Girl Who Wasn’t There

by Vincent Zandri

  … Bertram …

  “Don’t look at it, Pen,” I insist. “Let’s just get out of here as fast as we can.”

  Chloe’s face flashes in my head. If I find out Gary or Walton or Tom Bertram laid a hand on her, I will kill them. Doesn’t matter that they are all dead. I will kill them again, and again, and then I will cut them up and feed them to the wolves.

  … Okay, don’t get ahead of yourself, Sid. Could be Gary and Walton and Tom didn’t have time to do anything other than lock Chloe and Susan up inside the trailer while they focused on getting at Rabuffo’s stash. Just get yourself out of the hole, grab the girls, and get the hell away from there …

  “Just let me get this tied up to something,” Penny adds.

  She disappears from view. I do my best to be patient while she ties the rope off, my eyes glued to Gary’s face. How I could have been so wrong about him I’ll never know. Maybe my instincts are off, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t trust my gut the way I do. But then, maybe I should look at it another way. Gary led us directly to our daughter. That was his mistake. But in the end, if he hadn’t picked us up on that mountain road in Keene Valley, we might not have found Chloe. Rather, we would have found her. I had Walton’s address in my pocket after all. But by then, it might have been too late.

  The opposite end of the rope drops down into the pit.

  “Hope you know how to use this thing,” Penny says, peeking down into the hole.

  “I’m a quick study,” I say, grabbing the rope with both hands, yanking it tight, and pulling myself, hand over hand style, up the entire vertical length of the pit.

  When I get to the top, I reach out for Penny. She takes hold of my hand with both her hands, pulls me over the side with all her strength. I roll onto my back, my beat-up face only inches from Gary’s gray-haired head.

  Bounding up onto my feet. “Let’s get Chloe.”

  That’s when I get my first real look at the mostly wide-open trailer. On one end of the structure is the kitchen. There’s a wood kitchen table with matching chairs pulled up to it. A stainless-steel gas stove and a large modern refrigerator/freezer, plus a microwave and even a glass wine cooler unit are also included in the kitchen appliance lineup. Walton must have loved to cook and drink. What he didn’t love is cleaning up after himself. The place stinks. But then it dawns on me that the trailer more than likely doesn’t have access to a sewer system but, instead, to a septic tank. Those two open holes in the floor are only going to help transmit the foul odor.

  The living room contains two easy chairs and a leather couch that has been pushed aside to accommodate entry to the cellar where Chloe and Susan reside. A flat-screen television hangs on the opposite wall. A short hallway accesses the bedrooms, bathroom, and storage closets. The removable floor panels that access both cellars are leaning up against the counter that separates the kitchen from the general living space.

  “Help me, Penny,” I say, grabbing hold of the rope, transferring it to the pit that holds Chloe and Susan. “I’m gonna climb down inside, part way. That way the girls can take hold of my hand and I can physically lift them up to you at the pit’s edge. Understand?”

  Her eyes wide and intent, she is focused entirely on the task that awaits her.

  The rope in hand, I get my first look at my daughter since she disappeared. What I see brings tears to my eyes. But they are tears of joy. She’s dressed in an adult-sized t-shirt that fits her like a dress. It’s covered in dirt and mud stains. Her long hair is matted to her head from the filth. But her eyes are bright and wet, and she’s smiling at me like I’m an angel sent from heaven. But it’s really she who’s the angel.

  Susan is also covered in the cellar’s filth, but she too is smiling, so happy to see Penny and me. So happy to know that she’s going to survive this hell. I have to wonder if she looks like the daughter Gary lost. If she’s a substitute for her. Or maybe Gary never lost a daughter in the first place. Maybe by describing a little girl who was raped and left for dead on a trash heap, he was confessing to one of his own horrible crimes. The truth is just too horrific to ponder.

  “Here’s comes the rope, girls,” I say.

  Then, grabbing hold of the rope, making it taut, I sit myself on the edge of the pit wall. I climb down inside, stopping when I know the girls can easily reach me with their hands.

  “Who wants to go first?” I say, straining from supporting my entire body weight with one hand.

  “You go first, Sue,” Chloe says. “You’ve been living here a lot longer than me.”

  Good old Chloe. Thinking not of herself, but the poor soul that has been living this hell for God knows how long. It’s becoming more and more obvious to me that Burt and Claudia Stevens weren’t her parents after all. But two evil jerks acting the role of her parents in order to lure Chloe into their trap. A trap Penny helped set, whether she knew it or not. I recalled Susan arguing with her mother about an iPhone. An argument that sounded similar to the one Chloe was waging with Penny yesterday morning. Maybe too similar. Had Penny helped script the argument for the Stevenses? Maybe they had no clue how to interact with a girl Susan’s age, and Penny helped them out. I could ask her directly, but what would be the point at this stage of the game?

  “Okay, Susan,” I say, my left hand held out for her. “Grab hold of my hand and let’s do this.”

  At first, she hesitates. Like I’m not really going to save her life at all, but instead, take it. And who can blame her? She’s been held captive by the sons of bitches who lived here for God knows how long. The last man’s hand she touched was no doubt one of theirs.

  “Do it, Sue,” Chloe encourages. “He’s my dad. He’s a very nice man. He’s going to save us. Just do it.”

  I’m straining to hold myself, the pain in my forearm, biceps, and shoulder, searing. But I’m not about to let go of the rope. Not until these girls are free of the pit.

  Susan slowly raises her hand. It’s trembling. The pale skin is stained with dirt and pink clay, the nails scraped down to nothing, as if on several occasions, she tried to dig her way out of this trap.

  I snatch the hand, grip it tightly. She shrieks, but I try not to pay attention to it. Emotions like fear don’t matter at this point.

  “Okay, get ready,” I say. “You’re going for a ride, Susan.” Looking up at Penny who is reaching down into the cellar with her right hand. “Here she comes, Pen!”

  Using all my available strength, I swing the girl up and over my head. Penny grabs hold of Susan’s free hand and pulls her up onto the edge of the floor and finally to safety.

  Peering back down into the hole, I now focus on my daughter.

  “Let’s do this, Chloe,” I say, holding out my hand for her.

  More of that smile I’ve come to cherish. She takes hold of my hand.

  “Okay, babe,” I say. “On three. One, two …”

  “Three!” she shouts, leaping while I pull her up and over my head to Penny’s waiting arms. When Chloe has made it over the pit’s edge, I can make out Penny’s cries of relief. I know she is not just hugging our daughter right now, she is holding her so tight she’s liable to break her bones. It is a sight and a sound to behold.

  Climbing back up the rope, I crawl over the edge and for the first time in what seems forever, breathe.

  But I don’t take a whole lot of time to catch my breath. We need to get the hell out of here. Soon the police will arrive at this trailer. I’m wanted for the abduction of my daughter. I’ve been accused of her probable murder by the chief of police. Penny is just as wanted. We need to get to Albany, to police officers who are not loyal to Walton. Who knows how many cops were working with him? Judging by that chopper that attacked us on two separate occasions, this whole thing could run pretty deep. Who knows how many cops knew about this trailer and the horrible things going down here? How long was Susan being kept here against her will? Was Walton holding her hostage with the intent to release her only when her parents came up with the right amount of
blood money? That would be my guess.

  But there’s another reason I want to get to Albany as quickly as possible and without the Lake Placid police being aware. Rabuffo’s fortune is in Albany. If I’m to take Penny at her word—and God knows how much I want to—she intended to take some of that fortune to ensure a future for our daughter. The plan was not without its risks, it turns out. Not without its dangers. Not without its selling of one’s soul to many devils. But now that we have our daughter back—now that I am no longer paying for four homicides I did not commit by rotting away inside a prison cell—it’s time we got what’s ours. Rather, it’s time our daughter got what’s hers.

  Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going after Rabuffo’s fortune, and we’re going to get it before any of those other motherfuckers do.

  CHAPTER 44

  WE’RE CAREFUL TO step over Gary’s body on our way to the trailer door. We’re also careful to avoid the onion cellar that abuts up against the entire doorframe, as if it were originally designed as a trap for whoever might stumble into this place unexpectedly or unwanted. Opening the door, I swing my leg around and over the deep hole, plant my foot on the porch floor, and step out onto it. I extend my hand out through the now open doorframe.

  “Chloe,” I say. “You first. No arguments.”

  She grips my hand and I safely pull her through the door. Then I repeat the process with Susan. Finally, Penny takes hold of my hand and, with my guidance, she safely makes it onto the porch.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Outside.”

  We head across the bare wood porch floor and out the busted screen door onto the gravel footpath that leads to the driveway and Gary’s truck.

  “The truck, girls,” I direct. “There’s room enough for us all to pile in the front.”

  “The little sheep are scattering,” comes a voice from out of nowhere. A man’s voice. “Stop right where you are … sheep.”

  An electric shock runs up and down my spine—an ancient animal response to danger and/or sudden surprise. There’s trouble afoot.

  I turn.

  He’s standing at the top of the drive, his big body bathed in the light of the moon. The man I fired upon point-blank. The man whose body was inside the cabin when the police officer’s grenade blew it all to hell.

  Chief Joseph Walton.

  He’s bleeding from the shoulder. What’s left of it. Half his face and neck has been burned and blackened by fire. He’s got one hand pressed against the wound on his stomach. Gripped in his shooting hand is a short-barreled semi-automatic that he must have had hidden on his person. Probably in an ankle holster. Son of a bitch must have crawled out of the woods, or maybe his chopper boys picked him up once they figured out he’d survived somehow.

  “Surprise, surprise,” he says, half his round face ghost white in the moonlight. “You can’t get rid of me that fast.” He focuses on Penny. “We made a deal, sweetheart. A cut of Rabuffo’s money in exchange for your man’s freedom.”

  “That deal didn’t include the kidnapping of my daughter,” she insists.

  He bears gray teeth, which he’s grinding to fight back the pain that must consume his body.

  “See, now that’s where you’re wrong, Penny,” he says. “Did you really think you were coming to Lake Placid on a vacation? You were coming here to get rid of your husband. He knows too much. And as for your daughter, well, for our plan to work out, she suddenly had to become the girl who wasn’t there.”

  “What are you talking about, Walton?” I jump in.

  “Your wife made a deal with the devil.”

  “My wife was thinking of our daughter,” I insist, glancing at Penny.

  I see her face. It’s tight and tense. She’s not afraid of Walton, so much as she’s angry with him. Furious.

  Shifting my focus to the girls.

  “You girls get in the truck,” I demand. “Do it now.”

  “But, Daddy,” Chloe says. “What about Mommy?”

  “Just do it, Chloe.”

  I could approach this situation by using my intellect. By attempting to talk Walton out of holding that gun on us, by promising him immediate health care to cauterize his wounds. 911 is only a phone call away, after all.

  I could lie, assure him I won’t press charges, if only he’ll drop the gun. I can attempt to stay one step ahead of him by reasoning with him, lying to him, calming him down, stalling him.

  But let’s face it. The man is shot to shit. He’s desperate. He’s out of his mind, and he wants only one thing. The code to Walton’s vault. Once he’s forced that from my lips, he’ll kill me, and more than likely, kill my entire family. He’ll also kill Susan.

  So here’s the deal. I know in my head that I have no choice but to bull-rush Walton. In the process I might get shot. If that happens, everyone I love and care about is as good as dead. But without rushing him, they’re as good as dead anyway. He’s got to be put down. If I were still back inside prison walls, this is exactly how I would handle it. How I trained myself to handle kill-or-be-killed situations like this. The would-be doctor … the healer … become the killer.

  “You have a sickness, Walton,” Penny says. “It’s called greed. You killed your partner, Tom. You killed your friend. You did it for money.”

  “Money sings and I love music,” he says. “But I’m not sick. I’m just a little beat up. Isn’t that right, Doctor O’Keefe? And as for Tom Bertram, he talked too much. He royally screwed himself when he started mouthing off to the press. It was too risky. It got on Gary’s nerves and Gary did something about it.” He works up a smile. “You’ve no doubt met Gary by now.”

  “No one told me about you,” Penny says, her tears having returned, along with her guilt, her self-loathing. “Not Joel, not anybody. No one warned me about what I was getting into. That you would steal a child in exchange for a payday. You are greedy bastards, all of you. Criminal greedy sons-a-bitches.”

  Walton laughs. But he’s also in agonizing pain. I can see it painted on his black and pale white face, see it throbbing in his mutilated shoulder, see it bleeding from his punctured gut.

  He says, “What you knew—or didn’t know—about me is beside the point right now. You and Joel needed me and my men. That’s all that matters.”

  “Why’d you do it, Pen?” I plead. “Why did you need this psycho for anything? Rabuffo’s money is down in Albany.”

  She looks at me, crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself so tight it’s like she’s trying to prevent her heart from spilling out.

  “Joel has a summer house up here on Lake Placid,” she explains. “He got to know Walton over the years. The two developed a trust. Joel knew that getting at Mickey Rabuffo’s money could be very hard. But Mickey had set up shop up here. Expanding operations north inside the tourist village. A new cheap Chinese takeout joint on Main Street, smack in the middle of two five-star restaurants. Only Mickey could get away with that depending upon who he paid off. Plus, a tailor shop just outside of town. He has some serious friends up here now. Walton and quite a few of his support staff cozied right up to them. Isn’t that right, Chief ? The men still loyal to Rabuffo would prevent us from getting anywhere close to the major stash down in Albany. So Walton would be the hired muscle. The go-to man, you could say.”

  “In exchange for a cut,” I surmise.

  She nods.

  “We would all get major cuts,” she adds. “But I did it not for me. Not even for you, Doc. But for Chloe. She could escape this life, go to overnight prep school, and from there, a great college and from there med school. Just like you once wanted for yourself, Doc.”

  My eyes glued to Walton. “But what you didn’t tell Penny was that you planned on having Chloe kidnapped, make it look like she was killed. And it would look like I did it. Because I’m a crazy killer now. A monster. A kidnapped Chloe was your ultimate leverage.”

  “I never dreamed anything would happen to Chloe,” Penny cries. “That she would end up here, Sid. You h
ave to believe me.”

  Even if she has said this same thing to me more times than I can count, I don’t ever quite believe her. It’s unsettling to hear her say it, no matter how much I want to believe it. The ground beneath me spins out of control. Nausea settles in. Vertigo. I see the blood hemorrhaging from Walton’s abdomen, and I know there’s no better time to do what I’ve got to do.

  The time for talking is over. Survival instinct kicks in once again. Maximum-security Darwinism.

  I bull-rush the bastard, hope for the best.

  CHAPTER 45

  SHOTS FIRED.

  Two, maybe three.

  But bullets don’t stop me from burying my shoulder directly into Walton’s wounded belly. I hear and feel a guttural wince as his breath escapes what’s left of his damaged torso.

  My body is not my own anymore. It belongs to someone else entirely. Some sort of demon. Some sort of monster that was introduced to me inside the prison. It has never left me, just like my own shadow.

  Before I know it, I’ve knocked the pistol out of his grip, and both my hands are wrapped around his badly injured neck. I’m digging both my thumbs into his carotid artery. So hard I’m not only stopping the blood flood flow between the heart and the brain, I feel like they’re about to pop through the charred skin. He’s choking, gagging, his black and white face filling with blood, his eyes popping, bulging out of their sockets. His mouth is agape, his tongue blue and thick and sticking out of his mouth like a snake. He’s spitting, snarling, struggling for the air that won’t come. He is the devil. He is my worst nightmare.

  Until just like that, his body turns off, like the plug being pulled on a lamp—a pathologist once described the moment of death to me in those exact terms. The air that’s left in his lungs escapes, and the devil deflates, his soul no doubt heading directly for hell. God knows, I hope it exists. For heaven’s sake.