by Olive Balla
Jillie bit her lip to keep from whimpering.
“I said open up.” Something heavy beat against the door. Bam, bam, bam.
Sounds of splintering wood echoed through the trailer. The door flew open and ricocheted off the wall behind it.
The bright rectangle of late afternoon sunlight darkened as a figure entered the trailer.
“Now you’ve gone and made me mad.” The man stood just inside the door, facing the toy-sized stove and built-in kitchen cabinet against the opposite side. He turned to the left and looked straight at Jillie. “There you are.”
The man stood still for a few seconds, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness, then he took a couple of steps forward.
“See? I brought you something to eat.” Returning to what he obviously intended to be a calming voice, the man held a grease-soaked paper bag. “The biggest burger they make, and a ton of French fries. It’s cooled down, but it’ll still taste mighty good.” He sounded like he was having trouble breathing. “Now lookit you, all balled up like a scared little mouse. You won’t get hurt if you do as you’re told.”
The man took another step into the hallway, and his right foot landed in the middle of the rug-covered hole. Bewilderment followed by understanding flashed in his eyes as he flailed his arms to regain his balance. The bag of food flew out of his hand and his right leg disappeared down the hole. His left leg bent at an impossible angle at the same instant a loud crack echoed through the trailer.
“What the…” The man struggled to free himself, but the splintered plywood flooring jammed into his leg, holding him like a vise. “Help me. I’m hurt bad, you got to help me.”
When Jillie made no move, the man’s pleading voice changed to a bellow.
Her insides quaking like they were made of Jell-O, Jillie grabbed Mickey, her coat, and backpack. After several seconds of pushing and wrangling, she managed to shove all of it out through the window above the platform.
She grasped the window ledge and started to pull herself through but stopped when the greasy smell coming from the bag wafted toward her. Her mouth watering, she stepped from the platform and snatched up the bag of food from the floor where it had landed. Holding the bag in her teeth, she pulled herself through the window.
“Hey,” the man shouted. “You can’t just leave me here. You gotta help.” His voice now so loud it seemed the whole village of Los Lunas could hear. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” The man began to curse.
Jillie stuffed the bag of food into her backpack then slipped the straps over her shoulders. For several heartbeats, she debated whether or not to leave the suitcase behind. But if she left it, the police would know she’d been there. On the other hand, the thought of schlepping the thing one more minute made her want to cry.
The man inside the trailer had stopped yelling and was making grunting sounds like he was trying to pull himself out of the hole. The thought of his finding her suitcase and touching her stuff made Jillie’s mind up. She hurried around the trailer to the front door, leaped up the steps, and ran to the sofa.
“Hey,” the man yelled. “You got to help me, there’s something stuck in my leg.”
Jillie slammed her suitcase closed and hauled it outside. Keeping to the rear of the trailer, she started down the hill. Her heart pumping a million miles an hour and breath coming in gasps, she’d only gone a few feet, when a vehicle door slammed from somewhere nearby.
After dropping her luggage behind a sage bush, Jillie crept back toward the trailer far enough to see what was going on.
A young man stood beside an old, rust-splotched, yellow pickup. He stared at the front of the trailer for a few seconds then walked toward the door.
At the top of the steps, he paused and looked around as if to make sure no one was watching. Tall and slender, he wore blue jeans, a denim jacket and down-at-the-heel boots. His arms were unusually long, his hands unusually small. Although some people might think the man attractive, there was something about the expression on his face that made the skin on Jillie’s arms crawl. It was a face she’d not forget.
When the new-comer entered the trailer, the old man’s shouts for help were replaced by words of gratitude. After a few seconds, the old man cried out—most likely from the pain of being pulled back up through the splintered wooden floor—then grew silent.
Jillie would need to let the police know about him staking out the park and looking for kids. Once inside the train, she’d make a sketch of the old guy so the police could recognize him. Then she’d draw the young man who’d helped, just in case they wanted to talk to him. She could write a note explaining everything and leave it with the pictures somewhere the police would be sure to find them.
Feeling like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she hurried back to her luggage, loaded up, and headed in the direction of the train station.
Chapter Fifteen
After arriving at the tiny trailer in time to see the pervert kick in its door, Toby had stood at a distance arguing with himself for several minutes. This was not his battle; it had nothing to do with him.
Then the kid he’d seen at the park hurried around the side of the trailer, stepped through the front door, and came back out carrying a huge yellow suitcase. With the pervert’s howls floating through the trailer’s busted door, the kid scuttled downhill toward Los Lunas as if running from a pack of demons.
Eventually, the yelps for help coming from inside the trailer faded into grunts of effort. The kid had dodged a life-lesson-bullet, but the pervert’s next target might not be so lucky. Of course, the pervert would return to the park, an elementary school, or some other likely hunting ground to pursue his compulsions.
Feelings Toby had kept under control for years bubbled up from the soles of his feet. Without consciously deciding to do so, he entered the trailer.
He’d stood just inside the door for a few seconds while the trailer’s sole occupant thanked him for coming to his aid and said what a coincidence it was that he’d just seen him at the park.
Held firmly in the grip of the Bias, the pervert had hurried to explain his presence. “…out on my usual walk and thought I heard someone yelling for help. False alarm, but I got myself in a fix.”
His face a mask, Toby had first glanced around the trailer’s interior, then approached the flailing man.
The pervert grimaced. “Can’t thank you enough. Pretty sure my leg’s busted, I think one of the floor boards is sticking into it, so when I try to pull it out, the jagged end just goes in deeper. You got some tools or maybe a saw?” Something in Toby’s posture must have finally registered with the pervert, because the man’s eyes widened. “Of course, I’d be glad to pay you for your help. I have money put aside.”
Minutes later, Toby exited the trailer. He stood on the rickety steps and looked around, ready to take care of any witnesses who might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But there was no one. Whoever the kid was, he’d been smart enough to lay a trap then hightail it after it was sprung.
Toby smiled. The kid was a survivor. It would have been a pity to have to kill him.
Chapter Sixteen
Jillie chewed on her thumbnail, the other nails bloody and so sore she could hardly stand to touch them. Why did time speed up during summer vacation, but drag during a visit to someplace like the dentist? Probably some mathematical equation could explain it. But she wished it would slow down—like those advertisements on television where everyone on the street freezes while one person goes on his way. Right then, it felt like time was going at light speed, and she still had lots of thing to do.
When she was still a long way from the train station, high white clouds of the afternoon began to grow dark and heavy. A light breeze fanned her cheek with the moist smell of rain, warning of an approaching storm.
She’d have to find some place dry to ride it out. And it was getting late.
It seemed the whole universe was determined to keep her from get
ting to the hospital. But a soaked kid with both a backpack and a suitcase showing up late at night to catch a train would be an attention magnet. Whereas a clean kid with a backpack in broad daylight would be nothing unusual.
Maybe she’d dump the suitcase in a ditch. She could take out anything that would identify her. Besides, she was good and tired of lugging the thing around.
Jillie dropped the suitcase on its side, opened it and surveyed its contents. She retrieved Beth’s Nancy Drew paperback, one pair of jeans, a T-shirt, two pair of clean underwear, and her art supplies then stuffed it into her bulging backpack, praying that the fabric and plastic zipper were tough enough to hold. Nevertheless, she finally managed to close the thing.
For the next several minutes, hands turned to the sides like hatchets to avoid hurting her sore fingers, she dug in the sandy soil. Although the newly plowed dirt was soft, the pain from accidentally raking a torn fingernail against it was nearly enough to make her decide to just walk away and leave the suitcase in the field. But something told her she needed to cover her tracks and she’d already made enough mistakes.
Once satisfied with the hole’s depth, she dropped the suitcase in and shoved dirt over it. The stupid thing would be found next time the farmer plowed the field, but hopefully not before Jillie was well away.
She stood and dusted her clothes off as best she could. Pleased to be relieved of the burdensome luggage, she walked in the direction she hoped would take her to the train station.
Weather permitting, and if her calculations were correct, she should be able to get to the hospital by noon the next day. She could finish her sketches on the train, then wait until no one was at the hospital’s information desk and leave her drawings there along with the letter addressed to the police.
Grateful for the absence of street lamps on the narrow county road, she walked along the white line at the asphalt’s edge. Whenever a car came by, she either dropped into the ditch and lay spread-eagled against the slanted side or hid behind a bush.
The storm held off long enough for her to reach the edge of Los Lunas.
Dogs barked; music and voices floated through open windows; cooking smells wafted on the breeze, and amber light shone through windows. People moved around in those warm homes. Families were eating, talking, hugging.
Smoke poured from the brick chimney of the house nearest her, filling the air with the smell of burning wood. The unfenced front yard was covered with cacti and rocks in the water-saving style her science teacher called xeric landscaping.
An ancient cottonwood tree towered in the fenced back yard, its fall-painted leaves so thick they blotted out the moon. A light breeze made the leaves whisper to each other as they rubbed against the twigs to which they were anchored. A happy buzz raced along Jillie’s arms at the sight of what appeared to be a tree house snuggled amid the huge limbs.
Since the fence was too high for her to climb over, she approached the gate at the side of the house. She lifted its handle then froze, as if suddenly turned to stone, when the metal clasp squeaked loud enough to raise the dead.
When no dogs or people showed up to investigate, she tried again. Slower. Once the handle was all the way up, she pushed the gate open just enough to get through and stepped into the yard, leaving the gate open behind her so as not to chance another squeal.
As she’d hoped, attached to the tree’s trunk was a wooden ladder, the top of which disappeared into the foliage. She took hold of the ladder and stepped onto the bottom rung.
But as she put her full weight down, the rotted wood snapped, slamming her right foot onto the ground. Pain shot up her leg, and she bit her tongue. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she doubled over to rub her ankle.
Once the pain had subsided, she straightened and moved her fingers along each rung as high as she could reach. Another couple of rungs felt splintered, but most of them seemed to be okay.
After tightening the backpack’s straps and taking care to put her feet next to the upright posts, she went up the ladder and stepped into the treehouse. As much as was possible in the darkness, she surveyed the enclosure.
The wall boards fit together tightly, leaving only an occasional sliver of opening through which the breeze filtered. A couple of knotholes in the wall offered a view of the back of the house. Dust, dried leaves, and twigs piled into drifts in the corners. The wood floor was a bit warped in places and creaked when she moved toward the middle, but the structure seemed solid enough. The smell of clean dirt and fallen leaves filled her nostrils. With its low roof, the space felt cozy, kind of like a cave.
Jillie leaned her backpack against a wall. Using her fingers as a rake, she piled the leaves and twigs together. The air filled with an herbal fragrance as leaves settled into the perfect mattress.
The storm chose that moment to break. But the claps of thunder, flashes of lightning, and torrents of rain only lasted a few minutes then dissipated.
Pleased that no rain found its way into the tree house, Jillie lay down on the leaves. She pulled her jacket up to her chin, nestled against Mickey’s chubby tummy and fell asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Early the next morning, Jillie was awakened by loud voices. Cold, and briefly disoriented, she clamped her jaws together to stop her teeth from chattering and peered through one of the knot holes.
Two little old ladies in pajamas and robes sat at a small round table in the center of a brick patio. They each had what looked like crocheted afghans draped around their shoulders. Curlicues of steam floated up from mugs on the table in front of them.
“I know what I heard,” said one old lady. Short white hair resembling a helmet of cotton balls hung over her unnaturally black eyebrows. Her pajamas were made of some silky-looking fabric in a kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and yellows. Her robe was purple. “That gate screams like a banshee every time it’s opened. And I found it ajar this morning.”
“You’re full of beans,” the second old lady said. “You probably just forgot to latch it. Besides, I didn’t hear a thing.” Her hair was white, too, but it was pulled back into a tight bun. Without any visible eyebrows at all, she wore light blue pajamas with a matching robe that looked like it had been made from a huge bath towel.
“You wouldn’t have heard a bomb explode,” Cotton Top said. “Once you take your hearing aids out, you’re deaf as a stump. You wouldn’t even know when you fart, if not for the jar followed by the dead-possum-in-the-woods fragrance.”
The Bun chuckled. “Got me there. But if someone’s been in the back yard, why isn’t anything missing?”
Cotton Top harrumphed and said, “Other than my veggies, there’s nothing back here worth taking.”
“Dix, Dix,” The Bun said. She shook her head, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Just listen to yourself. Not only is there nothing missing, but there’s absolutely no evidence of anyone’s having been in our yard.”
“No evidence except what I heard, and the gate’s being left open.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“You don’t get it, Lil. I don’t like the idea of someone having to sneak around our house late at night. It might be someone in need of help.”
“Spare me.” A small oblong box on the table squawked and spit static as the woman named Lil moved a knob on its front.
“Good Lord,” Dix said. “Wherever did you find that old thing? Isn’t that your transistor radio from high school?”
“Yep, still works, too.”
“You know listening to the news is the quickest way to get depressed. You can’t change anything; it just messes with your head.”
“I want to hear the stock market report.” Lil fiddled with the knobs, picked the radio up and shook it, then worked the knobs again.
“Is money all you ever think of?”
“It’s called being financially responsible; you should try it sometime.”
The static coming from the radio was suddenly replaced by the clear sound of a masc
uline voice.
Police report finding the body of an unidentified man appearing to be in his fifties in an abandoned trailer just outside of Los Lunas. The death is being investigated as a homicide. Police reports indicate there are currently no suspects.
Jillie gasped. She’d figured the young guy would help the creepy old man; in fact, she’d thought that was why the old man suddenly stopped yelling. Not only had she listened to someone being murdered, but she’d seen the murderer’s face.
Should she immediately go to the police? But that would mean abandoning Beth. Maybe she could make an anonymous call. But where could she find a phone? Jillie tasted blood and realized she’d been chewing her tongue.
On the patio below, Dix reached across the table and turned the radio off. “I told you, that’s no way to start the day. Murder and mayhem during breakfast, no thank you.”
Lil squinted at Dix. “Were you not paying attention, Pollyanna? I’ve driven past that little trailer a million times; it’s not all that far from here.” She leaned across the table. “You said yourself, you think someone came into our back yard in the dead of night. What if you happen to be right? What if someone’s wandering around killing people?” She stood and draped the afghan over the back of her chair. “I’m going to get an alarm system.”
“You’re kidding, you mean you’re actually going to pay someone to install—”
“Get real.” Lil started toward the door. “I’ll do it myself, how hard can it be?”
Dix choked on the sip of liquid she’d just taken, coughed, and laughed.
Lil cocked her head at her sister. “What’s so funny?”
“Just the supreme irony of your being willing to buy a security system. You’re so tight you squeak when you walk. Always have been.”
“And that, oh pauper sister of mine, is why we have a house in which to live rather than a yurt.” Lil returned to the table, picked up her plate and cup, and headed for the door. “If you need me, I’ll be at the hardware store shopping for a motion detector spotlight.”