the task depressingly simple. No one. There is no blood, no signs of a little girl. No Annie.

I sink onto the couch, an orange floral disaster that practically bends in half under my weight. Could I have been wrong? I had never made a physical connection between Annie and Ralph. I had found this rental in his computer, verified his depravity in his computer, and assumed that his fantasy Annie was the same girl as the missing Annie. What if he just fucking hunts? Has no little girl tucked away? What if he satisfies his sickness with our Internet chats? What if I had killed him and he had been, in terms of Annie, an innocent man? The stress and adrenaline of the last twenty-four hours come hurtling down on me, hard stones on my fragile sanity, and I sway from the gravity of the situation. A second possibility enters my mind, one I had fought to ignore the entire drive.
I might be too late.
I stand, looking at the window through which I had entered, facing the fact that I might be leaving empty-handed.

I do another sweep of the trailer, looking for bloodstains or splatter, a pair of pink jelly sandals, or a glitter bow, or a big fucking
ANNIE WAS HERE
sign. Then I leave, ignoring the window, unlocking the front door, and stomping down the stairs, despair filling every step. I stand against the mildewed side of the trailer, trying to figure out my next course of action, when I hear an engine.

My eyes flip open as I crouch, a ridiculous action when there is nothing to crouch behind. I run, around the back of the trailer, my eyes searching the surrounding woods, looking for cover, listening to the sound growing louder, closer. It has to be close to the gate. It would take a moment for him to stop, unlock the gate, and come in. My feet trip, stuttering in their step when my eyes catch on the outbuildings, on the wooden framework that is probably a deer hang, a small shed behind it.

It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.

So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.

I run for the shed, cursing my stupidity with every step, excitement growing as the truck engine roars.

CAROLYN THOMPSON WAKES
up alone in bed, the first time this has happened in more than three years. She lies still in a moment of quiet solitude before reality hits and the tears come. She closes her eyes tightly, swallowing sobs and suppressing the emotions that threaten her sanity. She needs to be strong: for Henry, for Annie, and for herself. Annie is still alive. She knows that, needs to believe that. She feels that if Annie has passed, she would feel it. Surely a mother would know. For now, she prays that wherever she is, whomever she is with, she is not in pain, and she is not scared.

Finished with her prayers, she rises and pulls on her bathrobe. She walks down the empty hall to the living room, then pauses at the entrance, watching her husband. His neck slumps at an odd angle; he has slept in his chair, his hand resting on the phone in hopeful anticipation. She knows without waking him that a call has not come. She moves forward, grabs a small pillow from the couch, and places it gently underneath his head, moving his neck into a more comfortable position.

She steps quietly through the kitchen, wanting Henry to sleep as long as possible, prolong his peace. Once she has a cup of coffee in hand, she returns to the bedroom, picks up the corded phone, and presses the buttons for the police station.

Five minutes later, she hangs up the phone and makes her way back to the living room, cradling the warm coffee cup in both hands. There are no updates. Michael stayed home all night, and their interest in him is now waning. The most likely scenario is that Annie has been taken out of town, possibly out of state. Calls had come through on the AMBER Alert hotline reporting sightings of her as far as six hours north. But the calls always came too late—the police were always fifteen minutes behind, the trail cold by the time they arrived. Her hand trembles around the coffee cup, her mind filled with horrific images of the possibilities. If Annie’s abductor is on the run, if they’re moving north, maybe that is better than her being locked away somewhere, alone with a madman.

Michael.
Her thoughts focus on the possibility that she has tossed and turned all night over. She has examined every piece of their upbringing and cannot find a hint in those memories of anything sinister. If only she could talk to this girl who had called the hotline. She had pressed John for more information, but he had only repeated the same things over and over. Sexual conversations. Centered on a young girl named Annie. She had told John that it must be a mistake—the girl had referred to him as Ralph, after all. No one referred to Michael by his first name. But John had stayed firm. The girl had provided his address. It was Michael. She watches her husband sleeping, his chest rising and falling in uneasy breaths. He is an extension of her soul, a partner in life as well as by law. And they share, more than anything, a love for their little girl. Her mind returns to Michael, and she has a sudden thought. She sets down her coffee and hurries to the bedroom, shedding her robe and yanking open the dresser drawer.

Becky.
If anyone will know this about Michael, it will be his wife.

THE GUTTING BARN
has a huge new padlock on it. It is the first observation that gives me any hope. I press my eye and then my good ear to the crack between the doors, hoping for any sign of what is inside. I’m met with darkness…silence. I turn, listening as the engine in the distance continues, without pause, past the front of the property, its grumble fading as it moves farther away. My phone vibrates, the movement startling me, and I crouch, tugging at my pocket until I get the phone in hand, then sliding my finger along the screen when I see Mike’s name.

“This better be important,” I breathe.

“Problem. Ralph’s credit card dinged three minutes ago at a BP station eight miles north of you. I don’t know the delay in posting…it could be anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes. But Jess, you need to get out of there
now
.” Mike’s voice is breathless, strain evident in his words, the rapid click of keyboard strokes sounding in the background.

“Fuck. What’s his cell phone say? Why didn’t you see him leave?”

“It’s still pinging at his house.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “He must have left it at home. It’s a stroke of luck the prick used his credit card.”

Urgency now coats my movement. I end the call and stuff the cell in my pocket, feeling a drip of sweat run down the side of my face. I tug at the lock in vain, then move to the window, trying it and then stepping back, measuring the distance before striding forward and kicking the glass. Visions of it splintering beneath my foot, an explosion of power, are overimagined—the only result of my kick is a spiderweb crack. I step back and try again, putting everything I have into it. My foot goes cleanly through, jagged edges of glass catching my leg as I pull my foot back. I tug my sweatshirt sleeve over my fist and knock out the sharp pieces, then hoist my body up and into the dark hole.

Fear.

It is a strange feeling, one I haven’t experienced since that night in my family’s kitchen. It invades me now, cutting off my breathing and finding its way into my heart, its grip reaching around and squeezing it tightly. Fear of the perversion inside that man. Fear of failure to protect Annie. Fear of wasting the homicidal rage within me.

I hang for a minute—half in the window, half out—my eyes trying to adjust to the room. There is a low table beneath me, and I bring one foot up to the sill and crawl down, stepping gingerly on the table until I am sure it can hold my weight. The room smells of death, a smell that brings me instantly back to my childhood kitchen. The flashback causes an uneasy curl in my stomach, and I try to table the emotion, to save the desire for a time when it will be best served. I hear something and freeze, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I hear it again. A whimper—small and muffled. And it is in the room with me.
Annie.

CAROLYN RINGS MICHAEL’S
doorbell, looking at the wilted geranium that sits on the stoop. She hears the chimes fading through the home, then the door opens and Becky stands before her.

Becky: a woman she has never liked, never welcomed, never made a friendly effort with. An oversight of manners that might cost her dearly. The woman had once been beautiful, but pinched skin, a perpetual frown, and worried eyes have aged her early. Becky seems always to fret, a habit that is in full force as she stands before Carolyn, twisting a rag in her hands, swaying gently on uneasy feet.

“Carolyn,” she says shortly. “What are you doing here?” No concern for her situation, no worry expressed for Annie. There is a reason that Carolyn has never cared for her, a reason that is showing its teeth now.

“I need to talk to you about Michael. May I come in?”

“I’m busy. And, as you probably know, the police were here last night. Interrupted us during dinner. You can find any answers that you need from them.” She starts to close the door, but Carolyn steps forward, pushing the door open and moving into the foyer.

“No, Becky. As rude as this may seem, I need to talk to you.”

Becky gapes at her, glaring at Carolyn’s feet as if she is shocked to find them there, inside her home, invading her personal space. She finally raises her gaze to Carolyn’s, frowning at her and shutting the door.

“Fine. Sit in the dining room, if you refuse to leave. What do you want to know?”

I JUMP OFF
the table quickly, cursing myself for not bringing a flashlight, especially since the window is placed on the wrong side of the building to receive any sunlight.

“Annie?” I speak quietly, in the friendliest voice I can manage. “My name is Deanna. I am here to help you. Can you tell me where you are?”

Silence meets my question. A moment stretches into two, and my hands begin to clench and unclench in panic at the time lapse. “Annie, I know you don’t know me. But I want to get you out of here. I want to return you to your mommy. Can you please help me?”

I hear a sniff and spin, trying to place its origin. My left. I move in that direction, blinking rapidly, trying to see in the dark, second-guessing the direction of the sound. I freeze when I hear her speak. “I want my mommy.”

I find her before she finishes speaking, my hands reaching out, closing over soft skin and flannel. I instinctively pull her to me, my arms closing around her in a hug, the first hug I have given in a very, very long time. The smell of her brings back memories of my sister, of Christmas mornings and bedtime stories. I almost sob at the memories but instead plant a quick kiss on her head and release her. My hands pat gently over her, following her limbs until I discover the rough rope, knotted tightly around her wrists and feet. I tug at the knots but give up quickly; the complicated bindings are too tight. “Stay still,” I say quietly. I pull out my knife and flip open the blade to cut the ropes, not bothering to see where they lead. She behaves, sitting perfectly still until I pull her to her feet. Then she resists, tugging back against my hand and flattening against the dirty wall of the shed. I can feel her fear, the seesaw of her desire to leave the shed and her wariness of me.

“I’m going to need you to listen very closely to me, okay?” I crouch, touching her shoulder gently, feeling her nod.

“I will not hurt you. I only want to return you to your parents. If you come with me, you can be with your mommy and daddy very soon.” I keep my voice light and happy and feel her relax, her small shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay. Is Uncle Michael coming back?” she whispers.

I freeze at the question, wishing that I could see her face, could know the emotion between the quiet words. Uncle
Michael
. Ralph Michael Atkins.

“Was he here?” I asked, holding out my hands, asking for her permission before picking up her light body and placing her on the table.

“He brought me here. I’m supposed to wait for the kitten, but he never came back, and it got dark.” Her voice shakes, the barely contained hysteria evident.

I climb onto the table next to her. “Annie. I need you to be really grown up for me for about ten minutes, okay? Be strong, sweetie. It’s really important. I’m going to crawl through the window, and then I’m going to help you out. Do you understand?”

I can see her faintly now, dawn having fully arrived. She nods, her face tightening into a determined frown. I smile at her. “Good girl.” I move through the window and jump easily down to the dirt. Then I move back to the sill, reaching out with my arms and feeling her eager body, her bare feet stepping up. In the next moment, I have her cradled in my arms and out of the shed. My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it, my other hand clasped firmly around Annie’s.

“Hey.”

“Jess, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to check in with you first.”

“No more activity on his credit card?”

“What do you expect? A shopping spree on the way to see her?”

“A girl can hope,” I mutter, whispering to Annie to hurry, my hand tugging hers. Then I realize, as we move, that her feet are bare, and I slow down slightly to allow her to pick her way through the rocky dirt. “I got her, Mike. We’re heading to the truck now.”

“That’s awesome, Jess. Really fucking awesome.” I can hear the smile in his voice, stretching his words, and I smile despite my fear.
I have her.
I have saved this girl, without fantasizing about harming her in any way. Now I just need to get away before he arrives. Mike’s next words mimic my thoughts. “Now get out of there.”

I can hear Mike moving, the rustle of keys, a few taps on a computer, and I speak quickly. “I am. Thanks, Mike. See you online sometime.”

He laughs in my ear. “Definitely, babe. Glad to help.”

I hang up, smiling down at Annie. “Ready to go home?”

She nods, hesitancy in her face, fear mixing with hope, the faint glow of trust in her eyes. The look breaks my heart, reminding me so much of Summer. Children are the quickest to trust because they have no concept of the depravity of our species. Summer trusted, as I once did. Before I knew what existed in the world. Before I found that darkness residing in my own soul.

We run together, finally reaching soft dirt, allowing her bare feet to fly, my backpack bouncing against my back. The run distracts her, and a small laugh spills from her mouth, the simple act of bare feet digging into dirt entertaining. Worry, the pressure that any moment we could see the cloud of dirt road smoke that will follow Ralph’s truck, could hear the roar of his engine, grips me. But I still feel giddy, blown away by the insane possibility that my rescue attempt may work, that she is beside me and we are almost to safety. We squeeze back through the gate, jump into the ruts of the baked dirt road, and race to the truck, and I let her win. I buckle her in the passenger side, the familiar movement painful in its normalcy. Putting the truck in reverse, I experience one heart-stopping moment when the tires spin, but then they catch traction and we move, flying backward onto the dirt road, no other vehicles in sight, freedom in our grasp. I head left, for Brooklet, my mind thinking through the best way to return her as I drive. I am distracted, high on our escape, and almost don’t notice the vehicle that turns right as we prepare to turn left. A dark blue Ford Explorer. My mind follows a moment after my vision, and I slam on the brakes as I watch it disappear in a cloud of red dust.
Ralph Atkins. Georgia tags—X42FF—navy blue Ford Explorer.

Decision time. Ralph is
here
. I breathe hard, emotions shooting through me like heroin, every nerve in my body twitching, focusing on the need to destroy. Through the roaring in my head, I hear a voice and turn in my seat, trying to focus on her.
Annie.
Sweet and innocent, her mouth moving, words saying something. I frown, fighting a losing battle in my seat, concentrating on her lips. My mind clears briefly, and I hear her voice.

“—are we stopping?”

I grip the steering wheel, trying to sort out the madness from the logical—what I should do versus what I want to do. I should keep driving, ensuring that she will remain safe. I should get her home. I should give the information I have uncovered to the police.

I shut my eyes tightly, trying to breathe, trying to think, but they flip open of their own accord. I press the gas and yank the steering wheel roughly, jerking out into highway traffic and skidding into a tight turn before accelerating back down the dirt road.

I pull into the first farmhouse we come to, driving around to the back. The yard is empty, no cars in the drive. I park and turn to Annie, my eyes focusing and finding her. I grip the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on her face, trying to attempt to inject some normalcy in my voice. But I see from her eyes that she can sense something is wrong.

“Annie. I need you to go and wait on this porch. I will be right back. Do you know your parents’ phone number?”
Please say no, please say no.
My evil subconscious chants the words, ready to leave this girl and follow that Explorer.

She shakes her head, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay. I’m going to leave you a cell phone and set a timer on it. If the timer goes off without me being back here, I want you to use it to call 911. Do you know how to call 911?”

She looks at me soberly. “Momma says I shouldn’t call 911 unless it’s an emergency.”

“And you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to call it unless the timer goes off. I should be back here before then, so you probably won’t need to call them at all.”

Her eyebrows pinch together, the expression so sweet, so full of concern, that I just want to hold her in my arms and kiss her head. “You’re leaving me? Alone?” Her eyes grow large, moisture making them shine. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

I try to breathe normally, to speak clearly and in a calm manner. “I’ll only be gone for a bit. Fifteen minutes. I need you to wait here, on the porch. Then I’m going to take you home, to your parents.”

She looks down, fingering the nylon of her seat belt. “I don’t want to be locked in the dark again.” She sniffs, her voice shaking a bit. “I was scared, in that place. Uncle Michael was different…not like he is at Momma’s.”

I have got to go
now
, I can feel the urgency pulling at me. Ralph is at the house now, will have discovered her gone. What if he leaves? What if I miss my opportunity? What if he escapes?

I fight to keep my voice calm, a smile on my face. “I know, sweetie. I’m taking you away from there, away from him, I just need you to do this one thing for me, okay? Do you feel safe here? Can you wait on this porch for me?”

She looks at the porch, sun filling its deep surface, big pots on either side of the back door overflowing with bright red zinnias. Her fingers grip the seat belt, and her voice is small when she answers. “Yeah.”

With shaky fingers, I pull out my phone and set the timer on it. I hold it out to her, showing her how to silence the alarm and how to dial the emergency call. Then I hand it to her, fighting to keep my face calm and my eyes on hers. “Stay on the porch, and don’t make that call until the alarm goes off. I plan on being back here before it goes off, okay?”

She nods, her face solemn.

“Go on, Annie. Sit on the porch and wait.”

I watch with twitchy fingers as she sits, waving to me with her small palm. Then I swing the truck around and floor it toward the dirt road.

GO.