Those Girls (27 page)
“How’d your date go?” Theo said.
“Bitch never showed,” Gavin said.
“Fuck her anyway, right?” Theo said.
“Damn right.” Gavin was laughing—but too hard, like something was just funny to him, his private joke. Theo laughed along but you could sort of tell he didn’t really know what was so funny. Gavin seemed like the kind of guy who’d brag, not the kind who’d admit someone had stood him up. He had to be lying. Who was he talking about? I hoped Gavin would reveal something else, but they started talking about the ranch and one of the tractors that had broken down.
“I’ll take a look at it tonight,” Gavin said, then he told Theo he had to go check in with Brian, that angry tone back in his voice. I waited behind the barn, peeking around the corner, and watched him walk toward the main house.
He was going to be busy tonight. It might be my only chance, but I had to be sure. When I was finished at five, I washed my hands under the hose, wincing as the water stung my blisters, then got my payment from Theo.
“I heard your tractor is broken down,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual, like I was just making conversation.
“Yeah, Gavin’s working on it now. He’ll get it fixed.”
“Okay, see you in the morning.”
* * *
I was starving but I didn’t want to waste time driving into town to get food. I had no idea how long Gavin would be and I had to make this fast. I left the ranch and drove down the driveway, debating what to do. Should I park at the creek and hike up over the field? It was probably more than a fifteen-minute walk.
Once I hit the road I turned right but drove slowly, looking to see if there were any side roads close to the ranch where I could park. I spotted a dirt road about fifty feet down. I pulled off the main road onto the smaller one, going down a couple of feet and parking on the side. It didn’t seem to be a driveway, at least there was no mailbox, but I didn’t plan on being that long anyway.
As I walked down the second driveway toward Gavin’s, I could see the main house at the top of the hill. It was still hot out, the air smelling like dried grass and dust. I glanced around nervously, worried that Gavin was going to drive in or that someone could see me from the house or the road.
Finally I came around the bend in the driveway and saw the second house. It was smaller than the main one, simpler, more like a basic box. You could tell a man lived alone there, with no chairs or flowers or anything on the front porch, just a stack of empties. I could hear country music, like he’d left a radio on inside. It was kind of loud, which was strange, considering he wasn’t even home.
I noticed a large building slightly behind the house, probably a shop or garage. I headed toward it. The front had two overhead doors that I couldn’t slide up from the outside, and the side door was locked. I came around the back side and climbed a crate, then stood on a metal barrel and looked through a dirty window. It almost looked like there was a car under a tarp, but I couldn’t see the color or anything, couldn’t really even judge the size.
I got off the barrel, glanced toward the house. I wondered if it was locked. How long would it take him to fix a tractor? I’d have to be very careful—it might be hard to hear him coming up the driveway because of the radio. I walked toward the back, figuring it would be safer to find a back door in case I had to run for it.
I looked down the road again, listened. I couldn’t hear anything, just the country music, louder now that I was closer to the house. I crept onto the porch, praying like crazy that he didn’t have a dog. The door was locked, but I noticed a window beside it was open a little, the curtain moving in the breeze. I peeked in. It looked like a bathroom.
I slid the window all the way up. It was stiff and I had to really work it, my hands getting slivers from the old wood. I climbed in, feet first, and landed in Gavin’s bathroom. It was gross, the toilet stained, the tile on the floor dingy, like he never mopped the floor. His toothbrush was on the counter, the bristles flat and the handle caked with old toothpaste, which also coated the sink. A razor was lying on its side, little bits of hair scattered all over the counter.
I crept into the kitchen, opened what looked like a closet door under the stairs, right beside his kitchen table. It was a pantry, large enough that you could walk in and move around. The house had an open floor plan—a mark on the floor and ceiling showed where a wall had been—and I could see into the living room. It wasn’t very big, but he had a large TV. His couch was sagging, a blanket tossed on the side, and a fan hummed in a corner. The coffee table was old, had a full ashtray, none with lipstick, and a bunch of hunting magazines spread out.
I peeked out the little window at the front door, checking for Gavin’s truck. When I turned back around I noticed some steps going down, and another door. Did it go to a basement? I opened it, looked down the dark stairs.
I stood at the top, called out: “Crystal?”
No answer. I started making my way down the stairs, carefully holding on to the rail, each step creaking and my breath tight in my throat. I found a light on the wall, turned it on. The room was packed with boxes, old bikes, tools, garbage bags full of God knows what, camping equipment.
“Crystal?”
I couldn’t see how anyone else could be down there, but I tried to walk around a little, squeezing between stuff, almost knocking over a bunch of boxes. I didn’t see any other rooms. I made my way back upstairs.
The country music was even louder inside the house. Was he trying to cover something? It sounded like it was coming from an upper floor. I walked up the stairs, pushing open bedroom doors, calling Crystal’s name. It was hotter upstairs, my face was slick with sweat, and the air smelled like sewer and rotten food or something. One of the rooms was empty and the other had an older bed in it, with a blanket in a camouflaged pattern tossed over it, a hunting poster above the bed. It didn’t look like it was used often. There was still another room at the end of the hall. Maybe the master bedroom?
I walked down the hall, tried to turn the handle but it was locked. He was definitely hiding something.
“Crystal?” I couldn’t hear anything over the radio, which was coming from that room. How could I get in the door? I examined the handle. If I could find a hammer, I might be able to smash it off—he’d know someone had been in his house, but I had to get in that room.
I walked back down the hall—I’d look for a hammer downstairs—and was almost at the top of the stairs when I heard what sounded like a truck door slamming. I ran into the spare room, glanced out the window, which was at the front of the house, and could just see the back end of a pickup truck underneath the overhang. I hadn’t heard him over the radio.
I ran down the stairs, almost tripping on a pair of work boots at the bottom. I had to get through the kitchen and out the back door—no, I didn’t have time. I could hear the front door opening. I grabbed the handle of the pantry door and ran in, closing the door softly behind me.
I stood still, scared to move and trying to catch my breath. The door had slats in the front so I could peek out. Maybe he was just coming home because he forgot something. I waited, listening to his boots out in the kitchen. I could see his shadow moving back and forth. He was on his phone, sounded like he was ordering parts. So he was probably done working on the tractor for the night.
I crept back a couple of feet, setting my feet down gently, praying that the floorboards didn’t creak, and crouched low. I was scared to move around in case I bumped into anything. The door was letting a small bit of light in, and my eyes were adjusting. There were some cans on the shelf beside me. I grabbed one for a weapon and pulled the knife out of my pocket, my hand on the button to flip the blade.
Now I heard pans clanking, a fridge door closing, then something sizzling. The scent of meat and onions cooking filled the closet. Cupboards opening, things being moved around. Then the scrape of a chair being pulled out, sounding close, his body settling down. I realized he was sitting right in front of the closet door, could see part of his shoulder. I held my breath, terrified he’d sense my presence.
He ate for about five minutes or so, scraping his fork and knife against the plate loudly, like he was eating in a hurry, and then he got up. I could hear water running like he was rinsing his plate. He still hadn’t turned the music down, and I was surprised he didn’t mind the noise. I heard boots going upstairs, right over my head. Did I have time to escape? I tested the closet door, and realized something was in front. His chair from the table? It had gotten wedged under the door handle. I tried to push the door open but could only move it a couple of inches. I reached my hand out, tried to push the chair away, but I was at a bad angle. I needed to give it a good shove, but that would make noise and he might hear me. If he caught me in the kitchen, could I outrun him? He was tall and strong. My best bet was to wait until morning when he went to work.
The music turned off upstairs, startling me. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear anything. He was gone for a while, then I heard his footsteps coming back down and passing through the kitchen. He turned on the TV and I could smell cigarette smoke. I needed to pee desperately and couldn’t hold it any longer. I backed farther into the corner, slowly unzipped my jeans shorts, and peed on his floor, hoping it soaked into the wood and didn’t roll out. It was hot in the closet, sweat dripping down my face and back, and I was thirsty as hell.
Hours later the TV was still on, but I could hear him snoring on the couch. I stayed awake in the closet, counting every moment, every beat of my heart. My legs were cramped, my back aching. I wanted to stretch but couldn’t risk making a sound. I kept thinking about the room upstairs, the smell. Was Crystal trapped in there? Was she okay? Finally I drifted off, my head pressed against my knee, but I just dozed in and out, scared to let myself fully fall asleep in case I fell over.
In the morning I heard him get up, fart, and walk to the bathroom. I heard the sound of him peeing, then the shower running. He didn’t go upstairs to get dressed. Maybe he put on the same clothes, which was disgusting, but everything about this man was revolting.
He was in the kitchen now, the scent of coffee and eggs and toast drifting into my closet. My stomach growled and I hoped he didn’t hear it.
He sat down at the table to eat his breakfast, and I said a mental prayer of gratitude when he stood up and pushed the chair back in this time. I could see him scraping something onto a plate, then he turned around and I heard him walk upstairs. I felt a jolt of shock, followed by fear. I was right. He must have Crystal locked in that room.
A few minutes later the country music started up again. He came back downstairs, sounded like he dumped the plate in the sink, and left the room. It was hard to hear again, but I thought I heard his truck start up. I waited about another ten minutes, then pushed open the door slowly, listened. I couldn’t hear anything but the music. I crept out, looked around cautiously, then walked to the living room window, peeked around the curtain. I didn’t see his truck out front.
I ran to his bathroom, barely making it to his toilet, and wanted to cry in relief as I emptied my bladder. When I was finished, I tiptoed out, looking around in case he’d come back in, then crept up the stairs. I was at the top, walking down the hall, my pulse beating hard in my throat, my mouth dry. Almost there.
I tested the handle: locked again. I hit the door hard with the side of my fist, called out, “Crystal?”
I thought I could hear something, a muffled noise, but the music was too loud for me to really tell. It also sounded like there was a fan going in the room. I had to break down the door, but I still needed a tool to knock the handle off.
I was partway down the stairs when I heard it. The front door slammed shut. I froze on the stairs. Had he been outside this whole time? What should I do? Was he coming upstairs or just into the kitchen? I turned around, tried to head back up the stairs, moving as fast as possible while not making any noise. Maybe I could make it into the spare room.
“The fuck you doing in my house?”
J
AMIE
I’ve been scared many times in my life, in many ways, but I’ve never been as terrified as when I realized my daughter was missing. When Emily first called that morning looking for her I thought it was a joke, they were just screwing around. But then I called Skylar’s cell, and when it kept going to her voice mail, tried Taylor. She hadn’t heard from Skylar since Thursday. It was now Monday.
I sat on my couch, heart thundering in my chest, staring at the phone in my hand. Skylar had had a pink phone when she was a baby. She used to carry it around and have pretend conversations. She’d grown up to be a teenager who never left home without her cell. Panic was sliding in and around, choking me.
Think, where could she be?
I played back our last conversation in my mind, scrolled through the texts she’d sent. She’d sounded happy. And I’d been happy that she hadn’t asked about Crystal. A whisper of a thought started creeping in. No. She wouldn’t.
I got out my address book, started calling all of Skylar’s friends, even people she hadn’t mentioned in years. No one had seen or talked to her. A boyfriend? I thought of Aaron, the boy at the gym who was always talking to her. Maybe him? No, she didn’t seem interested. Someone else? She’d been secretive lately, lying more. Her sneaking out with Crystal that night. I’d lain awake for hours after I’d brought Skylar home, horrible images of what could have happened to her making my body stiff with tension. What if she’d been hurt? The whisper was back.
Crystal.
I tried her cell. It also went to voice mail.
I searched Skylar’s night table, under her bed, her closet, all her drawers, my hands feeling under her pillow, the edge of the mattress, looking for notes, something. Her knife was gone, her packsack, laptop, her favorite flip-flops. Gone. I stood in the middle, looked around at the mess. She’d made her bed. Skylar never made her bed. I remembered seeing her that morning at the kitchen table, kissing her cheek. She’d smiled at me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flitting away from mine. I’d thought it was excitement.
