by J. S. Volpe
“But Wendy’s seizures may have been the result of long-term exposure, right?” Calvin said.
“Precisely. Which means that short of having a psychic live here for months or years, there’s no way to be sure. Also, at this juncture I should add that several times over the years, I hired people to come out and take various air, soil, plant, and water samples in the woods. They found absolutely nothing worth noting. No toxins, no radon, no carbon monoxide, no radiation, no mind-altering fungi, and no several dozen other things they checked for. On a basic physical level, the woods appear to be completely normal.”
“But what about the burned grass in the clearing?” Calvin said. “Doesn’t that suggest some kind of physical element?”
“It does. And what creates heat often creates light. I don’t suppose either of you are aware of anyone seeing unusual lights in or around the woods on the night in question?”
Calvin and Cynthia shook their heads.
“Mm.” Mr. May nodded calmly, though underneath his stoic veneer Cynthia thought she sensed a flash of frustration. “At any rate that brings us to the here-and-now.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a small spiral notebook. “Now we need to focus on the current situation. On Emily.” He looked at Cynthia. “If it’s not too painful, I would like you to go over everything that has happened, everything you know relating to your sister’s disappearance.”
Cynthia nodded and took a deep breath. She had figured this was coming but that didn’t make replaying the whole horrible scenario any easier.
For the next half hour she walked them through the sequence of events. Some of it they knew from the news. Much of it they didn’t. She even told them a few pieces of information the cops had insisted be kept secret.
When the recounting was done, Mr. May settled back in his chair and flipped through the notebook, which was now almost completely filled with his small, spidery handwriting. Seconds ticked past. The only sounds were the rustle of the pages and the occasional creak of a chair.
Cynthia was growing impatient and was about to say something when Mr. May looked up at her.
“Emily believes in fairies, I take it?” he asked.
“Yeah. She’s always been kind of obsessed with the subject. Well, lately she hasn’t been quite as annoyingly single-minded about it as she used to be, but she still has fairy T-shirts and fairy books and a line of fairy figurines on her dresser. She insists she saw them once in the woods when she was around four or five, and…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide as the full import of what she was saying hit her. “Oh, my God.”
Mr. May realized the import, too. He sat forward, his eyes shining with excitement.
“She says she saw fairies in these woods?”
“I don’t believe it. That’s exactly what we’ve been talking about. A visionary experience. Seeing something not tangibly real.”
“Where exactly did this happen? Do you know the details?”
Cynthia told them the story as it had been told to her by Emily: Tiny naked winged humanoids dancing around a ring of mushrooms just within the woods behind the Crow house.
“And no one else saw them?” Mr. May said.
“No. When my mom went to look, there was nothing there. Just the mushrooms.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“What does it mean?” Calvin asked.
“It’s a vision connected to a tragedy,” Cynthia said, putting the pieces together and hating the picture they formed. “Don’t you see? It was seeing the fairies that made her believe in them. And it was her belief in them that made it possible for…for whoever it was to lure her into the woods.”
“But why? What’s the point? And are we saying there’s some kind of hidden purpose behind all this, or some intelligence that’s directing events?”
“I don’t know. And frankly, I’m not sure if that should be our main concern right now. We need to focus primarily on getting Emily back.”
“Understood,” Mr. May said. “There’s the big picture and the smaller picture. The macro-level and the micro-level. For now, our main concern should be finding your sister and the man who abducted her. We need to figure out who he is and where he is and where Emily is. And those are primarily concerns of the micro-level. The whys and wherefores of the situation can be set aside for the moment.” He consulted his notes again. “Now, it’s possible that the man responsible for Emily’s abduction has had his own visionary experiences. Are either of you aware of anyone who has had any such experiences lately? Episodes of seeming mental illness? Delirium? Artistic inspirations? Even drug-induced hallucinations? Anyone who has seen things no one else could see?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” Cynthia said.
“Me either,” Calvin said.
“All right, then,” Mr. May said. “I guess we’ll need to find a more roundabout means of identifying the man responsible.” He looked at Cynthia. “Did Emily frequent the park often?”
“Yeah, when the weather was good.”
“Then we need to learn who else frequented the park often. And we should also consider checking out businesses near the park.”
“Why?” asked Calvin.
“Because the man’s interest in Emily was almost certainly something that grew over time. He knew her. He may not have known her personally, but he had seen her before. Most likely in the park. He may have visited the park regularly, or he may have worked nearby. A lot of businesses are across the street from the park. Perhaps he saw her from a window while he worked. Also, bear in mind that he knew the area well enough to know about the clearing, which suggests he most likely lives or works around here.”
“Gee,” Calvin said with a nervous laugh, “my dad works at the May National Bank. That’s practically right across the street from the park. You don’t think it might be him, do you?”
Mr. May shook his head. “He’s too old. We are most likely looking for a man in his thirties. He’s probably introverted, intelligent, very rational, very organized, unmarried, has no kids, and lives alone.”
“Wow, you sound like one of those criminal profilers.”
He grunted. “In my opinion profiling isn’t the rocket science–level ability some people would have you believe. It’s largely only a matter of basic psychology and some critical thinking skills. At any rate, what about other employees at the bank? Is there anyone there who has been behaving oddly lately? Particularly men who fit that profile?”
“I don’t know. I’ve hardly met any of the people who work there, and my dad doesn’t really talk to me about his job.”
“See if you can find out.”
“All right.”
“Why the bank?” Cynthia asked. “I mean, is there some specific reason you think someone at the bank might be involved, or…?”
“We have to start somewhere. We might as well begin on familiar ground. Now, as for you, I want you to see if you can find out who was in the park Thursday afternoon. Check with your parents, or even your brother; the police or FBI might have mentioned something to one of them. We should probably avoid asking the authorities directly if we can help it, since it might rouse their suspicions, and that’s something we don’t want at this juncture.”
“I don’t know; the cops haven’t been very communicative with us about the details of the investigation.”
“Well, try your best. And bear in mind, we’re interested mainly in men who fit the profile I outlined.”
“Gotcha.”
“And then we can meet back here tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully, by then one of us will have uncovered something. In the meantime, if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“That’s all we’re gonna do?” Cynthia said, her voice edged with disappointment.
Mr. May gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “I understand your impatience and irritation, but I’m afraid there’s only so much we can do at the moment. We need information before we can act. And we need to acqui
re that information carefully and effectively. If we go blundering about half-cocked, that will only make everything worse.”
“Yeah,” she said with a heavy, grudging sigh. “I guess you’re right. We don’t want to be the proverbial fools who rush in, do we?”
Chapter 16
Where Angels Fear to Tread
1
“I’m still not sure about this,” Donovan mumbled. He and Violet were crouching behind a bush and looking across a night-darkened backyard at the home of Theodore Walsh, proprietor of May Antiques. Both of them were dressed all in black, with black gloves and ski masks. “If we get caught—”
“We ain’t gonna get caught,” Violet said. “Trust me. You gotta think positive.”
“I still think maybe we should just leave this stuff to the cops…”
Her eyes narrowed in the holes of her ski mask.
“That’s just nervousness talking,” she told him. “Don’t puss out on me. Do you wanna find your sister or don’t you?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Then you gotta take the initiative. You can’t leave things in the hands of a bunch of tools you don’t even know. We gave them their chance. They’ve had nearly two days to find Emily, and they’ve accomplished jack shit. We can’t keep waiting around. We gotta be proactive. Am I right?”
“I guess…”
“All right, then. Now come on. It looks like the coast is clear. He doesn’t close his store till nine on Saturdays so we’ve got over an hour to search the place. And remember, there’ll probably be, like, hidden rooms and dungeons and crap.”
“Really?” Donovan studied the humble one-storey house with a doubtful frown. “You think?”
“Fuck, yeah! These crazy psychos always have shit like that. Now come on.”
After one last look around to make sure no one was in sight, she sprang from the bushes and dashed across the back yard so fast she was a black blur in the darkness. Despite her speed and the poor visibility, she managed to dodge the water sprinkler and bound over a row of potted tomatoes on the edge of the patio with the grace of a gazelle. She hunkered down next to the back door. Donovan joined her a few seconds later. He was grimacing and trying to wipe grass stains off the knees of his black jeans, his journey across the lawn having been considerably less graceful than Violet’s due to an unfortunate entanglement with the hose.
“Shit,” he muttered. “My mom’s gonna wonder what the hell happened.”
“You totally need to work on your night vision.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll start eating more fish and carrots as soon as I get home.”
They peered through one of the glass panes in the back door. Through the filmy white curtain that hung inside, they discerned the hazy shapes of a kitchen table, a stove, a calendar on the wall.
“So how do we get in?” Donovan asked.
“With this.” She pulled up her right pant leg. Taped to her calf was a glass cutter, its blade snugly covered with a blob of putty.
“Where the fuck did you get that?” Donovan asked as she untaped the glass cutter and plucked the putty off the end, revealing a shiny, brand-new blade.
“Dude, my dad runs a hardware store, remember? He’s got, like, a billion tools sitting around the house. And if I can’t find it at home, I can just lift it at the store in the course of paying him a sweet, daughterly visit.” She raised the cutter next to her face and grinned. “Now watch a master in action.”
She pressed the putty onto the pane of glass nearest the doorknob, then carefully cut a circle around it with the cutter. She tugged on the putty, and with a faint scritch the circle of glass popped out, leaving a hole big enough for her to reach through and unlock the door.
“Presto,” she said, opening the door.
They stepped inside. The kitchen was dark except for a single light burning in the range hood.
“Flashlights,” Violet said.
They pulled small flashlights from their pockets and switched them on, then crept farther into the room. The only sounds were the rustles of their clothes and the faint creaks of the floorboards.
“I don’t know…” Donovan said, peering through a doorway into the living room, which was just as dark and quiet as the kitchen. “I don’t think anyone’s here. This place feels empty, you know?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what we want.”
“Yeah, but that means Emily’s not here either.”
Violet stared at him a moment, then frowned and looked around. “Hm. Well, like I said, there might be secret doors or something.” An idea struck her and she excitedly shook a finger at him. “Or he might have, like, a cabin in the woods where he’s keeping her. Or something like that. I dunno. We just need to look around and see what we turn up.”
“If you say so.”
They searched the kitchen first. They flung open cupboard doors, yanked out drawers, rooted through cabinets. Donovan checked the refrigerator last. As he opened the door, he leaned away from the refrigerator a little, his muscles tense, as if he expected to find human body parts on platters inside. Instead there was orange juice, beer, half a lemon meringue pie, a box of Slim Fast, a plate of leftover slices of chicken breast.
“Ooh, chicken!” Violet said. She reached around Donovan, flipped up one corner of the plastic wrap that covered the chicken, and wiggled out the biggest slice. She whisked off her ski mask and began to wolf down the chicken.
“Violet,” Donovan said. “We’re not here to eat.”
“We gotta keep our strength up. There’s lots of protein energy in chicken, you know. You should have some, too.”
Donovan just sighed as she crammed the last of the chicken into her mouth. She licked the grease from her fingers, then reopened the refrigerator and grabbed a can of beer.
“You want one?” she asked Donovan.
“Um…” He looked at the beer longingly for a moment, then glanced at the back door and shook his head. “No, that’s all right.”
She shut the refrigerator, then pulled the tab on her can of beer. There was a crack and a hiss, and tan foam bulged up through the hole in the top of the can.
“Now come on.” Sipping at the foam, she strode toward the entrance to the living room. “Let’s keep looking.”
They spent the next few minutes examining every nook and cranny of the living room. They found nothing of note. Violet spilled beer on the carpet, the coffee table, and a burgundy easy chair.
Their next stop was the bathroom, which likewise contained nothing of interest except an unusually large and varied assortment of skin-care products. From there they moved on to a rear bedroom which was being used to store antiques. It was packed from wall to wall with chairs, sideboards, boxes full of china, a grandfather clock, a World War I soldier’s uniform, and so on.
“Man, this shit’s gotta be worth a fortune,” Violet said. She picked up a coin with a picture of a chick with long, flowing hair on it. It didn’t say what denomination it was, but it had a date of 1794. Violet slid it into her pocket.
Donovan sighed. “This is just stuff. It’s not Emily.”
“Don’t worry. We just gotta keep looking.”
The front bedroom was dominated by a king-sized bed with red satin sheets. There was also a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a desk atop which sat a switched-off computer. One of the desk’s drawers was stuffed full of important-looking papers.
“We should go through this stuff,” Violet said. “There might be info about his cabin.”
“What cabin?”
“The cabin where he keeps his prisoners! I mean, we ain’t finding anything here, so he must be keeping her somewhere else.”
They spent a while flipping through receipts, bills, auction schedules, correspondence, and similar documents. Eventually Violet got bored and started rummaging through the closet while Donovan continued examining the papers with mounting disheartenment.
His examination ended when Violet exclaimed, “Whoa! Get over here! Check this out!”
He hurried over and found her crouched down in front of a stack of magazines on the closet floor.
“What is it?” he asked.
She handed him a magazine. He took one look at it, then flung it away with a yelp. The magazine was titled Spank Masters, and the cover showed a naked middle-aged man kneeling down with his butt in the air, while a leanly muscled young stud in a leather outfit loomed above him, a paddle raised high in one black-gloved hand and a cruel sneer on his face.
“See?” Violet cried. “Didn’t I tell you this guy was a creepy perv?” She riffled through the stack of magazines. They were all Spank Masters and appeared to constitute a complete run dating back to the late 1990s.
There was a shoebox next to the magazines. Violet flipped up the lid, revealing hundreds of Polaroids of naked men, most of them young and slim and posing in the very room Violet and Donovan were now in.
“Holy fuck!” she cried. “Perv jackpot!”
“Yeah, but he’s the wrong kind of perv.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, look.” Donovan pointed at the photos, refusing to get too close. “He likes guys from the look of it. Guys who, you know, spank. So, I mean, why would he be interested in a little girl?”
“He might swing both ways.”
“Violet, I don’t think this is the guy. It just…it feels wrong, you know?”
“But I was so sure!” She flapped her arms. “I mean, he’s a complete wanktard. You know what he’s like. You remember how he acted when he caught me shoplifting. How could it not be him?”
“Well, there’s a lot of wanktards out there.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“That is very true. If it’s not this one, it’ll be the next one.” She drove her fist into her palm, producing a loud, sharp smack. Donovan couldn’t help reflecting that it was probably a sound heard often in this room. “We’ll go through every wanktard in this shithole town till we find the guy!”