by Gail Dayton
Flash directed her toward downtown, then back out again, driving her in circles. She suspected him of trying to disorient her, but it wasn't working. She'd lived in Pittsburgh all her life. Parts of it she didn't know well, but she could find her way. Finally he directed her to stop outside a narrow row house and dragged her across the center console to exit through the passenger door. He took her up the stoop and in the front.
The hallway was dark, especially after he shut the door. Holes in the plaster walls and the pungent smell of filth testified to long neglect. Flash shoved Marilyn the length of the hall, into the kitchen at the back of the house, reeking with the mingled aromas of chemicals and rotting food. She gagged but fought down the reflex. She didn't want the place to smell worse than it already did.
He took out a wad of keys on a long chain and opened a shiny padlock on what turned out to be the cellar door. A light bulb on a dangling wire lit the stairs, bare wood without a railing. With a mocking leer, Flash gestured at the doorway.
Marilyn entered quickly, before he could decide to shove her through it. She was halfway down the stairs, still moving fast, before she realized he was locking the door behind her. He didn't follow her in.
Her relief flashed, and vanished. If he wasn't here with her, then where would he be? With Pete? She sat down on the stairs with a thump.
The first sign Eli had that something was wrong was when he walked in the house and didn't smell anything.
Marilyn had mentioned cooking a pot roast for dinner, for Joey's visit. The house ought to be filled with the aromas of beef and onion and carrots. It ought to echo with the sound of voices calling out spelling words or reading out loud. But it echoed with emptiness, smelled of absence.
"Marilyn?" Eli walked into the kitchen, looking for a note. She might have forgotten something, had to run out to get it. "Pete?"
The dining table held yesterday's mail. No backpack. No schoolbooks. Nothing.
"Marilyn!" Panic simmered in his gut as he hurried through the house. He pounded upstairs. Maybe Pete was doing homework in his bedroom. Maybe Marilyn was in the bathroom. He called them again. No one answered.
The house was empty.
"I ain't changed my mind." A young voice croaked out of the shadows deeper in the basement. "So you might as well jus' kill me and get it over with."
Marilyn stood up, her insides fluttering like crazed butterflies were trying to escape. "I have no intention of killing anyone. Who are you?"
"Who the fuck are you?"
She descended the last few steps, peering into the musty gloom. "I'm Marilyn."
"You don't look like the Flashman's usual type." The voice came from a huddled lump lying on a bare mattress in the far corner.
"Thank God. I'd just as soon not have that pleasure." Her eyes adjusted to the dim light as she moved slowly across the empty space. The lump refined itself into a boy, maybe twelve years old, wrapped in a filthy blanket.
"What are you doin' here?" He touched his tongue to a split in his lower lip. In the shadows, the bruises against his pale skin looked black, and her stomach twisted. Was this what would happen to Pete?
"I got carjacked." Marilyn kept moving toward him.
"By Flash? Why?"
"Mm-hmm." She sat on the mattress, moving slowly to keep from alarming the boy. "Look at me. How bad are you hurt?"
He sucked at his split lip again. "I can stand it. Why did Flash want you?"
"He hates my boyfriend. I had Eli's son with me." Marilyn took his chin gently in her hand and turned him to face her. Some of the dark spots were scrapes as well as bruises. None of them had been cleaned. "Is there water?"
"Over there." He pointed. "There's a john and a water faucet. No sink though. Just a bucket."
The bucket would work better than a sink. Marilyn headed for the corner the boy had indicated. It looked as if someone had once had plans to add a bathroom but had got no further than the traditional stand-alone "Pittsburgh Potty," and the water faucet, plus a drain in the floor. She turned on the tap and peered at it in the dim light until she was sure it ran clear.
"What's your name?" She rinsed out the bucket with the icy cold water. Surprisingly, it appeared to be no worse than dusty.
"Slug."
"Slug?" She filled the bucket with a few inches of water and carried it back to him. "That's not a name. What's your name, really?"
He shrugged, remaining silent as Marilyn cast about for something to use as a cleaning cloth. She considered tearing off a piece of the blanket wrapped around him, for about two seconds. The thing was so nasty, she'd be wiping dirt on him rather than cleaning it off.
She took the scarf from around her neck, the cashmere one that had, in a way, started everything, and dipped a corner in the water. "Look at me."
Slug pulled away, eyeing her suspiciously. "Why? What are you doing?"
"I'm going to clean your scrapes so they won't get infected."
He shook his head. "I'm okay."
"No, you're not. Now, shut up and let me clean your face." Marilyn turned him toward her. Wetting the scarf again, she dabbed at the trail of blood on his chin leading down from the split lip. "What happened?"
"Wa' do you fink 'appen?" His words were muffled by her cleaning. "Flashman happened. I quit him when he was inside--in jail, I mean. When he got out, I wouldn't do what he said, and he didn't like it."
Oh God. Marilyn's hands shook and she had to pause to get them under control. She knew every city had prostitutes, even child prostitutes, despite all that police and everyone could do. But to have a child she loved in the hands of someone who forced children to do such a thing... "Oh, God."
Only after she spoke did she realize she'd spoken aloud.
"What?"
"He's got Pete." Marilyn swiped away a tear and rinsed the scarf in the bucket, forcing herself back to work, carefully cleaning the dried blood from Slug's pale face.
"Oh." He'd stopped trying to avoid the wet scarf, passively submitting to her ministrations.
"How old are you?"
"Fourteen." He studied her, watching her every move.
"Oh, come on. How old are you really?" Marilyn wiped away more dark brown blood and every millimeter she cleaned made him look even younger.
"How old do you want me to be? I can be whatever age you want."
Marilyn shuddered. Why did he have to terrify her like this? "I want you to be whatever age you really are."
"Fourteen."
"And your name really is Slug?" She cocked an eyebrow, letting him see her disbelief.
He only shrugged. "How old is Pete?"
She almost dropped the scarf as her fears for Pete hit her again. He took it and continued the clean up himself.
"He's nine." Marilyn twisted her hands together to stop their shaking.
"You're really worried about him." Slug's voice held wonder. "And he's not even your own kid."
"I'm worried about you, too." She was.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. I know you need somebody to worry about you."
"I don't need anybody."
"I do." Marilyn reached for the scarf, but Slug held it out of her reach. "I don't know what I would do if I were alone down here. If I had to sit here by myself and try not to think what could be happening to Pete... I'd--go crazy, I guess. I am so glad you're here."
The boy stared at her for a long minute. "Huh," he said finally, shaking his head. He dunked the scarf in the bucket again and started scrubbing at the back of his neck.
"Let me do that," Marilyn said.
"Better not. It's blood."
She looked at him, feeling stupid because she didn't understand his meaning.
"Blood. AIDS?"
"Oh." Now she felt even more stupid. "I didn't think of--"
"I know."
"Do you have it?"
He shrugged. "No clue. But I couldn't always make the johns use a rubber. Mostly they wouldn't, for blow jobs, but they say
you can get it that way too."
Oh God. She hated hearing him talk so matter-of-factly about it. But was Eli's complete silence any better?
Did he think he was hiding it from her? It had been a wild, horrified guess at first, but enough little comments had been dropped, by Eli and by Detective Jackson, that her suspicions were pretty well confirmed.
She understood Eli's desire not to talk about such a painful subject. She'd been unable to talk about her own pain for years. And it had festered away inside of her all that time.
Slug dropped the blanket, exposing a thin chest between wide shoulders, covered in bruises. He shivered as he continued the clean up.
"Are you sure I can't help?"
"Yeah." He paused. "Would you--like--turn your back? I don't got any clothes on."
Marilyn turned away, her heart breaking for Slug, for Eli, and shattering with fear for Pete.
Twenty-One
***
Eli got on the phone and called the school. No answer, of course. It was well after five. He looked up Mrs. Grabowski, Pete's teacher, in the phone book. A child answered and yelled for Mom when Eli asked for her.
"Yes, Mrs. Grabowski--this is Eli Court. Did--who picked Pete up from school this afternoon?"
"Marilyn--Mrs. Ballard did. Why? Is something wrong?"
His relief was muted. "They're not home. Probably ran out to the store or something. I just wanted to make sure she made it by to get Pete."
"Yes. Yes, she certainly did. I'm sure they'll be back any time."
"Thanks."
So if anything had happened, they were at least together. Eli hoped. He hung up the phone and went outside to look in the garage. No car.
Which didn't necessarily mean anything. But if they'd run out for something, why was the roast still sitting on the cabinet bleeding into the sink? Why wasn't there a note? Marilyn always left a note. Or checked in on his cell phone.
Eli pulled it out and checked for messages. Nothing.
He went back in the house, trying to beat back his worry. Should he call Jackson? Report them missing? He'd heard that an adult had to be missing at least twenty-four hours before police would take action, but a child was a different matter. Was it the same for a woman and child gone missing together? Did Flash's threat make a difference, or was he just being paranoid?
Eli shoved his hands back through his hair then drew them down over his face. He had to call. So what if he looked stupid when they walked in the house five minutes from now? It was just possible they wouldn't walk in.
He had dialed the phone and was waiting for an answer when Joey walked through the front door after knocking once.
"Hey, big sister, it's me. Where's the grub?"
Eli held up a finger, indicating that he'd be with Joey in a minute. "Yeah, I need to talk to Detective Jackson."
"What's up?" Joey walked over.
"Hold on," Eli said, covering the receiver. He moved his hand when Jackson came on the line. "This is Court. Have you picked up Gardner yet?"
"Not yet. Why?"
"Marilyn and Pete aren't home. She picked him up after school, but they're not here. No car in the garage. No books in the house. Stuff she had out to cook for supper is still sitting by the sink. Like they never got home."
"Probably just got sidetracked. You're located near Carnegie-Mellon, right?" Jackson referred to the apartment not far from the university where they'd been living when Teresa was killed.
"No. No, we moved when I brought Pete home. We're out in Hillside now."
"Shit!" Jackson swore, then swore again. "Why the hell didn't you tell me? I've been--there was a carjacking this afternoon by the Morrison viaduct. The description of the car involved matches the one I saw you in at the funeral. Is that near you?"
Eli let loose a few words. "Half a dozen blocks. On the way from the school."
"I'll get the word out on the street. We didn't get a license plate."
He rattled the number off. "I'm looking too."
"Yeah, sure. Bring me pictures first. And don't kill anybody if you can help it."
"I'll have the pictures there soon as possible. No guarantees about anything else." Eli hung up the phone and grabbed his keys.
"I'm coming too," Joey said.
"If you're coming, then haul ass." Eli banged out the door. He had pictures in his wallet.
"Let's take my car." Joey slammed the door behind them. "We'll have room to bring them home."
When they got to the freeway, Joey switched on the radio. Eli barely refrained from switching it back off, from screaming at him to go faster. At least the traffic heading into town was lighter than that coming out.
Then a special bulletin came on. An "Amber alert." The radio station broadcast a description of Pete, of Marilyn and of the car. Technically, the alerts were only for missing children, but Eli assumed that since Marilyn had been snatched along with Pete, the media were giving her a freebie.
The alert had worked once that Eli knew about. A child snatched in Dallas had been dumped along the freeway fifty miles south of town when the kidnappers apparently heard the alert on the radio and panicked. Eli'd been staying in East Texas at the time, hadn't thought much about it, except to be glad it worked. Flash wouldn't panic, though. The Flashman was the type who'd get mad. Eli could only hope the cops would find them first.
Marilyn prowled the empty basement. She didn't know what she was looking for. She just couldn't sit still. Slug was sleeping, she thought. Lying down, anyway, with her long green overcoat wrapped around him. She hadn't been able to let him cover up with that filthy blanket after he'd cleaned up.
The single light bulb near the stairs cast eerie shadows through the two-by-four studs. The basement had been divided into rooms at one time, probably when the rudimentary plumbing was put in, but nothing covered the studs marking the "rooms." She could see through every wall. Slug had politely turned his back when she'd had to use the toilet. At least their cell had that amenity.
He was such a strange boy, coarse surface overlying an incredibly polite core. One minute, he didn't seem to care about anything, including himself, and the next he would say something so sweet it would choke her up. He reminded her of Eli.
It was dark outside now. The dim light coming through the slit of a boarded-up window had gone completely black. What was happening to Pete? Was he alone? Was he afraid? How could he not be afraid? He was just a little boy.
Marilyn had to do something. But what? She kept looking, hoping inspiration would strike.
"What are you doing?" Slug spoke from his corner.
"I don't know. I just--I have to do something. Find a way out. Find help. Something." She paced the room, eyes roving over floor and walls she'd studied a hundred times already.
"I can get out through the window."
"You can?" Marilyn whirled to face him. "Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you get out already?"
He sat up, pushing stringy blond hair out of his face. "Didn't care enough, I guess. I mean, about getting out. Flash would only find me again. Don't have any place to go. Too much trouble to get the board off the window. But if you want, I'll go." He stood, watching her.
"I want to hug you," she said. "Will you let me?" Or was he too traumatized to accept her touch?
Slug lifted a shoulder in a lopsided shrug. "If you want." He put his hands in the coat pockets, waiting as she approached.
Carefully, Marilyn put her arms around him and squeezed. She didn't want to hurt his bruises. She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."
"If Flash comes back and I'm not here, he's gonna be fu--uh--seriously pissed." Slug stepped back from her hug. "I mean, seriously."
Marilyn shook her head. "I don't care. You have to get out of here. Go to the police. Ask for Detective Jackson--" She racked her brain for the man's first name. The police department probably had half a dozen Jacksons. "Darrell or Terrell Jackson--something like that. Give him my name--Marilyn Ballard--can you remember that?"
&nb
sp; "Sure." He nodded. "Ballard, Jackson. Got it."
"Tell him that Flash has Pete--Peter Court." She described the building where Pete had been left, named the street it was on and the neighborhood.
Slug looked up from tying the belt on the coat. He was several inches shorter and a whole lot skinnier than Marilyn, so the belt made pleats. "Court?"
"Does that mean something to you?"
"Flashman yelled a lot about some guy named Court, talking about how he was going to get even, shit--I mean, stuff like that." He tugged the belt tighter. "Made him nuts."
Marilyn shuddered, hugging her arms.
"Maybe I should stay," he said. "You do not want to know the Flashman when he's seriously pissed."
"No. I'd rather he take it out on me than you or Pete. And I won't fit through the window."
"Neither will I if we can't get the board off."
A single, wide board, about an inch thick, was nailed across the center of the window, leaving only a few inches above and below through which the outside world filtered. Marilyn grabbed it and pulled. It groaned, but didn't budge.
She groaned too. "I wish I'd joined that gym when my daughter wanted me to. I'd be so buff, this thing would come off in one pull."
"Yeah?" Slug took hold near the other end and together, they pulled. This time it moved maybe a millimeter.
"Probably not." Marilyn grinned at him and after a second, he grinned back. "What if we try rocking it? Maybe we can get a little leverage going."
"Try it. Ready--now." And they attacked the board together.
Jackson met Eli in the police station parking lot, handing the picture--a snapshot of Pete and Marilyn taken during spring break--to another officer to be scanned, printed and sent out to the patrol cars.
"You got any suggestions on where to look?" he asked. "We already hit the place we found Teresa. Not there."
Eli shook his head, impatient to be on his way. "I didn't find anything in the places I looked when Tee was missing. I doubt he'll use them for Pete. But I know people I can ask."