Stained (6 page)

He drags me forward, then forces my hand down until my fingers touch stiff, new cotton with a soft give, tiny points pricking up through it. Feathers. It must be a down comforter.

“This is where you'll sleep—and where we'll make love.”

I rip away. “Don't you touch me!”

“You think you don't want it now, but you will, Sarah. Trust me.” He pats my cheek.

I flinch.

“Maybe if you sit here and consider your options, you'll find yourself willing.” He laughs. “Make your decision and let me know. I'll be back soon.”

Bile rises in my throat.

I hear his footsteps echo on the wood floor, hear the door bang shut, metal grate against metal, the steps shudder. I stand there listening as his car door slams, the motor roars to life, and the tires spit gravel.

I can't believe he's really gone. It has to be a trick.

I listen harder.

The wind howls like a wolf around the edges of my ears. There's no other sound.

This is my chance, the chance I've been waiting for. My chance to get out of here.

5:45 P.M.

 

SARAH WASN'T AT THE comic store or at the Java Cup. She wasn't at any of the places she usually hangs out.

I lock my bike to a pole, then stand on the sidewalk looking at Sarah's house and the cop car sitting out front.

I know I have to go in there. I have to tell them about today. About how miserable Sarah looked. I don't know if they'll want me there, or if they'll think I'm intruding. But I have to do something.

Mrs. Meadows answers the door.

“Is Sarah back?” I ask, though I already know from the cop car that she's not.

Mrs. Meadows looks at me distractedly, her face too white, her lips almost bloodless. “No, she's not. I'm sorry—”

“Nick,” I say.

“But this isn't a good time,” Mrs. Meadows continues. She starts to close the door.

Before I know what I'm doing, I've rammed my boot in to stop her. “Mrs. Meadows—please. I love your daughter. Maybe I can help.”

Mrs. Meadows's face looks like it's going to crumple, but then she takes a breath, nods, and lets me in.

The house smells like a flower shop—like flowers and earth, and beneath that the faint scent of lemon floor polish. It smells clean, like Sarah does. Not like the stale, greasy scent of takeout food that's always at my place.

I hear voices—a deep rumble and a higher, frightened chatter. I follow Mrs. Meadows into the living room. Charlene's there, her arms around her wide tummy, talking to a cop. A man—it's got to be Sarah's dad—looks up at me with red-rimmed, intense eyes, his grief something I can almost taste.

“Who's this?” the officer asks abruptly.

Mrs. Meadows flaps her hands. “He's Sarah's boyfriend.”

Charlene looks skeptical, and Mr. Meadows raises his eyebrow. I don't correct Mrs. Meadows—I want to be here. I want to help.

The officer makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “You know where she is?”

“No,” I say, swallowing.
I wish I did.

“When did you last see her?”

“Just after dismissal. She looked unhappy—like she did all day.”

The officer swings back to Charlene. “You were the last one to see her—walking home with those boys after her.”

My hands become fists.
Some boys were bullying Sarah again?
I should have walked with her, even if she didn't want me to. It takes everything I have to keep quiet and listen.

Charlene nods her head, her eyes big in her face.

The officer flips open his notebook and slowly, maddeningly, licks his fingers and turns the pages, reading silently. “Kirk, that right? The ringleader?” he asks Charlene.

“Yes,” Charlene says faintly.

Mr. and Mrs. Meadows watch Charlene with such pained expressions that she must wish she were anywhere else.

“Last name?” the officer says.

“I told you, I don't know,” Charlene says plaintively, her voice almost a whine. “He was new today.”

The new guy, the one Charlene was hanging all over? He had something to do with this? No wonder Charlene looks scared. I'll kill her myself. She's supposed to be Sarah's best friend!

“Description?” The officer holds his pen in midair.

“Detective, you already went over this,” Mrs. Meadows says, wringing her hands. “Don't you think you should be out there looking for Sarah?”

Yeah! Go find her! What if she's hurt and you're just wasting time standing around here talking to us?

“This is important, ma'am,” the detective says. He turns to Charlene, whose legs are shaking. “Description?”

I close my eyes and pull up the times I saw the new guy today. “Short, dark brown hair, sideburns, bangs that fall into his eyes. Dark, intense eyes, I think brown with some specks of yellow. High cheekbones, thin lips that tend to go into a sneer, narrow shoulders. Walks with a swagger. Black leather jacket, white T-shirt, blue jeans with a hole in the knee, black boots, like cowboy boots, that aren't meant for winter. Had an expensive-looking watch on his wrist. Oh, and his right eyebrow is pierced.”

I open my eyes to see everyone staring at me. “I'm sorry, that's all I can remember,” I say. “But I can draw him for you, if you like.”

Wordlessly, the cop holds out his notebook and pen. I do a quick line drawing, then fill in more detail and add some shading. I draw the new boy smirking, his arm around a girl's shoulders. Her face doesn't fit in the space, and it's not important, anyway.

I hand the pad back to the cop, who whistles. “We sure could use you on our team when you get a bit older. You'd make a great sketch artist.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say. What I want to say is, “Why aren't you out there looking for Sarah?” But I know that he's just doing his job. Still, I feel a small glow of pride that my work might actually help find her.

The detective turns the pad around to Charlene. “This look right?”

She nods. “Nick got him perfectly.” She glances at me. “You're as amazing as Sarah said you are.”

Mr. and Mrs. Meadows crane their necks to see.

Sarah said I'm amazing?
A smile almost breaks through my fear.

“Fine,” the detective says. “After the boys left, I understand there was a man who offered Sarah a ride.”

A man offered Sarah a ride? That is so classic! Why aren't they running this guy down right now?

“Yeah,” Charlene says. “After he scared the boys away. But Sarah refused. And then it started sleeting, and I went home . . .” Charlene finishes miserably.

The cop clears his throat. “Can you describe the man again? Anything you can think of might help.”

“Do you think he . . . did something to her?” Charlene asks, looking sick.

“It's important that we follow every lead.”

What kind of half-assed answer is that? Has this guy ever looked for a missing girl before? My stomach churns as I realize that this is what Sarah is. Missing.

“I didn't see him very long,” Charlene says. “And it was sleeting. But I think he had dark hair, and he looked like he worked out. He wore a suit.”

“How old do you think he was?” the cop asks.

“Uh, not old, like you guys . . . I mean”—Charlene's rosy face grows sweaty—“he was maybe in his twenties.”

That's her description?
I stare at Charlene. No wonder the cop was impressed with my answer.
You can do better!
I urge her silently, but she doesn't add anything.

“I don't suppose you saw this guy?” the detective asks me hopefully.

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

The detective sighs gustily. “Sound like anyone you know?” he asks Sarah's parents. Her mom shakes her head. Her dad scratches his cheek, looking unsure. I feel for them. With that description, it could be anyone.

“Do you know what make the car was?” the detective asks Charlene.

Charlene hesitates. “It was little. Not big like a station wagon or a van. And it was red. Or maybe orange or brown.”

God. I know most girls aren't into cars, but you'd think she could describe it a little better. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm.

The cop reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out some business cards. He hands one to Charlene, one to me, and one to each of Sarah's parents. “You think of anything else, you call this number.”

I slip the card into my back pocket.

Mr. Meadows touches Charlene's arm. “Thank you for telling us everything,” he says hoarsely. “We appreciate your honesty.”

Charlene looks up at him. “I should have said something. I should have stopped them—”

“Sarah's faced worse,” Mr. Meadows says, then turns to the officer. “She'd never run away. She's put up with people being cruel about her face her entire life.” His voice chokes off.

“You said she was upset this morning after your news,” the detective says. “And she already had issues with her birthmark. Then those hoodlums followed her. That's a lot for anyone to deal with. I know you think it's not something she would do, but most parents don't until it happens.”

Mr. Meadows looks like he wants to strangle the cop, but the cop continues, as if he doesn't notice. “At Sarah's age, with her hormones running wild, we have to rule out running away before we do anything else—unless we find information that tells us otherwise.”

I raise my voice. “Sarah wouldn't run away.”

Mr. Meadows smiles at me wanly.

“Yeah, she wouldn't,” Charlene says. “It's not Sarah.”

The detective frowns at Charlene and me. “Thank you for your cooperation today,” he says, and I know he's telling us to leave.

“Let me know if you hear anything,” I say to Mrs. Meadows, who nods. I turn and walk down the hall toward the door.

“Nick, wait!” Charlene calls, and runs after me.

We step out together into the cold night air. The door closes behind us, sounding final, somehow.

“You think they'll find her?” Charlene asks, her voice heavy.

“They'd better.”

“You were right—she'd never run away.”

“I know.” I kick at the slush. “That cop doesn't know her.”

Why did I wait to tell Sarah how I feel about her? If I never see her again, I'll regret that for the rest of my life. But it can't happen like that. It can't. I love her.

I run my hands through my hair and turn to Charlene. “Will you show me where you saw her last?”

“Why?” she asks, sounding suspicious, guilty, and sad, all at once.

I shrug. “I know it's stupid, but I can't just go home. I'm going to look for her.”

Charlene straightens her shoulders. “Then I'm going, too. Come on. Maybe someone saw something.”

My thoughts exactly.

“But Nick—if Kirk had anything to do with this, I'll never forgive myself.”

I don't have anything to say to that.

Charlene starts down the street, hugging her coat to her, her head down, the wind whipping her hair into her face. I never thought we'd walk down the street together. We don't have anything in common, except that we both like Sarah. But now, at least, we've got the same goal in mind. Find Sarah, wherever she is.

I TRY TO YANK the blindfold off, but it's as tight as if he nailed it into my skull. I reach up and explore the buckle at the back of my head—and touch a cold, hard lump of metal. It's a narrow rectangle with a U looped through a tiny hoop, where the finger of the buckle should be.

My breath falters. A padlock. He's
locked
the blindfold onto me. I feel for the chin buckle, but it's the same.

Holy shit!
I yank the blindfold strap as hard as I can, over and over again, each yank jerking at my head until my neck aches and my arms get pins and needles from being raised above my head for so long. The lock is so little, it seems like I should be able to break it, but I can't.

I want to collapse on the floor and cry, but that won't get me out of here. I pound my thighs. How am I supposed to escape if I can't even see?

I grit my teeth. Blind people cope without sight every day. If they can do it, so can I.

I push myself off the wall and take one step, then another into the darkness, my hands shaking. It's scary to walk blind; I feel like I'm going to fall into some gaping pit.

I frown at myself. I'm being silly. I take another slow step forward, and cobwebs attach to my face—sticky, delicate tendrils. I shudder and swipe them off, then shuffle forward again.

My feet want to cling to the floor, drive my toes through the wood, while my legs want to run. I've got to hurry; he could come back anytime.

I take bigger, faster steps, my breath squeezing inside my chest. My hands slap against the cold wall. I feel lumpy plaster joining drywall, touch the bumpy hard ridges of nail heads.

I thrust my hands farther along the wall, and my fingers slam into raised, rough wood, splinters piercing my skin.

A door? But as fast as I hope, it's gone. The wood goes sideways, like a window frame. I move my hand up, but I touch only the roughness of boards, not the smooth coolness of glass. I feel for a gap, but there isn't one. He's blocked it off. I want to pound the boards, but instead I shove myself forward—and there it is. A door frame, then a door.
Thank you, god.

I brush my hands over the grainy surface, searching for the doorknob, but there's no knob, no handle, nothing sticking out at all. Just a hole where the doorknob should be, cold wind whistling in. Not a neat, smooth hole, but a jagged hole, like it was hacked at with a knife. I thrust my fingers through and yank. The door doesn't move.

The crisp air streaming through the hole taunts me. I yank at the door harder, kick at it, pain stabbing my toes, tears soaking the blindfold. There has to be another way to open the door.