After a month of begging an absent God and watching his wife descend deeper and deeper into a pit of depression and isolation, Jim gave up on seeking help from above. It wasn’t there and wasn’t coming any time soon. If anyone was going to help Amy, it would have to be him. He had to be the strong one.
“Well, uh, a woman is pregnant for nine months while the baby grows inside her, right?”
He nodded and pushed forward to the awful end of the story. “After three months the baby died. Miss Amy got really sick, and they had to do an operation. The doctor told her she would never have another baby.”
Tears ran thin trails down Louisa’s soft cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“So are we. Anyway, that happened two months ago, and Miss Amy’s not been herself since.”
“And you haven’t either?”
The girl saw things most adults missed. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”
Chapter 6
AMY NEEDED TO take a shower. After her encounter with Louisa she felt tense and thought a good dousing of hot water might help to massage her nerves and wash away the deep stress. She was not angry with Jim for bringing the girl home. He would have been a jerk not to. She needed a place to stay, and they were, after all, foster parents. Or had been, anyway, up till her miscarriage. Until this morning she had it in her mind that they’d never take another child in. They’d seen so many hurt kids come through their home, heard so many nightmares. Amy doubted she could ever spend herself emotionally for a child again. She felt like a dishrag now with nothing left to wring out of her.
She turned on the shower water and adjusted it to the right temperature then stripped out of her pajamas. Immediately steam started to build and envelop her in a warm, moist blanket. Stepping under the hot stream of water, she closed her eyes and let it cascade over her face and body. Instantly her muscles relaxed, but the thought of the girl was still there, the image of her and those brilliant blue eyes and that freckled nose and flaxen hair imprinted on her mind’s eye.
Amy turned away from the water and opened her eyes. The image vanished. She proceeded to shampoo her hair and work it into a rich lather. Sun-ripened peach was her favorite fragrance, and the aroma filled the bathroom, hung in the steam. She tried to think of something else, anything other than Louisa, but her mind kept returning to the girl, like a television set with the same show on every channel. How did she know about the miscarriage? Or did she know? She merely said that Amy was wounded. And it probably didn’t take a psychotherapist to determine that by looking at her. Depression is often recognizable by someone’s appearance, the deadness in the eyes, the lack of will or emotion. But she’d placed her hand on Amy’s abdomen when she said it, over her wounded and damaged uterus. The uterus that could no longer sustain life. The uterus that killed her baby. Olivia.
Grabbing the bar of soap, Amy worked up a rich foam in her hands then scrubbed her forehead, cheeks, and chin. Keeping her eyes closed, she stuck her face under the water to rinse.
She thought she heard the bathroom door open and close. Pulling her face out of the shower’s stream and brushing away the excess water, she opened her eyes and listened.
“Jim?”
The bathroom was quiet, but she felt a presence in there with her. She sensed eyes on the shower curtain and thought, if she listened real close, that she heard a rustling. The girl. Louisa was in the bathroom with her. She knew it, felt it, sensed it. Where was Jim?
“Louisa?”
But no answer came. Amy found herself afraid for no reason in particular. Fear, like an unreachable itch, scratched beneath her skin. Louisa was just a girl. A child. Innocent and vulnerable. And yet Amy was too afraid to open the curtain. Minutes ticked by, and she did not move. The water ran off her body in thick rivulets and was hotter than usual, but still she felt chilled. Steam clouded the shower and bathroom.
Once more, “Louisa, is that you?”
And again no answer came.
Eventually the water started to cool, so Amy turned down the cold water. She wasn’t ready to get out yet.
Finally she mustered enough courage to take a peek. Slowly, as if to do it quickly would replay some gruesome scene in an old horror flick, she peeled back the curtain and found the mirror above the sink. Normally the reflection provided a full view of the rest of the bathroom, but now it was fogged into a hazy opaqueness. Slowly still she pushed the curtain aside farther and scanned the room. It was empty. The sink and toilet stared back at her with dumb indifference.
Amy cursed her irrational fear and went back to her shower. She still needed to rinse away the shampoo. Backing into the water, she closed her eyes and let the water massage her scalp, washing away the foamy lather she’d worked into her hair. Again, the image of the girl was there, that face like an angel’s, those thoughtful, penetrating eyes, the butterfly pattern of freckles that stretched from cheek to cheek. It loomed and hovered like a phantom. The lips moved and the words “There’s still life in you” echoed through Amy’s mind. What did that even mean? The girl had said it while her hand rested on Amy’s . . .
She felt a hand on her abdomen. Amy jumped and snapped her eyes open. She thought she saw a tiny hand pull away from her and disappear through the curtain. Foamy shampoo inched down her forehead and tickled her eyebrow. More ran down her back, hugging the curves of her body.
The girl was there. In the bathroom. Anger flared in Amy—how dare the vagrant touch her while she was showering—but fear as well. Again she found herself unable to open the shower curtain. It might as well have been an iron wall. By now the water was turning cooler again, and when she tried to twist the cold-water knob more, she realized it was turned off as far as it would go. She had to do something quickly or she’d wind up taking a frigid shower or standing there with shampoo still in her hair. Casting aside the visions of murderous shower scenes or cryptic messages drawn on steamy mirrors, she threw the curtain open, fully prepared to confront the girl in the nude. The bathroom was empty.
Holding on to the corner of the shower stall, Amy leaned out and opened the closet door, thinking maybe Louisa had hid in there. Only towels, washcloths, sheets, and dirty laundry. Had she slipped out of the bathroom that quickly and quietly? Or had Amy imagined the whole thing? She’d ask Louisa when she saw her. If there was one thing her experience with kids had taught her, it was that children were terrible liars, and Amy would be able to tell if Louisa was hiding the truth.
Cursing herself again, Amy pulled the curtain closed, quickly finished rinsing her hair, and shut off the water.
She stood there shivering while the last of the water and shampoo circled down the drain. The only sound in the bathroom was the soft plunk of water droplets as they slipped from Amy’s body and hit the shower floor.
But for Amy the chill she felt was not merely due to the cold water she’d finished rinsing in. This was an irrational cooling, birthed from nothing of this world, nothing of flesh and blood, but rather of spirit and things that lurk in darkness, feed on fear. It was the same chill brought on by bogeymen and monsters under the bed, by things that hide in shadows and exhale icy breath down the back of necks. For some reason unknown to her she wasn’t sure she could trust this mystery girl that wound up in their care. This Louisa from the fire.
Chapter 7
AKNOCK AT THE front door pulled Jim Spencer away from the breakfast table and the last of his waffles and ice cream. Chief Doug Miller was there, a wad of papers in hand. He nodded and furrowed his brow and looked past Jim into the house. “Spencer. How did the night go?”
“Just fine. Louisa slept like a log on the sofa. Did you find anything out?”
Miller shook his head. “Nope. Mind if I come in?”
Jim stepped aside. “No, not at all.”
Miller entered, and Jim closed the door behind him.
“Would you care for some waffles and ice cream?” Jim said.
Miller looked at Jim as though he’d just o
ffered him spaghetti and meatballs for breakfast. “No, thanks. Already had breakfast.”
“Coffee and doughnuts?”
“Don’t I wish. Tea and parfait. The wife makes me eat it.”
“Ouch.”
“I brought the paperwork,” Miller said. He hesitated, glanced around the living room. “You mind if you need to keep the girl a little longer?”
“I had a feeling that was coming. How much longer?” Jim didn’t mind keeping her, but it was Amy he was concerned about. He knew her encounter with Louisa had left her shaken.
Miller dipped his head and smoothed his mustache with one hand. He eyed Jim through his bushy eyebrows. “Indefinitely?”
“Indefinitely. As in maybe another day, maybe a decade.” Jim crossed his arms. A lump sat in the bottom of his belly. He wanted to say yes. It was the right thing to do, and Louisa seemed to be a charming, albeit odd, child. He doubted she’d bring any trouble upon his life, but he was less sure of Amy. The last thing he wanted to do was invite this sweet child into his home with the promise of security and provision and then have to turn her out if Amy couldn’t cope. “I’ll need to talk to Amy about it.”
“How did she do with Louisa staying the night?” Miller seemed genuinely interested.
Jim shrugged. “I didn’t tell her until this morning. It’ll take her some time to get used to the idea, but I think she’ll come around.” He lowered his voice. “No one has come forward looking for their daughter?”
“Not yet. We’ve run all the databases. No kidnapping reports, no missing person reports, nothing.”
“Have the inspectors gone through Jake’s house yet?”
“You thinking she was there with her parents and they didn’t make it out?”
Jim nodded.
“I was thinking the same thing. Stopped by the hospital this morning and saw Jake. He said he didn’t have any visitors yesterday. None. Home alone the whole day. And he was pretty adamant that he didn’t know who the girl was.”
“So what, she just pulled a Star Trek and teleported there?”
“Seems like it, don’t it?”
“I’ve seen a lot of interesting kids over the years, but this would definitely be a first.”
“A first for science too.”
“Is Jake okay?”
Miller nodded. “Physically, yeah. But he keeps going on about needing to get out of the hospital so he can call his son. You ever meet Raymond?”
“No.” Jim had never even heard Jake talk about his son.
“Odd fella. Suspicious, you know. Real con artist type. He and Jake had a falling out some years ago, seems he conned his own father out of some money. Jake never forgot it.”
“When will he be discharged?”
“This morning. Docs all say he’s fine to go home. I don’t think it’s settled in yet that he doesn’t have a place to call home.”
“Where will he stay?”
“The Red Cross is putting him up in a hotel, the Giffords’ place out on 34, until they can find him an apartment. But he said something about taking his insurance money and selling the land and settling down in a retirement home.”
Miller paused and looked at the papers in his hand, leafing through them as one might absently flip through a stack of old bills. “Did the girl say anything this morning about her family? Her last name? How she got in Jake’s house?”
“Said she couldn’t remember anything. You think she’s telling the truth? I mean, there’s a possibility she’s a runaway and pulling this amnesia thing to keep from being taken back home. Some kids endure some pretty harsh stuff and would do anything to get away from it.” They had fostered some runaways, so he knew what he was talking about.
“I’ve had the same thing on my mind,” Miller said. He nodded toward the kitchen. “Want me to talk to her?”
“Chief, if it’s all the same to you, I think it would go better if I did it. The uniform can be intimidating to kids. Give her some time to get comfortable here, and then I’ll broach the subject.”
Miller stroked his hand over his mustache again. “Fine. If you find anything out, let me know. Any more information will help.” He handed the papers to Jim. “Here. They should all be filled out. Sign them and drop ’em by the office sometime today so we can get things filed with the county.”
“Will do.” Jim saw Miller to the door and let him out. He closed it and studied the papers. All the routine forms. He’d filled them out so many times before. But never had he and Amy received a child under such bizarre circumstances.
Behind him a chair scraped across the kitchen floor, then shuffled footsteps. Jim turned and found Louisa standing in the entryway between the living room and kitchen. She had one hand on the wall. “Was the policeman asking about my parents?”
Jim went to her and took her hand. “Here, come sit down with me, Louisa.” He led her to the sofa, and they both sat. “Do you remember your parents?”
She shook her head. “I only remember helping Mr. Jake. He couldn’t breathe, and his chest was hurting real bad.”
“So what did you do?”
She shrugged. “Told him not to be scared. Then I told him that Raymond still loves him and needs him.” She looked Jim right in the eyes, and her gaze made him uneasy. “He was very sad about Raymond, you know.”
“How do you know Raymond?”
Again she lifted her shoulders and let them drop quickly. “I just do. I saw him.”
“Where?”
Another shrug. “I just did.”
Jake had photos of a younger Raymond scattered throughout the house. She must have noticed them. Jim wasn’t sure how much deeper he wanted to probe, though. He was afraid of what he might find. He doubted Louisa was ready to talk, and he wasn’t certain he was either. Not yet.
“Louisa, would you mind staying here with Miss Amy and me a little longer, until they find your parents?”
Louisa reached out her hand and laid it on Jim’s. Her touch was soft and warm, and as much as he didn’t want to, Jim couldn’t help but think that this must be what it was like to be touched by an angel. “Is it okay with Miss Amy?”
“I’ll talk to her, but I’m sure it will be.”
“Okay then. As long as it’s all right with her. I think she needs me. She’s sad too.”
Jim couldn’t help asking. “And you, Louisa? Are you sad?”
She looked at the sofa and blinked several times as if the question had caught her off guard. “No. Should I be?”
“Do you miss your parents?”
Her eyes found his. “I don’t remember them.”
“Are you okay with being here?”
She nodded. “Yes. I think this is where I should be.”
Chapter 8
THE MAN, MITCH Albright who wasn’t really Mitch Albright, was in fact very skilled with hand and power tools alike. Most kids learned such skills from their old man, but Mitch’s old man never bothered with teaching his son anything but how to duck and avoid. Mitch’s grandfather had stepped in and filled the void; he taught Mitch how to measure and cut wood and hammer nails. Next to the work area in the barn was a stack of wood for farm and home repairs. Some of it was quality lumber, some old and warped. Bob had quite the stockpile. He was a resourceful old farmer.
Mitch gathered the wood he would need and put it in a separate pile. Then, after binding and gagging the still unconscious Appletons and tying them to a thick post, he headed to the house for a drink and snack.
The house was not your typical farmhouse. Mitch had been in plenty of farmhouses, and they all had one thing in common: they were cluttered. Most farm folk were so busy with keeping up with the land and animals they had little time left over for housekeeping. As a result, corners filled fast, and stacks of magazines and newspapers and empty boxes grew high.
Not so with the Appleton house. It was clutter-free and well organized. Clean too. None of the farm dust or dirt or manure made it past the front porch. The interior even smelled cl
ean, like freshly washed linen. Clare had done a good job of keeping the farm odor out of their home by placing scented candles in every room.
In the rear of the house was the kitchen, a large area wrapped with natural wood cupboards and granite counter space. Gleaming pots dangled from a rack suspended from the ceiling. An island sat beneath it positioned in the middle of the kitchen for easy access from any direction. Mitch opened the refrigerator and was amazed at the amount of food the Appletons kept on hand. He envied Bob for what he had. With an abusive father and disinterested mother, Mitch had learned to spend most of his time outside the house, fending for himself.
Retrieving ham, salami, roast beef, cheese, mustard, and pickles from the fridge, he quickly found a loaf of oat bread and assembled two sandwiches for himself. He would eat one now and save one for later. He would need plenty of energy for the project that awaited him. The sandwich was delicious, quite possibly the best he’d ever had, and he washed it down with a tall glass of Southern-style sweet tea, heavy on the sugar.
From there he explored the rest of the house and found it too to be meticulously cared for, finely furnished, and free of the farm outside. The second floor housed four bedrooms, one complete with a queen-sized canopy bed and an ornately carved armoire. The other rooms had been converted into a sewing room, a study, and a plainly furnished guest room. The hallway was decorated with a very large collage of family photos of the Appletons and their son. He apparently was married and had three boys. Very rambunctious boys from the look of the pictures. And one very attractive wife.
The second-floor bathroom was no different than the rest of the house, spacious, perfectly decorated, and clean. Not a spot of mildew anywhere.
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