by T. R. Ragan
“Unfortunately, yes. What I need to know is whether or not you ever called the police during the time Koontz was disturbing you.”
Fiona nodded. “Dozens of times, but he always disappeared before they could get to wherever I happened to be.”
“Did you ever file a report?”
“No. I guess I should have. I would call the police, they would come, the creep would disappear, and life would go on until the next time I saw him.”
“It must have been frustrating.”
“You have no idea. Longest two weeks of my life.”
“Bottom line,” Jessie said, “is that criminal charges have been filed against me. If I have to go to court, which is likely, any chance you would be willing to tell a judge what you just told me?”
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can. But you should know that whoever is going after you in court could try to use my albinism against me.”
“How so?”
“A lot of people with albinism are considered legally blind. Vision problems resulting from abnormal development of the retina.”
“But what about you? Can you see?”
Fiona’s smile was infectious. “Like an eagle.”
After they exchanged contact information, Fiona stood and said, “I better get to work. It’s getting busy.”
Jessie came to her feet. They shook hands. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you. Having a creep like Parker Koontz follow me around day and night and not being able to do a damn thing about it was a nightmare. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
After leaving the coffee shop, Jessie headed straight for Arlo Gatley’s house in Woodland. Feeling hopeful about her talk with Fiona, she prayed Fiona’s and Adelind’s testimony would be enough.
Twenty-five minutes later she pulled up to the curb outside Arlo Gatley’s house on the outskirts of Woodland, about twenty miles northwest of Sacramento.
Arlo greeted her at the door and invited her inside. The dark circles around his eyes had faded a bit. His hair was combed back with gel, and he looked better than he had twenty-four hours ago. Except for the drop of blood on his thumb on his right hand. She felt queasy. He saw her looking and shoved his hand into his pocket.
The house was one story, the inside painted a muted green with white crown molding, hardwood floors, and lots of built-in shelving filled with assorted knickknacks.
“Would you like to see Zee’s room?” he asked. She knew he had an important job to do at the tech company he worked for because he’d told her as much. When she’d called last night to let him know she wanted to come by and take a look around, he’d told her she’d have to come early.
“Your daughter’s room would be a good place to start,” Jessie said. She followed him down a narrow hallway. Walls on both sides were covered with an eclectic group of pictures. The frames were made of wood, shells, paper—all different sizes—and most of them were tilted at odd angles. Mostly school pictures, and a few of Arlo and his daughter when she was younger.
Jessie stopped to take a better look at his daughter. In almost every photo, Zee had a strange look on her face. Lost? Worried? It was hard to tell.
Arlo stood at the door at the end of the hallway, his arms crossed. Gone was the desperate and accommodating man of yesterday. Today Arlo appeared impatient and agitated.
Jessie peered into the laundry room as she passed by. Everything in the home appeared neat, nothing out of the ordinary. That was, until she walked into Zee’s room.
The walls were covered with macabre pictures of skeletons with bloodshot eyeballs hanging by a thread from their sockets. Above the headboard was a poster of a cemetery, bloodied body parts scattered about like debris after a night of strong winds.
She looked to her feet, where a trail of ants had been hand-painted across the entirety of the wood floor, continuing up one side of the wall and across a stark white windowsill. The ants looked so real, she knelt down to brush her fingers over the smooth wood. On a low table beneath a curtained window were jars filled with incense and herbs. She straightened and walked that way. Bottles of potions labeled “Eye of Doe” and “Dragon Fire” sat in front of a stack of tarot cards. All of it contrasted with the stuffed teddy bear and the pink comforter spread neatly across the bed.
“It can be a little overwhelming,” Arlo said.
That was putting it mildly, Jessie thought.
“She’s fond of her tarot cards, and when she’s not making potions, she likes to do readings and spells.”
“Did she draw these pictures?” Jessie asked.
“Yes. She’s quite talented. She enjoys drawing and painting images that shock people.”
“I can see that. Where’s her mother?”
“She died of cancer when Zee was six months old.”
“I’m sorry.”
Arlo said nothing.
Jessie couldn’t stop thinking about the blood she’d seen on Arlo’s thumb. She went to the notebook sitting on the bedside table and held it up. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead. She’s been writing in journals for as long as I can remember. Most are filled with recipes for potions or spells.”
Jessie turned the pages, noticed that the dates coincided with the time right before Zee went missing. “Mind if I take this with me?”
“As long as I get it back when you’re done.”
“No problem,” Jessie said. “I also need a recent picture of Zee. Do you have one?”
He nodded before disappearing for no more than thirty seconds, then returned with a photo of Zee. Jessie noticed that Zee wasn’t smiling.
“She wasn’t happy with me that day,” Arlo offered, reading her mind. “But it’s a good likeness of her.”
Jessie slipped the photo into the journal, then walked to the closet and slid the mirrored door to the left. Dozens of black T-shirts were lined up on hangers along with black pants, black skirts, and a black leather jacket. Shoes and boots were lined up in neat rows on the floor. All black.
With Arlo’s permission, she searched through dresser drawers and a vintage chest. Under the bed she found a shoe box. She placed it on the top of the bed and pulled off the lid. It was filled with Polaroid pictures and dried flower petals.
Arlo came closer and reached for a picture that showed Zee sitting in the middle of a field of cut grass. The smile on his daughter’s face said it all. She was happy.
Jessie sifted through pictures of Zee on a swing at a park, on a retaining wall looking down into the camera lens, and sitting cross-legged while taking a whiff of a single rose.
Arlo gestured at one of the pictures and said, “That looks like it was taken at Rainbow Park, a few blocks from here.” He frowned. “I wonder who took the picture.”
Jessie handed Arlo a close-up of his daughter. “When would you guess this might have been taken?”
He used his right hand to hold the picture. It was definitely blood on his thumb. She looked away.
“Two weeks ago,” Arlo said. “Zee cut her bangs, straight across, close to her hairline, as you can see in the pictures. My guess is that these were taken within days of her haircut, or maybe even the same day.” He put the picture back in the box.
“You told me she didn’t have any friends and that she was a loner.”
Arlo looked through the contents of the box, a deep frown contorting his features. “Zee and I have always been close.” He rubbed his temple. “Or at least I thought we were. Obviously I haven’t been paying close enough attention to what she’s been doing. I’m at a loss here.”
“I’d like to take these things with me, too, if you don’t mind?”
He nodded. “As long as you take good care of everything. Like the journal, I’d like it all back, you know, after you find her.”
“Of course,” Jessie told him. “What happened to your hand?” she asked, unable to let it go. “It looks like you’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” he
said, avoiding eye contact. “I was cutting some fruit before you came. I must have nicked myself.”
“Would you mind if I have a quick look around the rest of the house? It will only take a minute.”
His face flushed. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get going. I—I’m late as it is.”
Flummoxed, she said, “Okay. Another time, then.” She looked around. “I don’t see a computer. Did she use one?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a subtle nod. “She used mine. I can’t part with that. Sorry.” His eye twitched, and she wondered if that was a nervous habit of his. She couldn’t remember his eye twitching when they’d first met. Arlo was acting so strange, she didn’t know what to think.
“I have enough to work with here,” she finally said as she piled the journal on top of the shoe box. “You might see me down the street on your way out. I want to knock on a few doors and talk to some of your neighbors, see if anyone spotted Zee coming or going.”
“Good luck with that.”
His statement baffled her. “What do you mean?”
“The neighbors and I have never seen eye to eye.”
The man had a way of saying everything and nothing at the same time. “Why is that?”
“You know how neighbors can be . . . loud music, tall fences, barking dogs. The list is long.” His eye twitched again. “Mrs. Dixon next door. Her husband died years ago. She’s lonely and has nothing better to do than watch my every move. I’m sure you’ll get an earful—that’s all I’m saying.”
“Is that the same neighbor whose house Zee broke into before?”
“Well, yes, but still, I see no reason for Mrs. Dixon to hold any grudges over such a silly thing.”
Jessie nodded, but she couldn’t help but think there was something extremely off about Arlo Gatley.
Why did he seem so nervous?
Had he lied to her about the blood on his hand?
Although she questioned what she might have gotten herself into, she was more determined than ever to find Zee. The girl was mentally unstable, lost, and scared.
Jessie needed to find her.
“Those two are strange,” Mrs. Dixon, the widow and neighbor to the left of Arlo Gatley, said. “If you’ve met Arlo, which it sounds as if you have, you’ve probably already figured out that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I mean, who names their daughter Zebra?”
“She was named Zinnia, after the flower,” Jessie explained. “Arlo calls her Zee.”
The woman rolled her eyes.
“When you say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, what do you mean?” Jessie asked. “Could you elaborate?”
“You’ve met him, talked to him. He’s odd, plain and simple.” She sighed and made a face as if she thought Jessie was a dimwit. “For instance, when Arlo pulls up into his driveway after work, I see him sitting in the car, sometimes for an hour. He’s not texting or talking on the phone, just staring out the window with a blank look.”
Jessie nodded, waited. Arlo might have been right about Mrs. Dixon being lonely.
“Elijah and Lettie Foxletter,” Mrs. Dixon said next, pointing to a two-story colonial house not too far down the block, “are in charge of the neighborhood-watch group. You might want to talk to them.”
“Before I go,” Jessie said, “I was told that Arlo’s daughter broke into your home more than once. Did you and Zee ever have a conversation?”
“No. Once she saw me, she just left the house without an explanation or apology. She’s a strange one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, she did break into my house. That’s strange enough, but it’s more than that. She mutters to herself, and she’s always wearing black.” Mrs. Dixon sighed. “When the girl was younger, I use to wake up to her screaming for help in the middle of the night. It was a frightful time—let me tell you. I called the police every time it happened. And every time the police told me she had some sort of mental disorder and that her father was doing everything he could to keep her outbursts under control.” She shrugged. “Her screams haven’t woken me in years, but that bloodcurdling cry is still stuck in my mind. I’ve considered moving away. Many of us in the neighborhood have.”
“Because you think Zee could be a danger to you?”
“Not the girl—her father,” she said. “He’s strange, yes. And if you ask me, there’s also something disturbing about Arlo Gatley.” Mrs. Dixon smoothed the front of her crisp, clean blouse and then peeked over Jessie’s shoulder as if she was afraid someone might be listening in. “I’m going to have to say goodbye. Talk to the others. Maybe they can help.”
“I will. Thanks for your time.”
Before Jessie had a chance to turn away, the door clicked shut in her face.
As she walked on the sidewalk toward the house Mrs. Dixon had pointed out, she saw before her a quaint picture of a tree-lined street with white picket fences bordering newly mowed lawns. The click of her shoes was the only sound as she moved down the street. A hint of jasmine filled the air. If not for the disturbing images on Zee’s wall and the thought of that same young woman screaming out for help in the dark of night, Jessie might have found a peaceful sort of solace on her short walk to the Foxletters’ house.
Instead she felt chilled to the bone.
NINETEEN
Erin’s eyes snapped open at the sound of heavy footsteps against the ground. Her space inside the box was so cramped she could hardly move.
Her claustrophobia was real, making her heart race. Breathe. Calm down.
Pressing her lips together, she forced herself to remain quiet. If the footsteps continued on, she would scream. Because that could mean there were other people, hired help who came by to feed the animals. Even now she could hear pigs grunting and ducks quacking. The rooster would crow at sunrise.
But if the footsteps stopped, that would mean it could be him. In that case, she would stay quiet. If he opened the lid, she could use the splinters of wood she’d collected to gouge his eyes out.
Being confined did strange things to her mind. She had no idea how long she’d been in the box. She’d been drifting in and out of sleep, hot during the day and cold at night.
Two nights or three?
If she thought about it for too long, she could convince herself she’d been trapped in the cramped space for a lifetime.
Dry mouth and stomach cramps made her crave water and food. She’d eaten a couple of bugs that had dared to creep inside her space. Or had she imagined eating the bugs?
Waiting, trying not to make a sound, she lifted her arms a few inches. Up and down, up and down. Keep the muscles working. Inwardly, she recited Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address to keep her mind occupied on anything other than the footsteps. Stay strong. Be ready.
The footsteps stopped, seemingly right outside the box.
She froze. It was him.
Holding tight to the pieces of jagged wood, her fingers clenched tightly around her makeshift weapons.
“Good morning, Erin. Are you still in there?” he asked.
The sound of his voice gave her goose bumps. She closed her eyes, swallowed her fear.
“If you want any chance of getting out of there alive, you need to follow orders, my darling Erin. Do you hear me?”
The clinking of metal sounded. A lock?
Sunlight poured in. Blinding her.
And then she felt a single drop of water hit her forehead.
Squinting one eye, she saw that he hadn’t opened the lid, but only a tiny door above her face. How had she missed that?
It was small. The size of a single pack of cigarettes. There was no way she could move her arms, let alone take a swing at him.
“You must be thirsty,” he said. “Open your mouth.”
She did as he said, her mouth parched.
A handful of dirt hit her face. She spit and coughed. Dirt got in her eye. Tears dribbled down both sides of her face
. He was taunting her and enjoying it.
“Good girl,” he said. “Just having a little fun. Come on. Open up. This time I’ll give you some water. I promise.”
She kept her mouth shut. Said nothing. If she opened her mouth, he might shove something worse than dirt inside.
He knelt down close enough that she could see his face clearly through a squinted eye. “You’ve spent two nights in the box without food or water. I know you’re thirsty. So open up or I’ll have to force the issue.”
He knelt down and pinched her nose closed. When she opened her mouth to take a breath, he shoved an upside-down open water bottle into her mouth. She swallowed once before she felt as if she were drowning. She couldn’t breathe. She yanked her head to one side, forcing him to let go of her nose and drop the water bottle.
She sucked in air through her nostrils, then coughed and wheezed.
“If you had followed orders,” he told her, “you were going to get to feast on fresh vegetables and fine cheese.” He laughed. She knew it was a lie. This was all part of his psychological torture.
“But now,” he went on, his tone filled with false sorrow, “I can see that you’re not ready to cooperate with me, which means you’ll have to share your tiny space with my friend S-S-S-Stan. I found him in the garden. He looks pretty harmless—for a snake, that is.”
She screamed as the heaviness of the snake’s body slid across her face and neck. And then again when the tiny door above clicked shut.
He stood there for a moment, hands on hips, listening to her muffled screams and looking out at the pasture, where he could see the gray mare. The box used to be in the barn, but a few years ago he’d decided it was time to burn it and get rid of it once and for all. He’d dragged it down the dirt path toward the house, but it was heavy, and he’d gotten only halfway before changing his mind. Now the box sat in a grassy spot at the side of the pathway leading from the house to the barn.
After Erin stopped screaming, he walked away, surprised to realize how much he missed Garrett. Garrett had been the only one of his sheep who had done everything he asked and more. He’d never complained, never cried or whined. And now he was dead, thanks to the bitch in the box.