by Shannon Kirk
She stood a moment and calculated. She needed to be sure both Laura and Earl would comply with her plan. And the only way to be sure was to look in Laura’s eyes and ask. Once settled, Mag went to work and waited.
Dawn now, and Mag is roused from her vigil by the sounds of feet scraping and scrabbling down the stone stairs and into the catacombs. She’d already returned the plywood cover on the trail end and the metal tool cabinet in the shed at the other end to their almost rightful places. The tool cabinet was slightly off the mark, a portion of the hole now covered with a thin, and movable, black metal sign she’d found. Enough to make it appear as if the hole were wholly blocked, enough for Mag to push the sign aside and slither back on out once she was done with her confrontation. Exhausted from no sleep, but jacked on enough adrenaline to power a Super Bowl stadium at halftime, Mag feels as if she’s levitating on her own vibrations.
“Here’s your breakfast. Then sleep,” Demon Girl Gretchen shouts down into the catacombs from up top. Mag hears a thud and then the slamming of the plywood back over the hole. They’re locked in from that end now.
Footsteps shuffle near her. One set enters the bathroom. The other enters the calendar room, where Mag stands in a dark corner, a place shrouded from the battery candles glowing on the floors. Laura has no idea Mag is behind her when she takes two pained steps toward the nose rock. But she stops abruptly midroom and swings around.
“Magpie,” Laura whispers, somewhat in a hiss.
Mag stares back at the woman who stole her baby girl. If her violet eyes could change color, they’d be murder red in this moment, and monster Laura, with her skeletal face and black-hole eyes, nasty, gnarly, knotted hair, sunken stomach, and crooked legs would be sliced to shreds and ground to pulp.
“Tell Earl to take your breakfast and his sleeping meds and leave us be, Laura.”
Shuffling sounds approach them from the bathroom, and Laura doesn’t budge. Twisting her head to the side but keeping her body poised at Mag in the shadowed corner, she says, “Earl, head back to the bedroom. I’m handling business.”
Earl pauses, murmurs approval, and shuffles on.
“He’s no trouble. He’ll do what I say,” Laura says. “He’s a prisoner of these assholes too.”
“I know,” Mag says. “But thanks for the confirmation.” Her tone is pure sarcasm, telling Laura she can’t tell her anything she doesn’t already know. And she does this on purpose so as to pluck at the one thing she knows infuriates Laura: attacks on her intelligence. She needs Laura to remain at a high degree of rage today and into tonight; Laura will need rage for her challenge.
“You know everything, don’t you, Mag? You’re the genius among us, right?”
Mag steps out of the shadow toward Laura. With her hands in her black pants pockets, and through gritted teeth, she says, “Funny how these emus don’t follow your feet prints down here. I found your calendar in two minutes. Next time, try to brush away your tracks. You know better. Do you know better?”
Intentional taunting. She needs to dig into Laura’s chronic insecurity. She needs her to rage. And if she’s honest, Mag wants to hurt Laura deep—physically, mentally, existentially. Murder her ten times and then ten times again.
“We’re not all perfect like you, Mag.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you take my child? Why?” Mag has stepped closer into Laura’s space. She can smell her; the stench of BO and rot is awful. Laura’s breath is a thick cloud of fleshy, rotting meat. Mag could destroy Laura’s shaking body with one knee to the groin and one power slam to her bent back. She pushes into Laura’s face, ignoring the stench of her living death. “Why?” she asks in low, cutting anger.
Laura closes her eyes. Breathes in. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t retreat. With a sigh and after dropping resigned shoulders, she says, “I didn’t want to keep her.”
“What? What the fuck. You took her, Laura, why?”
“I didn’t want to keep her. That part was a mistake.”
“Holy shit. Why?”
Laura closes her eyes again, shakes her head. And for the first time ever, when she opens her eyes, she forms tears in front of Mag. Mag, stunned, realizes she’s never seen Laura cry before. Not in any of their years at camp. Never. Not even after Laura learned of Copte’s death and after her mother called her fat. She didn’t cry. She had just flipped into a cold rage. Here before her now was a woman showing she was broken.
“I honestly couldn’t believe the turn of events. Of all the two people in the world to come together: my rapist and my . . . what are you, Mag? What are you to me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Paul. Paul Trapmore. My next-door neighbor. You never knew, did you? His parents gave him that house when he turned twenty-one, and they trotted off to their grand chalet in Ecuador. You never put together that Paul in his glass house next to mine, he was the one who helped me with the lemon trees and moving Lemon. And do you know why?”
A pause fills the space between the women, so tense it could detonate a bomb.
“I’m waiting,” Mag seethes.
“I just said. He was my rapist. He’d been raping me since I was nine, Mag. Nobody knew. My parents didn’t give a shit that their little girl went next door to the twentysomething neighbor. Can you imagine? Well, you can’t. Can you? You could never imagine because you’re perfect. And you never came back to my house after that night with the lemon trees because I’m nothing to you. I never was.”
“I named my daughter after you, Laura. You’re sick. Why did you take my girl?”
“That night.” Laura pauses. “That night of the lemons. I snuck away for a half hour, do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. What does this have to do with Lucy?”
“I went to Paul’s. I told him he could fuck me if he ruined the lemon trees and took Lemon and grabbed the two million the next day. And he did, and I kept the cash. He had to, Mag. I threatened to turn him in. I was fourteen. You were fourteen. He’s a predator.”
“Well, I fucking know that.” Mag holds up a hand to stem Laura from a retort. “Look, I know that, okay. He sold my baby to you. Did he know he was selling her to you? Did you plan this? You planned this.”
“No, he most certainly did not know. You know me, Mag. You do. I didn’t plan this. And I have to say, I was shocked when you two came together.”
“I’m not following you. You’re making no sense. Back up. Why did you leave town? Three years before you took Lucy. Two years, the day before Paul came to the Triple C, in fact. Please, Laura, how am I supposed to believe this wasn’t all staged?”
“It absolutely was not staged. Do you honestly think I would plan this out? Plan for you to meet Paul, get knocked up, just so I could take your baby two years later? That’s insane. So many variables in there I wouldn’t be able to control. Think, Mag. Do you think? How insane. That’s totally insane.”
Mag raises her eyebrows. She can’t help it—she says, “Laura, this situation is mightily insane. You know that, right? You’re a kidnapper. And now you’re a captive underground. So pardon me, but yeah, I’m thinking you planned all this because you’re sick.”
“That’s fine. Think what you want. But I didn’t plan this. The day I left, yeah, fifteen-some-odd years ago, I was with Paul. My rapist. I am sick. I did still visit with him all the way up to the day I left when I was twenty. The day before you met him. I don’t know why I was with him. I don’t. And fuck you for looking down on me like that.”
“I’m not looking down on you. I have only pity. I’m sorry you were raped, and son of a bitch, Laura, I would have done anything for you, anything against him, had you told me. And trust me, he’s been dealt with. On my terms. But shit, Laura, you stole my child. You stole my child. You’ve ruined lives. I can’t forgive you for that. And I won’t.”
Laura closes her eyes, inhales, slowing the room. “You done preaching? I told you. I didn’t want to keep her. That was a mistake.”
/> Mag flips up her hands, frustrated.
“Look. That day I left town. That day. I told Paul I was going to use my trust fund and part of the Lemon ransom money, which at that point I had stashed in hidden places all over the country, to buy the Triple C. You know, Ms. Gretchen Bianchi, it’s always good to plan ahead. A woman should ensure a financial means of escape.”
“Laura, I swear to God, get to the fucking point.”
“I was going to invest and own the Triple C because I loved that place. I had inside scoop because I’d been listening to Marianne squawk in her office. She always had such a big mouth. They were looking to sell off for a low price and fast, given the owners’ massive debt. Do you know what Paul did when I told him my plan? He hit me. Slammed my face against his glass bedroom wall until I bled. Face cut and bruised.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s a predator, Mag. Hello.”
“He hit you because you were going to buy the Triple C?”
“Who knows why he hit me, okay? He’s a sick prick. The point is, my face was bashed up bad and I couldn’t, I just couldn’t . . .”
Laura closes her eyes, steps back. Her breath is shallow. “I couldn’t . . .”
“You couldn’t what?”
“I couldn’t face you, Gretchen Bianchi. I couldn’t show up for work at the Triple C and let you see that I’d allowed myself to be beaten. That I was a weak woman. A pathetic girl. Vulnerable. It was you. The thought of facing you. The thought of this face you have on right now. That’s why I ran. You have no idea the effect you have on people, Gretchen Bianchi, because you’re reckless. You’re reckless with love, with friends, with playthings, with family, with your own daughter. You’re reckless. And what do you do? What do you fucking do when I leave town? Holy hell, of all things, you go and screw Paul Trapmore! You have his baby! I knew from spying from afar with his passwords.” She pauses to force a chuckle. “Do you honestly think I didn’t spy and get all his passwords when I was a girl in his house all those years? Please. I knew I’d have to hold things over his head. I never predicted, however, that I’d have to spy to protect someone else. That was a surprise.”
Laura pauses for a deep breath but continues her tirade. “The morning I left town with my bruised and bloody face, I told Paul I was never coming back to Carmel. And son of a bitch if that bastard didn’t go straight to his private equity firm and give them my inside scoop on the Triple C. You know by now he’s a predator. You should have been smarter and not so reckless. Do you think, Gretchen? No, seriously, do you think?”
Waving her hands at Mag, Laura doesn’t give any seconds for any response to her questions. “Oh, Paul didn’t hesitate. That’s what psychopaths do, Gretchen Bianchi, they don’t hesitate. They pluck. They take. They take, take, take. They don’t plot and plan and spy for years, like I did.
“And noooooo, no, no, no. Oh no. I am not a psychopath. I did not take Lucy! I saved Lucy. In all my spying, I saw him post our baby bird in a dark forum. I paid the price to get the specifics on where and when to take her.”
“You could have just called the cops, called me, Laura. This is insane.”
“Maybe. Perhaps. Doesn’t matter now. I bought Lucy for fifty grand so no one else would have the chance. And then I fell in love with her, which was a mistake. And I couldn’t give her back. I finally had someone. I wasn’t alone. And she needed me. She loved me. You were too blind to pay attention and protect our baby bird. Too reckless.”
“She is not ours. She is not yours.”
Laura exhales in a way that sounds like a warning hiss. Her tears are burned off now, and so are all signs of vulnerability. Laura’s rage is brewing back up, and fast. “Oh, how I hate you, Gretchen Bianchi. Funny how my thoughts of you braid with those of Mother. I do so loathe you.” She stumbles toward Mag with clawed hands as if she’s about to choke her, but trips on her own useless ankles. As she tries to balance herself, Mag takes an easy step out of her way and slips her hands into her pockets in a calm gesture, showing Laura she is unperturbed by her violent words and violent lunge.
“What happened to your legs?” Mag asks in an indifferent tone, not rising to meet Laura’s emotion, which she knows galls Laura as a show of superiority. Mag knows how to push Laura’s buttons. And she needs Laura’s rage to keep on boiling. She sneers, chuckles.
Smiling, Mag taunts, “You fell for their trap like a sucker, didn’t you, Laura? You were tempted to pick up a vase of flowers that suddenly appeared in the open shed, and when you did, you fell into a hole and busted your legs. Hmm?” Mag’s tone is pure, open, joyful judgment. Standing tall, hands deep in her pockets, she does look down upon Laura, literally now.
Laura claps. “Woo, hoo, hoo, Agent Starling. Look at you, solving mysteries.”
Mag winks. “I’m right, though, aren’t I? You fell for the old phantom-vase-of-flowers trick. Sucker.”
“Sure did. I’m a sucker. Ayup. You’re just so smart, Mag. And Earl, old Earl, cast up my blown knees, busted tibias, and twisted ankles with puzzle backboard that bitch gave him. He carried me from dirt room to dirt room for six weeks. And here I am. So you see, I might look like a half woman, a pathetic, pitiful loser to you. But I’m relentless—my endurance is boundless. You know. So let’s get this over with. What’s my next challenge? I might detest you, but I will not fail Lucy.”
Mag considers further discussions. Questions. Fighting. But she knows all she needs to know: Laura is in a rage, Laura is committed to her endurance, and Laura will not fail Lucy.
“I’ve left your instructions on the pebble calendar,” Mag says, and slips out, passes Earl in the bedroom, who nods to her in a way that says he’s compliant with her lead, slithers up through the opening in the shed, and pushes the tool cabinet back over the hole. She knows Laura is raging as she reads the note she left her belowground.
Ostrich,
Got the keys. But that was only Phase I. You know there’s more, right? Right?
I have to admit, you did a good job keeping them distracted and occupied tonight. Meanwhile, I handled the keys and then tracked to this crazy lair. Did some other important tasks too, all for Phase 2, which must be tonight.
Now pay attention.
Stakes: Baby bird trapped in house. They’ll burn her alive.
Object: Disable, distract, and delay front Emu and take his watch before he can set remote fire. While I handle back Emu. Whatever you do, do not step off trail. You get out through notch in gorge. Earl knows. He’s always known. Listen to him. Can you listen, Laura? Are you capable? Get to cops in case I fail. Warn of Waco-style cult trap.
Rules: In Heaven’s Knot, grab weapon behind point-tip tree. Bank it at front Emu, like w/ Marianne. I repeat, do not step off trail.
Timing: Must be timed exact with Raven. Clock starts when you leave catacomb. Takes a normal person 14.5 minutes to trek to Heaven’s Knot. For you, with your defective legs, I estimate it takes 17.2–18.2 minutes. I haven’t been able to monitor that part of your journey. 17.2 is my best charitable guess. You need to make sure it takes 17.2 minutes to reach the crook of Heaven’s Knot. That’s when we begin.
Personal Note: Are you furious, Laura? Are you raging right now? So mad I condescended you about the owl tree, gave you all the minutiae of where it was, as if you didn’t pin it the very first day you were dragged into that hell gorge? Are you furious that I suggest you “listen” to Earl, as if you don’t listen? As if you don’t understand? For sure you’re clawing your hands because I’ve demoted you to Ostrich, a reflection, you think, of my impression of your intelligence. Are you spitting reading this because I know your triggers? Well, good. Good. Because I need you mad. I need you furious in a homicidal rage. You cannot fail this. You cannot let her burn. Let me boil it down real simple in case your atrophied brain still doesn’t understand: I do not know if my opening their doors with these dupe keys will set off an alarm and he’ll just trip something and burn my baby. Or his baby Emu will. They both have watc
hes with remote capability. You have to figure out how to distract and disable him, WHILE I disable her from behind. And then I can enter their house, if I’m able to open the metal barricades. Get it? You cannot fail my baby. My baby, my baby, Laura. I’m never going to forgive you for taking her. I hope you rot in hell.
Are you mad? Are you furious? I would leave you for dead in the desert for the buzzards to pick you clean.
Would you throw your body into a house of flames to save her like I plan to do if I have to, and not flinch? Would you live in hell for endless years and walk deeper into the depths to search for her, save her, protect her? Would you? How much pain would you endure? Because I would endure all of it. All of it, plus all of yours, and all of everyone else’s pain. Everything they throw my way, I will take for her. What would you do? Would you ostrich out?
Yours never,
Magpie Raven
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LUCY
Like the last two nights, it’s 5:00 p.m., Gretchen’s left me a weird dinner of a day-old snickerdoodle and cold ramen noodles in the microwave carton, and she’s off with her fuckface of a father. Before they leave, Jerry intercoms in to check my “comfort.” I yell, “Let me out,” and he, as he did the last two nights, says, “Just play the game out, Lucy.” Then footsteps away, the front door slams, and also, because they’re loud enough and I know the sound, those three metal swings. Now I’m alone in their crazy horror house. Except for Allen. And I need to get to Allen and out.
Last night I tried and failed to remove the hinges on the door. After failing at one screw and falling asleep, and then waiting again all day for her to leave, I was going to start screw two. But, counting all the screws on all the hinges, nine, it would take me ninety-nine years to remove all the screws. So last night was a total bust.
I’m glad I took time to rest and to meditate in working a whole entire skeleton together today, which was totally so much harder than it should have been, since I’d mixed up all the bones in all the pools. But the concentration was a good distraction, because I realized sometime after lunch, and after another proof-of-life call and me flashing another Level 1 pointer finger to Mag, that I’d made things way too hard for myself last night. There’s an easier way out.