Kicking the mud off against the picnic table and stretching his sore back, he rose, hiking over to the stone pathway. It ran all through Pine Tree Park, winding and twisting snappily in a different direction, before turning yet again. All in all, it was pleasant to walk or even ride on a bike, but, like everything else, it seemed different to Michael. Things that once were joyful and beautiful now turned sinister and evil.
Where to go now? That was the question, and only one choice presented itself to his grumbling stomach: food. There was no going home, yet. Home is where the heart is, but heartache will follow you eventually. Going back now, his mother would be there. A house once full of cooking and preparations for the midday meal now would be enveloped by depression and loneliness. It was an empty home: a house lacking a daughter, a dwelling lacking a sister.
But for now, it was lunchtime, and there were a few diners around Hardy worth visiting, although the less people the better, no matter what quality the food happened to be. Walking north, up 1st Street in the direction of Main, there was bound to be some restaurant which caught his eye. Nothing snatched at him, however, and so he walked miserably.
With a sudden thought, Michael crossed the street and began walking back towards the park, although on the opposite sidewalk. If he followed 1st Street south, it would eventually lead him towards the lower end of this cluster of streets. Right near the bottom, City Hall Boulevard would take him for a nice walk, passing all sorts of strange buildings and people, until he came to a place vaguely remembered from his childhood.
On the sidewalk, he veered to the side slightly so a young, vibrant couple pushing a stroller with twins could pass by. Both were redheads, and both were sleeping. Their parents conversed in hushed voices, savoring each romantic moment.
When he was younger and an only-child, his mom pushed him in a stroller similar to that. They would go on long walks around Hardy, meeting all the people and chatting with older folks who had lived there a long time. While the memories were very cloudy, and more of a distant dream from years ago, still he remembered, or half-remembered.
And there it was now, one of the sites from that past. The Maplewood Deli.
The building was low and shabby, and he wondered whether it had ever been something worthwhile to look at. His memories failed him, and so he inspected the beaten-down, worn building as if seeing it for the first time. It was not unusual for a building to have dilapidated into this state, and yet this one seemed unique. It was part of his past.
Only one older man was inside, behind the counter and waiting to serve others food. A sign above it read Maplewood Deli: Sandwiches and Sodas in old-styled, curly letters. The wooden words seemed ancient, and yet much like everything else there was an air of familiarity. He had seen this before; it had been newer and brighter, but there all the same.
When he pulled it open, the door shrieked mercilessly against the tile ground. Walking inside, each step brought a fresh breath of air with a much different feel than that outside. It was cooler in there, smelling of meat and bread. Only a handful of tables were scattered about, with four chairs at each one. The counter was plain white, as were each of the walls, although marked with dirt and grime from years of children wiping their hands on and adults leaning against it.
“What’d ‘ou like ter eat, boy?” the older man asked, grabbing a bundle of sandwiches from underneath his obsessively-cleant counter, which still had smudge marks covering it.
“Um, how about whatever meat you have and some cheese?” Michael asked. “Just simple.”
“Yessir, that’ll do.” The man nodded contentedly. A few moments later, he had slapped down plenty slices of meat and bountiful chunks of cheese. “All I got’s ‘merican.”
“That’s fine.”
“This ‘ere’ll be seven dollars ‘n’ ‘ifty cents.”
A little on the pricey side of things, good Lord.
Not long after, Michael was sitting at a table by himself, finishing up the remains of his sandwich. While not altogether filling, it had made a nice lunch, and he was not very hungry before anyways. He never was nowadays.
Looking up at some of the marks on the windows, Michael noticed a figure across the road, hood drawn up over the face, standing just behind one of the small wooden benches. It was a female, if he was any judge.
She was not leaning on the bench in any way; just holding herself perfectly erect and staring at him. Was she looking at him, though? She could have been reading the sign above the door outside, maybe contemplating a sandwich she longed to order.
But then she waved, and all doubts were erased.
“Hey, um, sir?” he called out, turning around in his seat to look back at the counter.
The man was gone, back into some dark corner of the room behind no doubt. Michael was alone.
Turning back towards the window, the figure still stood there. Her hand had relaxed, now lowering itself to her side, but stopping midway. The pointer finger extended, like a knife in his direction. With a quick movement, the other hand reached up and yanked the hood down, revealing a wrinkled face and long, white hair.
Michael sprang up from his chair and immediately dashed out the door, racing across two lanes of slow but dangerous traffic. Dashing around a car, his breathing was painful but he continued. When he reached the other sidewalk, Michael leapt over the bench, but by that time the woman was gone into the alley.
Still, he did not give up. Days-old puddles splashed under his feet and sprayed around him while the chase went on, into the alley. She turned a corner up ahead, so he raced after. Dank smells lifted to his nostrils while the cold air burnt his eyes. The woman jolted to a left turn he knew went to a dead end. Excitement raced as his footsteps grew louder and quicker in the chilly alleyway.
Then he rounded the corner, coming face to face with the horror he had so long sought after, the one that took his sister.
Except she was not there. Neither of them were. Only a short, dead-end alleyway, ending at a grimy brick wall, covered in moss and mold.
It was like losing her all over again. This was his chance to get Lilly and Grace back, but he lost the chance. Unable to believe his eyes, he walked forward, closer to the wall. Confused, pained, and depressed, he walked forward, one hand meeting the slime, which oozed under his fingers. He hardly felt it, though; it felt like the slime was covering his heart inside, much thicker and worse.
Leaning against the wall, head throbbing and heart stomping, his breathing came out in short bursts, steadying to a normal rate with time. The alley was colder, and cold chills racked his body violently.
“You’ve lost. I’ve got her.”
He felt the breath on his ear, while her face neared his before pulling away with a jerk. Spinning around, he saw nothing, but could hear her feet clapping down, spraying water and speeding away. Where was she going? He would give anything to know, because there, too, would be Lilly.
The first thought in his mind was not about how she had remained unseen, or if she was dangerous. It was about his only, beloved, lost sister. His Lilly.
He heard the voice in his head, raspy and wicked, repeating itself like a machine gun rapidly firing into his skull. Feeling his legs go weak and a rush of weariness sweep over him, Michael fell to the ground, kneeling there as if awaiting execution.
I’ve got her. I’ve got her. I’ve got her. I’ve got her….
13. Files
“All this paperwork.” Detective Daniel Smith sighed to his partner “Can’t get any real work done.”
The detective and his partner sat working on a backbreaking case, beads of sweat running into their eyes. With hands aching and eyes weary, they flipped pages and scribbled notes, longing for the day's work to be over. Outside of the police station, Marcy was bustling all about, heading to lunch or taking a comfortable stroll. But there was no rest for the two men at a desk, bound by invisible chains.
“Not that you do any.” Steven grinned. “All Detective Smith does is sit around.
”
“I do not.”
“Give me an instance where you actually worked as hard as me on a case,” Steven said, leaning back in his chair with arms extended behind. “I do all the dirty work, and you get the credit.”
“You want an example?”
“Yeah, I do.” Steven sat up straight, laughing defiantly at Detective Smith.
They often bickered like this, but it was all in good fun. Most days, full of strenuous work, they needed a release valve, if only for a few moments while they solved and investigated cases. All in all, their police department was subpar, even compared to the handful of petty crimes they battled. Shoplifting, theft, indecent exposure, speeding; these were normally the extent of criminal activity. Every once in awhile, something more serious would turn up. Stalking, a rare occurrence, was the most thrilling thing that happened. Some may call such a description sick, but the two underappreciated, overworked police officers felt this way.
“Well, I’ll give you an example. You see all these papers on my desk? And these notes over here?” Detective Smith gestured around at his cluttered workspace.
“Yeah, I know, I know. You work so terribly hard looking at pictures of crime scenes.” Steven shook his head.
Detective Smith stared at him, concealing a smile behind his hand. “I am trying to find two missing kids. This is the biggest case we’ve had in Marcy since... well, I don’t even know. This is like the Lost Three all over again, but now it’s me that has a chance to solve it.”
“Just for the fame?”
“No, not the fame. I want to help these families.” The detective glanced down at his desk, refusing to meet his partner’s gaze. “You know what happened to my sister.”
“When you were younger?”
“Yes,” Detective Smith nodded. “I don’t want these families to go through the same thing.”
Steven nodded and asked, “Is there anything I can do? You normally have me look through case files.”
“Yeah, sure, but let me run something by you real quick.”
“I guess. Break isn’t for another” -he checked his watch- “half an hour I think. I’m going to lunch with the wife.”
“I’m staying here, working.” Detective Smith snatched the notepad from his desk and ran his finger over it.
“So, anyways, here’s what I think. Both older siblings of the missing girls described a woman, who they had seen out on the street, according to them. Both of the girls missing were about the same age. Both reported seeing some sort of lady walking away soon after, although the Gray boy only saw a shadow of sorts. On top of that, these two boys were best friends, as were the little girls.”
“That’s a lot of similarities to the Lost Three,” Steven pointed out casually.
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking. Back in that case, the ‘disappearances’ turned out to be a kidnapping, although nobody was caught and sentenced. I think it’s the same here. There are so many similarities between the two cases and between the two missing girls, this had to have been premeditated, and committed by one person. What’s something we’ve learned about criminals in such a small town?”
Steven, looking out the window, answered automatically. “They’re almost always repeat-offenders.”
“Exactly.” Detective Smith chewed on the tip of his pen. “I bet you my salary this lady has done it before. I’m saying ‘before,’ because both kids said she looked old, so having that long of a life means she must have done it previously and isn’t just starting. I bet-”
“You say you’ll bet me your salary or celery?”
Detective Smith had a crazed, determined look in his eyes that Steven had seen few times before. “You can have my celery and my salary, if you want. I’m sure of this.”
“Well, they’re worth about the same.” They had a good laugh over this before Steven continued. “So what do you want me to do? I’m on board with the theory, but we need facts.”
“Do what you’re best at.”
Steven glanced at his hands. “You know how many paper cuts I got from those old police files last time? It’s like asking me to dive into a pool full of tacks.”
“Get your swimming suit on.”
Shaking his head, Steven pushed back his chair and smiled. It was forced, and lines were beginning to form around his face, along with bags under the bright green eyes. Weariness and need for sleep seemed to resonate from him like a bad cologne.
“Before I start digging, I think I’ll take lunch break a little early today. Alright with you?”
“Yeah, sure; see you in a bit,” Detective Smith said, raising a hand to acknowledge his friend’s departure.
In the next ten or fifteen minutes, Detective Smith got a lot more work done than he normally would have. This case felt personal to him, and he wanted to help the families; not just because the head detective told him to, either. Every case in Hardy, the neighboring small town, went directly to him and stayed nagging at him, just a bunch of tan folders standing on the desktop, adding to clutter already visible. This case, however, would go to the head detective if it turned out to be a kidnapping, and a serial kidnapping at that. If he could get most of the work done, though, and produce results, he might be allowed to keep working on it. While helping the town was most important, the recognition seemed, admittedly, a close second.
Sighing and sipping the tea on his desk, very bitter, just as he liked, Detective Smith looked out the large window to the left of his and Steven’s desks. It was gloomy down here in the city, despite sunbeams shining high overhead. The dark, murky buildings seemed to counter it powerfully, and all the trash lying about overcame the natural cheeriness. Coke bottles here, smothered cigarettes there; the whole city was just a waste dump with roads, electricity, and the occasional person.
Actually, there was such a person just across the road right now. It was not much more than a dark silhouette, but he could make out long hair sprawling down her -he guessed it was a her- back. She was not moving, though, just standing. A bench was only a few feet away, lonely and still damp from the rains.
Why doesn’t she sit? And didn’t the boys say something about long, white hair?
Yes, they had. But that was not quite white hair; it seemed more like a faint golden color, maybe with some gray or maybe a very light blonde. Although, that could have been the sunlight, or a trick of the eye.
He leant down, head in his hands, and shook himself mentally. Looking back up, the lady was nowhere to be seen. The bench was there still, and everything else, like that seldom-used trash can, but there was no lady.
Maybe she walked on by. A normal thing to do, anyways. Just keep walking.
Detective Smith stood up and walked out towards the exit. He needed to steady his nerves, just stimulate them and keep them from racing away before his mind could catch up. Something about that lady seemed insidious. There was nothing unusual about it, just a woman walking up the sidewalk, taking a midday trot, possibly towards some sandwich deli.
He replayed the scene in his mind, walking out of the door and towards his favorite bar. A drink or two would do him some good. But now, in his head, was that lady holding something? Memories are foggy, at best, but it seemed certain. What was that in her hand, clenched firmly?
Then, something clicked in his mind, and he saw it. A doll. Held in her tight grasp.
Although, that could be the sunlight, or a trick of my eye.
You’re a detective; you know what you saw.
Just keep walking. It was just the sun.
You know what you saw. Don’t deny it.
Just keep walking.
14. Accomplices
“What do you think they’ll say?” Brandon asked, feeling a strange sensation of nervousness and excitement.
“I don’t know, but if they help us, it’ll make things easier for sure.”
Michael and him stood side-by-side looking towards the small, brick building. Like everything else in Marcy, it blended together with the surro
unding buildings, although each and every one could be radically different. They all looked and smelled the same from the sidewalk, until you stepped inside, where it was evident which type of building you had just entered. Smells, sights, and the people gave it away in an instant.
This particular one, everybody knew, was the police department. Only noticeable because of the parking spaces all around it, whereas the other buildings looked more like homes with streetside spaces meant for cars only, this building showed no signs of being different. Only one word was etched just below the roof, although it was so small you could only read it when standing close by: Police.
Neither of their parents knew they had come here; earlier in the day Michael’s mom gave him permission to ride downtown with Brandon and his father. While it was only a grunt, Michael knew what she meant, and rushed over to his friend’s house right away. Anything to get away from that house, anything at all.
Brandon asked him the other day if he wanted to go down to Marcy and see if there was anything to buy. His father had a meeting at the church, and it was expected to last all afternoon. In a few days, he had to go back to work. When Grace disappeared, his boss granted him a fifteen-day leave of absence, but that was almost expired. In fact, the same day Mr. Gray went back to work, Michael would get his bandages off at last.
After waving goodbye to the car speeding away through minimal traffic, they had turned towards the shops and Brandon began chattering about a board game he always had wanted to give a go at.
“Brandon,” Michael had said, snapping him out of the ramblings, “I want to go see the police.”
“What for? All they did after... after it was ask questions. I don’t need to answer any more of those.”
“I know, man. Same here. But I’m gonna be the one asking this time.”
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