by Amy Cross
Every muscle in my body is aching and I feel like I'm ready to drop, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I have to get back out and rejoin the search party. Hell, maybe I shouldn't even have popped home, but I wanted to find my better flashlight. Deep down, I also wanted to check on Louisa and Alex, just to make sure that they're okay. After what's been going on today, I needed a reminder that the universe isn't always a terrible place.
“Can I at least make you some coffee?” Louisa asks.
“I don't have time for coffee.”
“You have time for a cup of instant. Plus it might keep you awake long enough that you can drive to the forest without falling asleep and hitting a tree.”
I turn to her.
“That's where you're looking for the poor girl now, isn't it?” she continues, with tears in her eyes. “I can read between the lines, Michael. You think Mo Garvey's dead and that her body's been dumped in the forest. That's what you're expecting. You think she's been murdered.”
***
“It's still possible that she's wandered off on her own accord,” I explain a few minutes later, as Louisa sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “We haven't completely discounted that possibility. I mean, so long as there's no actual body, we have to maintain a glimmer of hope.”
“But you don't believe it.”
I open my mouth to offer some condescending sliver of hope, but something in my chest keeps the words from coming out. Louisa and I have been married for long enough now that she doesn't need to have these things sugar-coated. At the same time, I think I can see just a faint hint of hope in her eyes, as if she's waiting for me to tell her that everything will be alright.
“The first twenty-four hours are always key in this type of case,” I say finally. “We still have time.”
“She's a good kid.”
“Sure, but she's also... different.”
She pauses, before nodding.
“I saw her just the other day,” I continue. “She was sitting on the sidewalk outside her house, playing with her dolls. She always liked twisting their heads off. Still, each to their own. She looked up at me as I walked past and she smiled.”
“There are people in the world who'd take advantage of a girl like Mo Garvey,” she points out.
“This is Railham,” I reply, “not some inner-city ghetto.”
“Bad things can still happen here, Mike.”
“Mo Garvey has certain developmental problems,” I explain diplomatically. “I was talking to her parents this evening, and it turns out her teachers at school have expressed concerns. Her parents didn't want to accept it, but it seems like Mo's mind might've somehow stalled around the age of five or six, even though the rest of her kept growing. She's nine now, but it's been getting to the point where her teachers think she's not just a little immature. They think there might be something wrong with her. Something in her head. If we lived in a big city, she'd probably have been diagnosed with half a dozen things by now. Out here, people are more willing to let kids be themselves, but with Mo it was more than that.”
“So you think someone might have lured her away? Into the forest?”
“I didn't say that.”
“But it's what you're thinking, isn't it?”
Realizing that I haven't touched my coffee, I take a sip, but in truth I feel like I'm just wasting time. The search teams are out in the forest and I need to go join them. I take another sip, just so I can show Louisa that I drank something, and then I set the cup down. At the same time, I feel so tired I don't even know I can get to my feet, and I'm worried Louisa was right earlier. In this state, I might fall asleep at the wheel of my patrol car as I drive back out to the search team's base point. Then again, it's not like I have a choice. I refuse to rest until we've found that kid.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“I feel so helpless,” she continues. “That poor girl's out there, and I just want to do something!”
“Join the club,” I mutter, still trying to summon the strength to get up from this goddamn chair.
I pause for a moment, as a ripple of fear runs through my chest, and then all of a sudden I realize that it's not just exhaustion that's keeping me here at the kitchen table, and it wasn't just the need to change my clothes and grab a flashlight that brought me home tonight.
It's also fear.
At least here with my family, I can be reminded that there are good things in the world. Out in the forest with all the other people who are searching for the missing girl, it can be difficult to retain any sense of hope. Not just hope that we might find Mo Garvey, but also hope that there isn't something dark out there, something evil that spirits away little girls and takes them to bad places. If we find Mo's body, we'll be ending one search and starting another. For a monster.
I want to go up and check on Alex again, but I know I'd only disturb her.
“Michael,” Louisa says finally, “I'm scared. Tell me that there isn't something really bad happening in our little town. Tell me that we still live in a place where it's safe to let our daughter play in the back yard without having to keep an eye on her the whole time.”
I open my mouth to reply, but for a moment the words catch in my throat. In that moment, I realize she's waiting for me to put everything right.
“I promise,” I stammer finally, as I get to my feet.
“You can't promise things like that,” she points out.
“We're going to find Mo Garvey,” I continue, stepping over to her and setting my hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. We're going to find Mo Garvey and take her back to her family. As God is my witness, that little girl is going to be just fine. I refuse to let something awful happen here in our town.”
“Mike -”
“I mean it!” I add, placing a finger against her lips to keep her quiet. “I swear to you, Lou. We're going to find Mo and she's going to be fine, and nothing is going to stand in our way. So don't have any doubts.” I know I should stop, that I shouldn't give her this false hope, but I can't hold back. “Don't be scared, because it's all going to be fine. It'll just take a little while, that's all. It'll take a while but I promise you, hand on heart, that I'll bring that girl home safe and sound.”
To press my point home, I set my hand on her chest, directly over her heart.
“I swear to you,” I continue, “on all that's holy. I'm going to find Mo Garvey alive, and she's going to be just fine.”
“Do you promise?”
I hesitate, before nodding.
“I promise,” I tell her. “Trust me on this.”
Before she can reply, I hear my phone buzzing in my pocket.
“I have to get that,” I mutter.
“Of course.” Sniffing back tears, she takes a step away.
“Hey Harry,” I say as I answer the call. “I'm on my way. I just swung by the house to pick up a few things I thought we could use.”
“You need to get out here, boss,” he replies, and I'm instantly struck by the nerves in his voice. It almost sounds as if he's on the verge of tears. “We found a body. It's all ripped and torn, and all these things have been done to it. And boss, there's no doubt about the identity. It's Mo Garvey.”
Chapter Three
Alex Roberts
Today
“I'll be down in a minute!” I call out, as I sit fully-clothed on the toilet lid in the bathroom above the kitchen.
A moment later I hear creaking boards downstairs as Brad heads back through to unpack the recently-delivered Chinese take-out, and the house falls silent once more. I've been so busy all day, I've barely had time to stop and think. And then just a few minutes ago I came into the bathroom and locked the door, and I sat down right here, and suddenly everything just seemed to grind to a halt.
I'm back.
I'm really back.
I'm really here in this house again. And even though the decorators did a great job of giving the
whole place a modern look, the basic layouts of the rooms are more or less the same. It is the same house.
So why haven't I started remembering yet?
Looking over at the sink, I try to imagine what it was like for me to brush my teeth as a little girl. That's a simple enough memory, nothing traumatic, but for some reason it just won't come to me. There's some kind of block in my mind, pushing back, and I'm starting to realize that this isn't going to be nearly as easy as I'd hoped.
For the longest time, I thought I remembered August 30th 1997. I thought I remembered screaming as my mother dragged me from the house. Only later did I realize that these weren't memories at all; they were images drawn from police reports and interviews, and while they felt real, they were nothing more than fantasies and illusions. Earlier, I thought I remembered playing on the lawn in the summer sun, but now I think that was just a vague idea of a girl playing. Actual memories elude me, but I know they're buried somewhere in my mind, and I'm certain I can draw them out eventually.
I guess I just have to be patient.
Pulling my sleeve up, I look at the scar on my right arm. I don't even know what caused this injury, although the mottled skin suggests that I must have suffered a deep gash at some time.
“Stop it,” I mutter, getting to my feet and flushing the toilet so Brad will think I was just using the bathroom. “Don't get maudlin.”
I head to the sink and wash my hands, and then I glance at myself in the mirror, just to make sure that I look presentable. For a fraction of a second, however, I see a little girl staring back at me, happily brushing her teeth. Then I blink and she's gone, and I see what I'm supposed to see.
The real me.
The now me. Not me as I was back then.
And that's when I realize that the little girl was just another fantasy. The harder I try to remember my childhood in this house, the easier it becomes to fool myself. It's almost as if there's some hidden, quiet part of my mind that's keeping a lid on everything.
***
“Man, I love the taste of monosodium glutamate in the evening,” Brad says with a smile as he licks sauce from the back of his hand. “I know you're all into this healthy eating business, Alex, but damn you've gotta admit that sometimes it feels good to kick back and just go for stuff that makes you feel better. Am I right, or am I right?”
“You're right,” I reply with a smile. “But tomorrow, I'm going to start cooking actual meals in this kitchen.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You'd better believe it.”
“We can still have take-out nights occasionally, though, can't we? Like, once a week, something like that?”
“Of course we can,” I tell him. “Sorry, I just like cooking.”
“And you're very good at it.”
“Hardly.”
“You know how much I like your bolognese,” he continues, and then I feel him nudge my foot under the table. “You're good at getting things cooking in the kitchen, and you're good at getting things cooking in the -”
“My mother used to cook dinner right there,” I reply, interrupting him as I look toward the oven. For a moment I feel as if I'm about to remember, but the sensation quickly hits a brick wall in my head. “She must have done. I mean, of course she did, and I probably sat right here and...”
My voice trails off.
“Don't put too much pressure on yourself,” Brad says after a moment. “It'll come.”
“I've been waiting for it to come since... forever.”
“And are you sure you want to remember?”
I turn to him.
“Some people'd think it's a blessing,” he continues. “I mean, if I'd been through what you went through as a kid, I'm not sure I'd want to remember a goddamn second of it.”
“But it's my whole childhood that's been blocked out,” I remind him. “I don't want to remember that night. I refuse to remember August 30th 1997, and I refuse to remember my father, but I want to remember the rest of it. I want to remember the good times.”
“I don't think memory works like that.”
“I'm going to make it work like that.”
“But if -”
“I want to remember my past,” I continue, interrupting him as I feel a flutter of anger in my chest. “Just because my father was a monster, that doesn't mean my entire childhood should be taken away from me.”
“And do you really think you can cut the bad parts out,” he replies, “and remember the rest?”
I pause for a moment, before nodding.
“I wish I agreed with you,” he continues, “but Alex, sweetheart, it's not like cutting somebody out of a photo. I'm not saying you're wrong to want to remember. I'm just saying that if you remember the good times, the times with your mother and your friends, it's inevitable that parts of -”
“No.”
He sighs.
“I'm not going to remember anything about my father,” I continue. “I refuse. He's done enough damage already. I'm not going to let him do more by letting him into my head.”
“You can't choose your ghosts, Alex. You can't pick and choose what haunts you.”
“Watch me.”
As those words leave my lips, I know they sound crazy. Deluded, even. If our roles were reversed, I'd be telling Brad that he's asking for the impossible. At the same time, I absolutely refuse to dignify my father by remembering him. Hell, I don't even want to acknowledge that he existed. But if I let that fear chase me away from the rest of my memories, then he's still winning, and that is definitely not going to happen.
“It'll take time, that's all,” I mutter as I look back down at my plate. “I just need to be patient.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, each picking at our food without much enthusiasm. I'm sure Brad has a million things on his mind, and he probably thinks I'm crazy. Maybe he's right. As we sit here, however, I feel the house starting to weigh down on my shoulders, as if the silence is reaching out to me from the void with cold hands, brushing against the side of my neck. For a couple of seconds, I swear I almost feel the hair on the back of my neck start to move slightly, and the air seems to chill.
“Can't we just talk like normal people?” I ask finally, causing the sensation to dissipate in an instant. “Normal people don't have to worry about what parts of the past they mention. Normal people just talk, and if they happen to start talking about bad things, they deal with it. Normal people don't have to pussyfoot around all the time like they're scared of saying the wrong thing.”
I pause for a moment.
“Then again,” I continue, “normal people don't move back into a house like this, do they?”
“You said it's what you wanted.”
“And it is. I guess I just didn't think about how hard it must be for you.”
“Me?” He gets up and steps around the table, before leaning down and kissing the top of my head. “Don't you start worrying about me, okay? I'm good. I'm real good, I'm just glad to finally be here in a place of our own. No landlords. No rent. No busy main road outside. We finally made it to suburbia, Alex. We're finally middle-class homeowners in a part of town with leafy streets, driveways and neighborhood watch folk.” He frowns. “Do you think they'll chase us out of town with pitchforks?”
“When they realize who my father was?”
“When they realize we don't fit in!”
“We'll fit in just fine.”
“Of course, it's technically your house,” he points out. “I'm just along for the ride. I guess I did alright, marrying a girl who inherited a big old house like this.”
“It's your house too,” I remind him. “We're gonna put that in writing. Fifty-fifty.”
“You know what I mean.” He kisses me on the cheek, and then he hesitates for a moment before kissing me again. Instantly, just from that little pair of kisses, I know what he wants. It's been two weeks since the last time, so I knew this was coming. He probably thinks it'd be good for us.
He's p
robably right.
“Now,” he continues, lowering his voice to a whisper, “it strikes me that we have a new home here and we desperately, desperately need to get our new life started. So how about you come upstairs with me, and I'll remind you of just how much fun we can have when it's just the two of us?”
“We only have an air mattress.”
“I've never done it on an air mattress.”
“Sure,” I reply, even though I'm not feeling remotely in the mood. Then again, when am I ever in the mood these days? We should try, if only for Brad's sake. “Go up and get comfortable. I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“You're not gonna stand me up, are you?”
I give him a peck on the cheek. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
Once he's left the room, however, I find myself sitting all alone, watching the spot where Mom used to cook. I swear it wouldn't take much for me to start hallucinating, for me to actually see her right in front of me. I feel as if those images are right at the periphery of my vision, as if they're trying to seep from my memories into my waking life. There's still something blocking them, however, and I can only assume that after years and years of repressing these things, I've forgotten how to remember.
“Good night, Mom,” I whisper, before turning the light out and heading to the stairs. “Sweet dreams.”
Brad's wrong. I can be selective when it comes to my memories. I can remember the good times in this house, without remembering my father at all. He's rotting in hell, and that's where he belongs.
Chapter Four
Sheriff Michael Blaine
20 years ago
Picking my way through the undergrowth, I can already see several flashlights up ahead in the darkness, arranged in a circle. As those light-beams criss-cross one another, they seem to be picking out something on the ground. Something dark. Something slumped.
Something roughly the size of a nine-year-old girl.
I'm not entirely sure what I expected on the way over here. Harry already filled me in on the details, and he's already got a few other guys over to secure the scene. It's not as if there can be any doubt about what they've found, but at the same time I guess I was hoping that I'd arrive and find there'd been a huge mistake. As I get closer to the body, however, I can feel a sense of churning nausea in the pit of my stomach, and hope fades a little more with each step. There's been no mistake. The worst has happened.