She

by David Duane Kummer

  With that, he ended the call, leaving Michael dumbfounded. Leaning against the wall, he rested his head on it, anxious for tomorrow to come, but feeling doubtful. Whatever he would find out seemed important; at least, it was to the detective.

  Where is she right now? What is she doing?

  Out of the window, he saw the moon beginning to rise in the sky. It was a clichéd thought that came to mind, sure. But in a situation like this it was comforting, or uneasy. He was not sure which.

  Something his mother had once told him, long ago, when he was spending the night away at his grandparent’s house. They had long since passed away, but the memory remained, and with it the feeling of hope that it introduced. That was beginning to die, too.

  See that moon up there? No matter where you are, I’ll be looking at the exact same one. And if you look up at it, and feel lonely, just remember it’ll always lead you back to me.

  It was the same moon as it was then, and somewhere out there, not far away, she was watching it too. Either with tearful eyes or a smiling face, she was there, seeing it. He knew.

  Just remember, it’ll always lead you back to me.

  Or me to you.

  Lilly.

  *************************************************

  The door clawed open, leaving scratches on the floor, when Michael pushed the wobbly frame. A few steps in, and the thick scent of pastries and cappuccinos flooded his senses. What the detective had called the “diner over the creek” was actually the Lookout Coffee House, a local, well-run establishment with business growing every day, as more and more people needed a jump-start to their mornings. It was a nice place to spend the morning, for sure, but now at nearly lunch time the herds had dissipated and rejoined in delis and diners all along the streets.

  A handful of booths lined one wall, typical red vinyl, scratched in some places, torn in others, all with a wooden base. All along the walls were odd trinkets and pictures, quite a few with either Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe, though there were so many of different kinds it was impossible to see each one. Only one man sat in a booth, and a handful of others at tables across the room. Immediately, Michael recognized the back of Detective Smith’s head in the far booth, facing away from the door.

  Despite not being particularly quiet while he walked over, the detective did not budge, or even breathe it seemed. He stared at the cup of bitter tea resting on his miniscule plate, back straight and neck tense. Michael walked closer and tapped on one shoulder, fighting back an awkward, curious smile.

  Detective Smith leapt out of his seat, grabbing the attention of everyone. They all turned to see a gruff, serious-looking man, standing half-way and staring in shock at a teenage boy, hands clenched in fists. Michael stepped back a few feet, his hands raised and eyes wide in a look of bewilderment.

  “Sorry, sorry,” grumbled the detective as he sat back down.

  Michael took a seat across from him, smiling in embarrassment at anyone who looked their way, still in the dark himself about what had happened.

  “Why’re you so tense?”

  “Nothing, really; it’s just…” Detective Smith’s mumbling voice trailed off, his eyes peering through the smooth tabletop.

  “Does it have something to do with what you wanted to tell me?” Michael asked. He was not sure why, or how, but the thought came to his mind all of a sudden. How could such a tough, rough detective be daunted, and scared witless, by something found in simple police files?

  “Yeah, it does. But, before you can understand, I need to tell you something about her.”

  “Lilly?” Michael exclaimed, gathering a couple peculiar stares from the other customers in the coffee house.

  “No, not her. Well, not directly. About the-”

  “What do you mean not directly? If there’s something you know, tell me now.” His face took on a serious, unwavering expression.

  The detective smirked behind his lifted tea cup, before setting it back with a quiet clatter on the plate. He was beginning to regain some of his confidence. “Hold on, now. I’ll get to that soon. What I know -about the woman- is who she is and what she does. The files-”

  “Well, we know what she does already!” Michael said loudly again, starting to stand up. “And now you know who she is, so let’s go arrest her; get my sister back!”

  “It’s not so simple,” said Detective Smith, shaking his head and motioning for Michael to sit back down.

  He had risen from his seat in the fervor of the moment, beginning to slide his way out of the booth. Seeing the exhausted but stubborn expression on the detective’s face, he sat back down with a muffled thud, itching to do something productive. Any step was a good step in his mind, even if it was the wrong way.

  “Why not?” he asked. If there was a reason for their stupid inactivity, he demanded to know at that very moment.

  “Because... It just isn’t. I can’t explain it.”

  “Well, try! I need to know apparently, if it’s not so simple.”

  Usually, the teenager’s tone of voice would set Detective Smith on edge, but this was different. He understood the pain, buried in his own memories long ago, and knew back then he would have acted much the same way.

  “To understand what’s happening now, you need to understand what’s happened before. Her origins. Her story.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that story?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m going to tell you, but you’ll have to listen first.

  “Twenty years ago -when I was a kid right here in Hardy and Marcy- three children went missing in the span of about thirty days. One teenage girl went missing, along with her younger brother, and his best friend, also a young boy. None of them were ever found, and it is widely regarded that they either were killed, died of natural causes, or something like that. Anyone associated with the disappearances, as a policeman, reporter, or even just a well-informed citizen of the town, has moved away or died since then. Those who remain here are now mentally incapable of remembering what happened then. The three missing cases, which I looked into, are now considered unsolved, closed cases. Cold cases, they may be called. Some people -well, lots of people nowadays- believe the three disappearances are either not connected, or hardly connected enough to be of any interest.”

  Michael stared at him with an indifferent, testy expression. “What does that have to do with my sister?”

  Detective Smith answered him calmly with another question. “Have you ever heard of the Lost Three?” Michael nodded his head, just barely, and the detective continued. “Twenty years before those disappearances -the year was ‘55, I believe- I just told you about three other children went missing. The first one to go, a teenage boy, had a girlfriend, and she was heartbroken after he was missing for a few days. Then, her little brother, a toddler, also went missing, and for a week she thought about killing herself and just ending it. She was very open and talked to her parents about it, but their talks began to stop. They assumed she had gotten over it, like it was just a phase. When she went missing nearly a week afterwards, everyone checked the rivers and other places where she may have killed herself, but no body was ever found, despite the parent’s frantic attempts and many rewards placed for finding her. Someone was eventually arrested, because the police thought they were kidnapped, but he was released soon after. These three kids are remembered and honored in the summer every year, because that is about when they went missing. Many stories have been made up about who did it and when exactly it happened, but none of them are true. Nobody knew what happened to them, until now. I know.”

  Before Michael could interrupt, he went on. “Twenty years before that, back in ‘35, another well-connected trio went missing. Two best friends, both of them teenage boys, were first. Along with them, one of the boy’s younger sister was never found. These cases, being very controversial, resulted in the head detective at the time losing his position and being fired altogether from the department. Now, much like all of the others before them, th
ese three have been forgotten and the case considered unsolvable..

  Michael asked, “ What others before them?”

  Detective Smith closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought. “Every twenty years back, for as long as the police records go, there has been a string of three to four missing people, most of the disappearances being thought kidnappings at the time -or, in the teenager’s cases, running away. Every twenty years, though, there are three or four that go mis-”

  “Just like now.”

  Detective Smith gave him a warning look. “Yes. But there is one other thing. Back in ‘35, another person went missing, but most forget about her, because it happened before all of the others.”

  “Who was it?”

  Detective Smith said, “Did you not see my face? Don’t interrupt me. And it was a baby girl, just over one years old. But it doesn’t stop there, either. Exactly eighty years before that, according to all the documents and vague reports I found, another baby girl went missing, and if you believe the legends, eighty years prior to that another one. There is a pattern here, plain as day, but even I didn’t see it at first.

  “Yesterday, an officer came up to me and said he found something in the case files I asked him to look over. He noticed the almost unbelievable pattern and told me, and I told the head detective what he had found. He blew me off, so I went to the chief of police here in town. He refused to accept it, saying he did not want to cast a shadow on the department and previous policemen, and reopening the cases would do just that. Steven, the officer I had look into it, got moved out west, and the chief threatened me with a similar fate if I investigate further. Only me, him, and the head detective know, and now you too. I had to tell you, of course, because this could help get your sister back. I don’t know how much more I can do for you, but this is a start.”

  Michael scratched at his chin, thinking hard. “I don’t see how this helps us know who she is. To commit all of those kidnappings, she would have to be like hundreds of years old for sure!”

  The detective nodded. “My opinion is that it’s some kind of chain reaction. The woman kidnaps and murders or does something to the victims, who are all kids or teenagers, since I know your age-group doesn’t like being classified as kids. Then she trains someone else to be her heir or apprentice. That women continues on with the pattern.”

  “Who does she get to follow her? That’s just... terrible!” Michael exclaimed in a whisper.

  “People will do anything, if the right person leads them,” said the detective, shaking his head sadly.

  “But answer me this,” he went on. “What purpose does the baby girl serve? Every 80 years a baby girl goes missing; that’s certain. Always a baby girl, and always 80 years. The other children have a pattern, I’m sure -and I’ll write it down for you here in a sec- but the baby is the key. She has some major role, and I think she -the baby- becomes the next in line, the heir. In some, twisted way, the woman trains her for twenty years, until she is a young woman and goes out on her own to terrorize the town. The older woman dies, and the young one carries on when she is 20, like we said, and then 40, 60, until 80, when she then takes another baby for her own.”

  Michael thought for a moment and said, “She would still have to be at least 100 before she dies. That’s crazy to happen so many times in a row with so many women.”

  Detective Smith nodded and said, “I agree. Unless there is some supernatural occurrence happening, controlling the women, I don’t see how it’s possible. Maybe they have some sort of secret practices that prolong lifespans? I’m dumbfounded, honestly; I don’t know all the details. Every theory I think of is crazier than the last.

  “All I can say is this: To beat her, you need to know her. Feel free to share everything I told you with your three friends; they are in as much danger as you.”

  Michael looked out the window and said, “It’s getting late. And I have so many questions, but I know you can’t answer them right now.”

  Detective Smith looked at him with compassion. “I really want to help you, kid, but there’s only so much I can do. I’ve never had much of a family besides my parents, but there was a little sister when I was younger. I know how you feel.”

  “What happened with her?”

  “That’s a story for another time,” he said, standing up and getting ready to leave. “I do want to help you, but there’s only so much I can do. Until next time. And ask your friend when I can see that notebook.”

  He nodded at Michael, and slapped a small piece of paper down on the table with his writing plastered all over it. Then he walked out of the diner.

  16. Hermits

  “And then he handed me this,” Michael finished. He had repeated, almost verbatim, everything Detective Smith had told him. Brandon looked thoughtful. And afraid.

  The two of them sat alone at a picnic table, under the shade of an incredibly large, full tree. All around them, Pine-Tree Park was bustling with folks. A man ran by without waving, quickly passed by a lady on a bike. Behind them a ways, a middle-aged couple strolled, the leash to a brown dog in his hand, a small child in her arms. Everyone seemed to be here today, possibly preparing for the barbecue that weekend.

  “Can I see it?”

  Michael handed over the slip of paper without hesitation, eager for somebody else to share his worries. Christian and Crystal were not here; Michael did not call them. Brandon wondered why at the moment, but he imagined Michael would let him know soon enough.

  The paper was wrinkled from being crumpled and folded many times. It also had that light, air-thin texture, which often-handled paper acquires after not very long. Words and numbers were scrawled on it, apparently some sort of chart. According to Michael’s story, the detective had made it. Judging from the shaky text, he was in a hurry to get it down. Maybe he was worried he would forget the facts; maybe he was afraid. Afraid of the unknown and unseen.

  It read:

  Gathered from Records, Town Legends, Files, Etc.

  1835- 1 teen, 2 little girls

  1855- 2 teens, 1 little girl, 1 baby girl

  1875- 2 teens, 1 little boy

  1895- 1 teen, 2 little boys

  1915- 1 teen, 2 little girls

  1935- 2 teens, 1 little girl, 1 baby girl

  1955- 2 teens, 1 little boy

  1975- 1 teen, 2 little boys

  Notes: No gender pattern with teens. Little kids pattern- boy/boy/girl/girl. Always back-to-back. Not every kid from families taken. 1955’s known as Lost Three. No substantial evidence before 1835. People arrested for kidnappings, but nobody ever convicted.

  “So what do you think?” Brandon asked, looking up from the paper.

  Michael shrugged, looking defeated. “I’ve been studying it, and thinking, and all I’ve got is a few miles-long theories.”

  “Well, let’s look at it together, then.”

  He looked up in surprise at Brandon. Even since that terrible night, Brandon was still one to crack an occasional joke, although with much less enthusiasm and no laughter from himself. He expected to be the butt of one this time around, or at least have Brandon join in the hopeless emotions coursing through him. Instead, Brandon had offered to help.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, man. We’re in this together, like it or not. This is just another problem we gotta solve. I want them back just as much as you.”

  Michael could not help grinning as he stood up and situated himself on the other side of the picnic table. Would passersby think it was peculiar, maybe awkward for them to be sitting so close, alone at a park bench? Maybe. That did not matter; what mattered was solving the problem. Together, they had a better chance of finding the answer.

  “Well, first look at the teen patterns,” Michael said.

  He felt newly invigorated and ready to take on the world. A good friend can be like a fire underneath you, bring the wind to your sails.

  “Alright. I really wish we knew more of the years, though.”

  “Maybe th
ere aren’t any,” Michael said. “This could be when it all started.” He put a finger on 1835.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Brandon responded, shaking his head. “Look at the teens. 1, 2, 2, 1, 1, 2, 2, 1. They’re pairs.”

  Michael nodded his head. “And the detective’s note says that there is no pattern in the gender, which means it’s just the numbers.”

  “So it would have started twenty years before that, in... 1815.”

  “Maybe,” Michael said. “Or not. It could have started earlier, just there are no records.”

  “So this could have started at the beginning of the world!” Brandon exclaimed. “We could be fighting Satan!”

  Michael laughed and shook his head. “I think you’ve been reading Pilgrim’s Progress too much.”

  “Hey, you know a Christian book! Congratulations, man.”

  They both laughed loudly, until the suspecting looks of people walking by quieted them. This was a bad situation, and there was hardly any reason to laugh anymore. Thank God for Brandon, who could turn a joke out of anything. Everything seems much funnier when there’s nothing to laugh about.

  “So what about the kids?” Brandon asked.

  “That’s trickier,” Michael said, staring at the paper with an unwavering gaze. “There is some pattern here; we just have to find it.”

  “Why?” Brandon wondered out loud. Michael turned to stare, his eyes asking for a further explanation. “I mean, if we know one teenager is going to be taken, why does the kids pattern? We already know who’s taken. Our sisters!”

  “Because I want to know who this lady is,” Michael answered after a moment of thought. “She is pure evil, and I want to know what causes it. This is more than just getting Lilly and Grace back; it’s beating whatever terrible force has controlled our town for decades, maybe centuries.”

  “That’s a very grownup thing to say,” Brandon commented.

  “It’s a very grownup thing to deal with.”