Jillie

by Olive Balla

  Cleg compressed his lips, his teeth grinding. How could he have ever been attracted to such a person all those years ago?

  Back then, she’d been a tiny, exotic creature with huge eyes—a woman-child. Figuring she’d never give him the time of day, he’d mooned around after her like a starving puppy.

  Then when Margo’s sister Chlorine announced her own engagement, Margo had thrown herself at Cleg. Unable to believe his luck, he’d fallen instantly and completely in love. In a haze, he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and could hardly keep his mind on his work at the hardware store. When she turned up pregnant with Digger, he’d been beside himself with joy. And when Margo proposed marriage, Cleg had said yes before she could change her mind.

  Margo set their wedding date for two days before her sister’s then insisted her own be bigger, better, and costlier. As a result, they started life together heavily in debt.

  Like someone said—love is blind, but hate has twenty-twenty vision. Within two months of what he’d expected to be wedded bliss, Cleg awakened to the nightmarish reality of life with Margo-The-Shrike.

  As time passed, the sisters grew more and more public in their hatred for each other. Their toxic diatribes poisoned the lives of everyone in their vicinity.

  When Chlorine’s husband had taken all he could stand, he ran off with a local barmaid. After that, although it seemed impossible, Chlorine had become even more vindictive and hateful. By the time Toby was in elementary school, she’d managed to alienate everyone who’d ever known her. No one was exempt. Even the postman hurried past her trailer house.

  Of the two sisters, however, Margo had possessed the more hateful disposition. When the slightest bit of frivolity or joy threatened to invade her airspace, she pounced upon the unsuspecting bringer-of-light with an intensity and level of vitriol that often left the victim and any by-standers open-mouthed in disbelief. She could never allow a comment, or its maker, to go unscathed or unchallenged.

  No one knew more than she about anything. Ever.

  But Chlorine ran a close second in the most-despised category. While she treated the rest of the world badly, she treated her son Toby worse. She all but physically castrated the kid, berating and belittling him endlessly. Cleg had once overheard her threatening to sell him to the first person willing to buy him.

  Then Chlorine up and disappeared.

  At first, everyone in Belen figured Margo was behind it. But when it was discovered that all her clothes and personal belongings were gone as well, the locals came up with the theory that she must have met someone from out of town, some unsuspecting mook who hadn’t been around long enough to know her and had left with him. Some of the locals even placed bets on how long it would take the guy to send her back home. But she didn’t come back. And after a few weeks, the whole thing died down.

  Cleg had fervently prayed Margo would leave, too. He wasn’t surprised, however, when she didn’t. She enjoyed making his life miserable too much to move on.

  Toby had been a little soldier through the whole ordeal. Although only twelve at the time his mother went missing, he did his grieving in private, maintaining a somber but composed expression in public. Local sympathy ran high for the kid, and donations of clothing and funds for school poured in.

  He’d inherited his mother’s trailer house and her old, yellow Dodge pickup, complete with a huge, cross-over truck toolbox. Even before he learned to drive, he’d pampered that truck. Sometimes, Cleg would go outside and find the poor kid just sitting on top of the tool chest in the pickup bed, smiling and talking to himself.

  Margo had insisted they bring Toby’s trailer onto their land for safe keeping. And when Toby turned eighteen, he moved out of the room he shared with Mort and into his trailer.

  Of course, when Chlorine disappeared, Margo had acted the part of mourning sister to the hilt. She dressed all in black, adopted a perpetually sad expression, and often lifted a cloth hankie to her nose as if she couldn’t stop crying.

  But within the walls of their house, Cleg had caught her smiling to herself.

  “You done checking the barn?” Margo’s flesh-tearing voice suddenly blasted through the open pickup window.

  “I was just—”

  Margo reached through the window and grabbed a handful of the skimpy hair at the nape of Cleg’s neck. “You go ahead and sit there while I do all the work, why don’t you?” She pulled and twisted the hair until Cleg whimpered, and his eyes watered. “Good thing for you the kid’s not here.” She withdrew her hand. “Bring the tools to the tree.”

  Cleg murmured to himself, “What I don’t understand is why Ross left town every so often if he’d buried the stuff somewhere here. That just doesn’t—”

  The Shrike spun on him, the look on her face striking terror in his stomach. Cleg squeezed his eyes shut and threw his arms up to ward off the blows he knew were coming. But when seconds ticked by and nothing happened, he risked a peek at his spouse.

  Margo stood, a pensive look on her face. “Much as I hate to admit it, you might have something there. Although it makes sense he’d want to keep anything of value close by, the only time he had money to spend was after one of his trips.” She squinted her eyes and stared into space. “Maybe we shouldn’t be looking for a treasure at all; maybe we should be looking for a map.”

  “Then all that work our Digger did was for nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. At least we know there’s nothing anywhere in the yard or barn. Where’s the only place Digger didn’t look, the only place he didn’t tear into?”

  Cleg wracked his brain for the required answer. “Ummm—someplace inside the house?”

  “In the walls and under the floor.” The Shrike jabbed an index finger against Cleg’s forehead. “It’d be someplace easy to get to, someplace no one would think to look, like maybe a floor safe hidden under a rug.”

  “And a map wouldn’t take up much space.”

  Margo’s face broke into a rare smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Come on.”

  During the drive to the Ross farm, Margo shouted instructions, as usual. “You’re turning too sharp; you’ll hit those bushes. Why are you doing only sixty-five when everyone knows you’re allowed five miles over the limit? Pass the truck, Sludge-brain; he’s slowing us down.”

  By the time they turned down the Ross’s drive, Cleg’s hands and arms ached from gripping the steering wheel. His neck felt like a steel band was tightening around it.

  As before, no sooner had Cleg brought the pickup to a stop than Margo jumped from the vehicle, yelling commands over her shoulder.

  Cleg climbed out of the pickup. His portable oxygen tank hanging by a strap from his shoulder, he retrieved the shovel and hammer from the pickup bed then turned toward Margo’s retreating form.

  Suddenly, his stomach shot bitter liquid up his throat. The slap-slap of her feet on the ground, unnaturally loud in the still morning air. The claw-like hands dangling at the end of surprisingly strong celery-stalk arms. The head bobbing up and down with every step, as if anchored to her neck by a metal spring. The remembered image of her chewing food—like a camel, her bottom jaw moving in a circular motion instead of up and down like everyone else’s. And that hideous flap of skin hanging off her nose he’d repeatedly offered to pay for having removed.

  Early morning sunlight glinting off the shovel’s blade caught his attention. With its sharp, pointed tip, the thing looked like it could inflict a painful wound. A painful, maybe fatal wound. And the hammer…just one blow from that would do the trick.

  Images flooded his mind, fearsome yet seductive in their intensity. He could almost feel the vibration traveling up the shovel handle as the blade connected with skull. Could nearly hear bone crunching.

  His stomach fluttered at the thought of being free of the innard-devouring woman who’d consistently and thoroughly beaten him down psychologically, emotionally, and physically.

  Surreptitiously, he moved his gaze around the farm. The Ross�
�s closest neighbor was a good mile away. Margo’s demand for secrecy was so strong, she certainly hadn’t told anyone where they were going. No one knew where they were.

  People could just up and disappear. It happened.

  During one of their earlier visits to the farm after Digger’s death, Cleg had spotted an old, unused septic tank some distance from the house. Though it was partially caved in, there was still plenty of room for a body. Two shovels of quick lime, and voilὰ, within days flesh and bone would have completely dissolved. It would be as if that person had never existed.

  Tantalizing images of freedom leapfrogged across the silver screen of his imagination, and he took a deep breath as seeds of mutiny landed on the fertile soil of his mind.

  Margo had reached the house and stood peering back at him, her anger radiating like a force field. She jerked her hands up in exasperation, palms up, as if demanding to know what was taking him so long.

  Cleg forced his face into a bland expression, gripped the shovel and hammer, and shuffled toward his wife.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  As David pulled into Mrs. Potter’s driveway, he scanned the area for either of his aunts’ cars. Unsure of whether to be relieved that neither was there or even more alarmed because they weren’t, he parked behind a new pickup, walked to the front door, and knocked. When no one answered within several seconds, he knocked again.

  Porch boards behind him creaked at the same instant someone spoke. “You need something?”

  Taken off-guard, David whirled.

  “Whoa, Slick.” An impossibly wrinkled, elderly woman no more than four-and-a-half feet tall stood glaring at him like he’d just pissed in her flower bed. “You’re trespassing, or are you yet another failed product of our exemplary public education system?” She jerked her head toward the gate. “There’s a sign posted.”

  David started to reach for the credentials in his pocket.

  But before he could complete the move, the old woman pulled a shotgun from the folds of her plaid flannel dressing gown. Although she kept the barrel pointed downward, there was no mistaking the move. “Maybe you’d best keep your mitts where I can see them.”

  David threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, slow down. You must be Mrs. Potter.”

  The old woman pursed her lips but remained silent.

  “Are you godmother to a little girl named Jillian Ross?”

  Mrs. Potter hesitated but held the shotgun steady. “How do you know—”

  “Her sister Beth told me.” David pointed toward his coat pocket. “I’m Detective David Ruiz. May I get my ID?”

  Mrs. Potter nodded, her eyes glittering with suspicion. “You might want to move slow. I’m old, and my trigger-finger might just up and take a notion to twitch.”

  David pulled out his wallet, opened it, and held it for the woman’s inspection.

  After several seconds of squinting at the credentials, Mrs. Potter nodded. “Personally, I don’t hold anyone’s career against them. Hookers, druggies, IRS agents, cops, they’re all God’s children.”

  In spite of himself, David smiled. He nodded toward the shotgun. “You mind pointing that somewhere else?”

  The arm holding the shotgun relaxed, and the barrel lowered. But just barely. “We’ve had a slew of home invasions and auto thefts in this area. It pays to be careful.”

  “Understood.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking into—”

  “Stop right there,” Mrs. Potter interrupted. “If you’re re-opening the investigation into that hateful Digger’s death, you can just turn around and go back to wherever you came from. That little girl was only protecting her sister from one of the most miserable excuses of a human being it’s ever been my misfortune to run across.”

  “You’re not the first person to say that. No, that’s not why I’m here.” As David filled Mrs. Potter in on what he’d learned about Jillie’s situation and his missing aunts, the woman’s facial expression ran from distrust to disbelief to anger.

  “You mean Jillie’s been on her own all this time?” Mrs. Potter shook her head. “I tried to get custody of her, but I’m not a relative, so that was a no-go. I couldn’t just sit and do nothing, so I got certified as a foster parent in case Beth didn’t make it. When Jillie turns twelve in a few weeks, she’ll have something to say about where she lives. That child belongs with someone who cares about her, not in some stranger’s house.”

  “Can you see the Ross place from here?”

  “I can see their lights at night. And the road to their house runs along the west side of my hay field. I can usually tell when they have company, but that’s about it.”

  “Have you seen either a red convertible sports car or a tan coupe this morning or last night?”

  “Are those what your aunts drive?”

  David nodded.

  Mrs. Potter shook her head. “I’d remember a red rag-top, a tan coupe not so much. It’s possible one or the other of them drove over there during the night. I sleep like the dead, so I’d never know. Are you thinking Jillie might try to find her way back here?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So your aunts have been out all night looking for her?”

  “One of them has; the other is out looking for her sister.”

  “Okay.” Mrs. Potter nodded her head thoughtfully. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

  “Based on what Beth said, Jillie will stay close by, somewhere between here and Albuquerque. I’ve checked with a couple of friends from school, but they haven’t heard from her.” David pulled a business card from his pocket and held it out. “If you hear from Jillie or see either aunt, I’d appreciate it if you’d call my cell.”

  Mrs. Potter frowned and squinted her eyes, her lower jaw jutting out. “You thinking of putting my Jillie back in that lockup for youthful offenders? A gentle, sweet kid like that, she couldn’t handle it again.”

  “We’re both on the same side here, Mrs. Potter. Besides, according to the folks at the hospital, Jillie’s sister will be coming home soon.”

  The old lady accepted the card and stuffed it into a side pocket of her gown.

  “If you remember something or think of someplace Jillie might have gone—”

  “Got it. I’ll call.” Mrs. Potter’s words said one thing, but her facial expression broadcast something to the effect of: No way, Slick.

  David opened his mouth to say something, but the old woman interrupted.

  “Something else?” She opened her eyes wide, blinked a couple of times, and smiled.

  Exasperated, David shook his head and returned to his vehicle.

  Surely Mrs. Potter had no reason to lie about whether or not she’d seen Jillie; she’d been too surprised to hear the girl had run away. But she obviously had something up her sleeve. And now he was faced with the dilemma of either staking out the old woman in hopes she’d lead him to the little girl or getting on with his search for his aunt.

  David ground his teeth hard enough to kick-start a headache. Hoping he was making the right decision, he pulled onto the road toward the Ross farm.

  Chapter Forty

  Jillie sat on the tool chest, her mind jumping from thought to thought. She had to make herself focus, had to figure out someplace to hide out. The feeling in her stomach was that she was running out of time.

  She’d need to stay within walking distance of the Elliotts’ to search the house every day or so. And she needed to be someplace safe and warm.

  She’d never had a problem with cold weather, had always enjoyed it. But this frigid weather was beginning to get to her.

  There had to be a place…

  She rubbed the crust from her burning eyes as her stomach shoved a bad taste up her throat. Her nose ran, and her fingers and toes felt like cubes of ice. Grit and dust from the burlap bags had sifted into her mouth, coating her teeth and throat.

  She took a long draw from her bottle and sloshed the water around her mouth. Then sh
e remembered the sleeping bag she’d spotted while doing the Elliotts’ laundry.

  Carelessly tossed among the empty jars, piles of plastic shopping bags, smashed boxes, and old magazines that littered the floor, the thing had appeared almost new. If she had to sleep rough for a while, at least she’d sleep warm.

  She slipped from the shed and sprinted to the house. She’d just stooped to climb through the basement window when the hole-in-the-exhaust-pipe roar of a pickup sent panic sizzling up her spine.

  Wildly, she flung herself through the window. Her frantic mind moving quicker than her feet, she bumped against the open window before dropping against the ladder then bouncing onto the concrete floor beneath, biting her tongue in the process. The resulting thump and clatter echoed into the still air.

  Fighting to keep from crying out, Jillie rolled around on the floor, the taste of blood in her mouth. Then she sat up and rubbed her throbbing shins.

  “What was that?” Mort’s voice wafted through the open window.

  Someone mumbled something unintelligible in response.

  “No, it’s not my imagination, Tobes, I heard something.”

  “Sometimes you act like a six-year-old girlie-girl,” the person Jillie assumed to be Mort’s cousin Toby said, “afraid of everything that moves.”

  “But what if it’s the kid?” Mort said. “What if she came back for revenge?”

  “Revenge? What are you talking about?”

  “For the way Maggot treated her. You weren’t there; you didn’t see it. And that kid sure took care of Digger pretty good.”

  “She couldn’t get away from here fast enough. She’s not going to hurry back any time soon. Come on, I’m starved.”

  Frantically, Jillie searched for a place to hide in case the men decided to come to the basement. She hurried to a built-in cabinet against one wall, opened one of its accordion-like doors and stooped to climb into the tiny dark space beneath the counter.