Tethered

by Amy MacKinnon

  Mike stirs and then his snores grow even again, his lips slightly parted, tender. It’s safe.

  “Once, while Mrs. Witham was at the chalkboard, he passed me a note. It said all of the kids were signing a petition, ‘Clara Marsh Number One Slut,’ but he refused to sign it. He even ripped it up. No one challenged him. All these years, I’ve saved his note.”

  I watch Mike’s eyes flutter and wait for them to open. Before they do, I take my seat and whisper, “You remind me of him.”

  He becomes restless, turns before he wakes, and then his focus is on me. “Clara.”

  He pushes himself up, but I refuse to linger over the paths my hands discovered along his body last night. His eyes are mere creases, his cheeks swollen with sleep, and his usually precise hair is wayward and lush. Mostly I avoid his mouth, the way it turns soft when he sees me.

  I concentrate on my nightstand just beyond him, my gaze settling on The Stone Diaries. “Mike, we have to go.”

  “You’re dressed? What time is it?” He turns to my nightstand, where the digital clock glows, and then to his clothes waiting for him. The shield that normally obscures his eyes descends. “Yeah, I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  He stands, free of modesty, his back, his nakedness before me, but I refocus on the book. Its cover is of a limestone angel, her face in shadows and crowning her head, a laurel (victory over passion). Mike begins pulling on his pants with quick, jerky movements. His belt jangles with each tug.

  “I have to tell you something, something I did,” I say. “It’s about Trecie.”

  He stops and then turns. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “What is it?”

  I avert my eyes from his body, focusing on the matter at hand. It’s a dilemma I have to face, a moment beyond whatever depths of courage I may have. I’ve already lost too much; I have to try. “Three days ago, I met a little girl who I think could be Trecie’s sister. The resemblance is so strong.”

  His face relaxes and he lets escape a pent breath. He walks around the bed and kneels in front of my chair, taking my hand in his, smiling kindly as he speaks. “Clara, there are a lot of little girls who look like Trecie. Brown hair and brown eyes are pretty common.”

  “There’s more.”

  He releases my hand as I tell him of Mr. Kelly’s Chihuahua, Peanut; the boyfriend; and what the pregnant neighbor told me, of the man who visits there, the untouchable. As I tell him all of this his expression changes, the warmth within his eyes bleeds out, and I grow cold, but still I talk.

  When I finish, he stands and walks back to the hanger on the door and begins dressing again, his back to me.

  “Mike.”

  He doesn’t answer, and I will myself to stand, to go to him and try again. Linus is dead and Trecie is in danger. Though I can sense the miles between us, I press toward him.

  “Mike.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His face is expressionless. He’s pulled down his detective’s facade, but I can see him there, beneath it, the layers of pain and betrayal rising to the surface. I wonder if my own mask has become as flimsy to him.

  “I tried.” My voice is low and I can feel the rage of the past days begin to flow through me. “And then you were on the other side of the interrogation table.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds before reaching for his cell phone. And then I feel the air leave my body, stricken by a realization that should have been clear days ago. But so much has transpired in so little time. I needed to think, to listen to my thoughts.

  “Who are you calling?” I ask.

  “Kate. She and I are going to see the girl, see if she’s connected to all of this.”

  “No.” I grab the phone from him, snap it closed, and throw it onto the bed. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” He steps to the bed and snatches up the phone. He flips it open again and begins to dial.

  “Mike, I think Victor is a cop.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge me, just continues holding the cell to his ear. I hear it ring on the other end. Once, twice, three times. I can’t let anything more happen to Trecie.

  “I won’t tell you where the apartment is. I won’t help you find her.”

  He studies my face, my hair, and then closes the phone, running a hand across his mouth as he does. “Clara, was that your hair I found in the greenhouse the night Trecie disappeared?”

  There’s nothing else to say; she needs me. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  He runs his thumb along my jaw and nods. “Okay. Look, I know you want to help these kids—”

  “Mike, you and I will go there. You can talk to the girl, but only you. There’s a chance we might find Trecie. We have to find her before we tell anyone.”

  “Kate is my supervisor. I need to include her. We’ll let Internal Affairs figure out whoever this Victor is, if he even is a cop.”

  I want to tear at him, make him taste my fear. “The neighbor said she called the police a few years ago and the officer who showed up kicked out the boyfriend. She said the new boyfriend is untouchable.”

  He pats my arm. “Kate and I will head over there, talk to the family. I know everyone on the department and there’s no Victor. Ryan can go back to the SPCA, find out who adopted Charlie Kelly’s dog, and Jorge can ask around the station about this Victor guy.”

  “No.” He should understand.

  “Clara, trust me.”

  He reaches for me, but I push his arms away. “Mike, who knew Linus was the anonymous caller?”

  “Kate, myself, Jorge, Ryan, the detectives from Whitman. Everyone investigating the case.”

  “Did anyone call the press?” I’m nauseated; the bile is clawing its way up my esophagus and into my throat, where it settles and burns.

  “No.” Mike grimaces when he says this. “They haven’t made the link yet between him and the Precious Doe case. But it’s only a matter of time before it’s leaked.”

  He must see it in me then, the realization I made minutes ago. He smacks his palms against his temples and begins pacing the room. “Shit!”

  His agitation quiets my sense of panic. He’s with me now.

  “Linus wasn’t killed by some vigilante, Mike.”

  He comes to me. He takes me by the arms and pulls me into him. “I know.”

  It doesn’t matter if he hears me whisper the name into his chest, but he doesn’t have to, because he knows. He knows. “Victor.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  We’re on the metal stairs. Mike’s footsteps aren’t muffled by the frayed carpeting that covers the steps and instead echo throughout the stairwell. My own are silent, tentative. When we reach the landing of the little girl’s floor, I can’t help but seek out the mouse hole. I’m not disappointed. There’s a simple trap just outside the opening, its metal band clasped snugly over the brown rodent’s neck. Its paws are stretched wide beside it and the black tail is strung long. If Mike notices, he doesn’t say anything.

  Before coming here, we stopped at Mike’s house so he could change. Having driven by it many times before, I knew which modest Cape was his. He asked me in, but I waited in the car. It was enough to see the The Sullivans painted in trailing cursive on their mailbox. He didn’t take long. When he returned, when he placed his hands on the steering wheel and twisted around to back out of the driveway, I noticed the band of white skin where his wedding ring had been. When he saw me staring at that spot, he brushed my cheek with his fingers and tried to smile.

  Mike pulls open the landing door and we walk down what has become a familiar corridor for me. Though I can no longer smell Eileen Craig, there still exists an eeriness to this place: the pregnant woman’s doorway festooned with aluminum garland and a large cutout of Santa Claus, defaced with black Magic Marker genitalia; just beyond, an abandoned plastic shopping bag ripe with near-empty cans of cat food; and farther down, the sound of a small dog yelping.

  I motion to Mike when we reach the girl’s apartment. Th
ere’s the usual noise of the television, children’s voices arguing in terse, quiet snatches, and, of course, the barking. He pauses to bow his head before raising a fist to knock.

  The same girl answers, pressing her tiny body within the crack of the door. The pup is at her feet, cowering behind her legs.

  Like the dog, I hide behind Mike, hoping the girl can’t see me. He tenses and then strains his neck to peer into the room before looking down at the girl. “Hey, there.”

  She doesn’t answer, just stares at him with blank eyes, an expression I’ve seen only on the most hardened adults. She appears not to notice the dog scratching at her calves.

  “Is your mom home?” Mike keeps his voice soft and upbeat, but I notice the strain, as if he’s trying to suppress a cough. The girl simply shakes her head. Any doubts I had, any second-guessing on the ride over, vanish when I look past Mike and catch the girl staring at me. Her nostrils flare as she bends to scoop the dog into her thin arms.

  Mike reaches for his wallet and flashes his badge to her. “My name is Mike. I’m a friend of Victor’s. Can we come in?”

  Everything about her grows slack before she opens the door wider and allows us to step in. There are the other children I’ve only heard before; three boys, all thin and hypnotized by the television, and a sister who can’t be more than six. She has the same long hair as the older girl’s, but her face is different: darker, with a broader nose and a pink, quartersized birthmark splotched across her left cheek. They don’t turn when we enter. At the center of their semicircle is a large soda bottle filled with water and a plastic bowl, empty save for some popcorn kernels. On the kitchen counter, cereal boxes lie on their sides next to plates caked with hardened food; scattered throughout are several empty bottles of cough medicine.

  Within the galley kitchen, I spot trash overflowing its container and piles more beside it on the floor. Several propane tanks, the knobs turned blue, are clumped in a corner where a refrigerator should be. My breath quickens when one of the boys whispers to a younger one, their long curls touching as they bend toward each other, and I can’t help but think of how sunflowers grow, twisting themselves to face one another as they strain for light. The boys look to be three and four. All are so young, the third one still in diapers, their backs bowed and sagging, as if life has already withered them. There is no sign of Trecie.

  I feel the panic begin to swell inside of me and turn to Mike. But he’s become a cop again, his mouth smooth. He’s smiling at the girl, though he flashes those eyes I’ve come to know. The little girl doesn’t notice, her face hidden against the dog as she coos into his ear, “E aprovado, Amendoim, ele é aprovado.”

  “So is it just you and the other kids here?” He nods in their direction and takes the opportunity to scan the room. I follow his gaze and notice there are no pictures on the walls, and the only piece of furniture is a couch with a missing leg, dingy foam bursting through several holes in the arms. I spot a doorway leading to what I assume are the bedrooms. There are no signs of the holiday within these walls.

  “Yes.”

  Mike squats down in front of the girl. “Mind if I pet your dog?”

  She mumbles into the fur, her voice cracking as she does. “Is she here to take Peanut?”

  “No, Peanut’s your dog. We came to talk to you. What’s your name?”

  She hugs the dog closer until he yelps and nips her hand. She drops him and watches as he scampers through the doorway toward the bedrooms. The girl stares after him before speaking.

  “Adalia.”

  There can be no more doubts; it’s her, Trecie’s sister. I can’t stop myself. “Where’s Trecie?”

  The girl freezes, her eyes wide and clear. Mike shushes me with a wave of his hand. “Adalia. That’s a pretty name.” He glances toward the television, where a frenetic cartoon races across the screen. “Hey, why don’t we all talk back there where it isn’t so noisy?”

  “Oh, right,” she says. “You’re one of Victor’s friends.” She tenses then, her eyes flashing as her voice rises. She points to her sister. “Inez stays here.”

  “Sure,” says Mike. “Whatever you want.”

  In an instant, Adalia regains her stoic countenance. Her shoulders slump and whatever life was just in her eyes leaves them again. “It’s back here,” she says.

  I can’t imagine what it is we’re about to walk into, and then I remember the pregnant woman telling me of the parade of men who come here trolling for drugs. My mind tries to comprehend this child, no more than ten, being a pawn of the adults in her life.

  But when we turn the corner in the bedroom, there’s no table with scales and Baggies neatly tied. There are no Bunsen burners or vials, pots of marijuana growing under heat lamps, no needles—all familiar scenes from pickups of clients who OD’d over the years. No, there’s only a bare room with a soiled mattress, a grungy sheet kicked to the foot of it. A window with the shade pulled low. And then I see it, the mural in a child’s crayon scrawl, the same one from the video.

  Mike sees it too.

  “Honey,” he says, “where’s your sister? Where’s Trecie?”

  Adalia doesn’t answer. She merely stares off, and I’m reminded of the instant Linus died, when his body became a shell. I know where this girl has gone. I used to hide in the same place whenever Tom’s friends visited me in the library.

  When she speaks, her voice is as flat as her eyes. “Just hurry.”

  Mike appears ill, as if he smells something bitter and foul. He ducks out of the room, goes into the next bedroom, and then reappears in the hall, beckoning to me. I follow him toward the front door. The boys seem not to notice when we pass.

  “There’s a meth lab in the other bedroom, a real setup.” Mike’s teeth grind as he speaks. “There’s no sign of Trecie. I’ve got to call Kate.”

  “I know.” I check to see if Adalia’s followed us, but only Inez and the boys are here.

  “Adalia fits the description of the other girl in the videos, just older. Maybe there’s another sister.”

  I have no control over my hand. It’s on the doorknob. Mike doesn’t notice. He’s busy reaching inside his jacket for his cell phone. My hand is turning the knob and my legs want to carry me from this place. I could run away, take Eileen Craig’s identity. We could begin again in a city large enough where Eileen and I could become one, marry ourselves to a new life. Where no one needs me or believes that I can or should or could be someone I’m not.

  Mike is holding the phone to his ear, though he’s still speaking to me. “Don’t let anyone in or out, but don’t touch anything, either,” Mike says. “This is a crime scene.”

  When the dog races around the corner, Mike bends to scoop him into his arms and thrusts him at me. Then he reaches behind me and bolts the door. Like the others in this apartment, I’m now locked in this world with no escape.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The dog’s nails click against the hardwood as he races to the ceramic bowl. Alma’s filled it with slops of defrosted beef stew. “Leftovers from last week,” she said, the implication hanging between us. Last week everything was different. And now . . . I’m housing this dog until Mike knows if Adalia’s foster parents will welcome a pet.

  I came to Alma’s kitchen knowing she would have food, something to tide Peanut over until I could get to the market. What I didn’t expect, and should have, was her need to settle me with a meal too. She’s already sat me at the kitchen table with a cup of Earl Grey. The only clue something is amiss is her dress; it’s the same blue wrap she wore yesterday.

  “Linus’s brother and his family will arrive tomorrow. Reverend Greene said he’d pick them up at the airport.” Alma pokes at the pork chops in her skillet and then plunges the fork into a small pot of potatoes, its stock frothing over the edges. It’s too much for lunch. “I put fresh linens on the beds this morning, cleaned the guest bathroom. Is everything ready downstairs for the services?”

  I nod, thinking of the flower arrang
ements that overflow the mourning rooms, so many some had to be moved here to their—to her—living quarters. Though Reverend Greene told Alma that whispers have begun to float above the prayers, the media have not yet made the link between his and Linus’s connection to the Precious Doe case. It’s only a matter of time.

  When the phone rings, only Peanut flinches.

  “Best to let the machine get that,” says Alma. Reporters continue to call and wait outside the house; every so often they knock at the door. We don’t answer. A murder in Whitman is a rare enough occurrence that we can expect them to remain here through the funeral, perhaps longer.

  “How long will you keep him?” Alma asks, eyeing Peanut as he noses the now-empty bowl against the wall. She drops a scrap of bacon into his bowl before crumbling the rest over the potatoes.

  “Not long.” I don’t tell her of Peanut’s previous owner, Mr. Kelly, or how Adalia begged to keep her dog, cried and kicked as Mike thrust him into my arms, how he reassured her it was for only a little while, until the police and child protective services settled her and her siblings. I don’t tell Alma how Adalia withdrew then, cocooned herself under layers of an impenetrable silence. Grieving her own loss, Alma’s already heard too much about the state of Adalia and her siblings.

  “Those poor children,” Alma says. Her back is to me as she reaches for two plates. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could be their foster parents? I have all these rooms and now there’s only me.”

  She busies herself with cutlery and napkins as she speaks, never looking to me. “Imagine? You could move your things in here, take the guest room, and they could share the other bedrooms.” I doubt she could bring herself to clear Elton’s room.

  She places a water glass at my seat and pauses over me, her voice taking on a frenetic tone. “I could watch them while you worked, cook them proper meals. We could care for them together.”

  Silence is my response.

  She turns to the stove, stiffening her back as she mashes the potatoes. “None of them said a word about the sister?”