by Ed Helenski
“Will do” I said and stood watching as she went in. I was falling in love. If this had been one of my dates from the city we would be in her apartment in bed right now. Maggie was different. She would give herself to me when she was sure I was giving myself to her. And unlike a typical city date, making love wouldn’t be the end, but rather the beginning.
Not ready to go home, I wandered down to the office. Sitting on my desk was the folder Meg had given me. Turning on the old gooseneck lamp on the desk I opened it. Inside were some typed notes by Meg, and a Xerox of some handwritten pages. I looked at the handwritten pages first.
They were scrawled in a childish hand, and seemed to be part of a diary or journal.
“July 15
It’s not right. I thought at first it was my own fawlt but it was not right. Maybe I did do something wrong. Maybe I am being punished for being bad. I know I was looking at those magazines in my dads room and I shouldn’t have and maybe god is punishing me for it. But he is a grownup and should be…he supposed to know better. He isnt’ supposed to be doing that. Stuff like that is wrong. He hurt me.
July 17
I finally stopped bleeding. I been stuffing lots of toilet paper down in my underwear to keep the blood from getting on stuff. The pair I had on that day, well I threw those away and hope mom don’t notice. It still hurts. At first I thought I was gonna die. Now I just wish I would.
July 21
I found a place online. It’s called a safe place. It is a site made by another kid who had this happen to him. All kinds of peopole write stuff there. I read some of the things from some doctor. And some of the stuff other people wrote. Other people this happened to. They say its not my foult, but I still think it is. One thing they said to do was write about it. That s what was on there, lots of stuff kids wrote. I wont put my stuff on there, I don’t want anyone to know, but I guess it might help to write it down. Here goes.
It was at the fair last week. The one for the firemen. I always liked the firemen. I wanted to be one when I grew up. Not anymore. I, I. He was there. Running a game booth with the darts. I lost my quarter and didn’t hit nothing. He had that neat uniform on, and when he saw I missed he asked me if I wanted to see the fire engine. Yeah I told him. I wanted to. It was so cool to get to touch it and everything. Then he asked me if I wanted to see the special stuff. The stuff only the firemen get to use. I wanted to, so he took me back to the firehouse. There wasn’t no one else there, and he took me to the back. It was dark and I was getting scared. He told me it would be ok. He had his uniform on. He was supposed to be in charge. Then he made me take down my pants. And he hurt me. Bad. I don’t wanna write this no more.”
I didn’t want to read it any more, either. Where had Meg gotten this? Who had written it? I read her typed notes. She didn’t say the name of the person it belonged to. She had seen the boy using the school computer, and being nosy (Meg called it being investigative) she had gone to its browser and called up the history. He had been to a website for sexually abused children. She started following him around, and saw that he had a book with him all the time. A journal. She waited till he had phys ed and swiped it. Once she read what was in it she went to the office and copied the pertinent pages, then put it back. Brazen girl, this Meg. Maybe she would be a reporter, yet.
I had to wonder at the girl’s ability to sneak around. How had she not gotten in trouble for missing class? Maybe she had. I had learned long ago that we are willing to get in a lot of trouble to get a story. The rest of her notes seemed deliberately vague. She had gotten an idea who the story might have referred to. And done some questioning. Apparently she suspected there was another victim. One who might be persuaded to talk. That must be why she wanted the recorder. That was all she had. It was enough. I was shaking in horror at what I held in my hands. I debated calling Meg, but knew that would seem out of place. I hated the idea that this person was running around, perhaps doing this right now. I would see Meg tomorrow when she brought me her copy. We would have a long talk. Then I would go see Reggie. He was having as bad a week as I was.
Around The Corner Wednesday October 25
It is nearly time for Halloween in The Corners. I went for a walk this past Sunday (with our lovely teacher Maggie Cowell, I am proud to say) and took a long look at the houses in our town, decked out for the season. It put me in mind of Halloween when I was a boy here, of what has stayed the same, and of what has changed.
When I was young, a typical Halloween might have gone something like this. At some point in the month of October an old pair of pants and an old shirt would be found, and Mom would be cajoled into sewing them together and closing up the ends. On one of the days when Dad would force the rake into my hands I would gather some of the leaves and stuff my figure. We, at some point, would make our way out to the Crowley farm to buy some pumpkins. One would be carved into a jack o’ lantern; another would become my bogey man’s head.
The front of the house, in addition to the figure and the pumpkin would be decorated with cobs of Indian corn, and maybe some cut out ghosts, witches or gravestones. On the night of the 31st we would dress up, mostly as ghosts or hobos (a politically incorrect term today, I know) and make our way door to door, getting popcorn balls, and candy apples, and a good many other treats. Some houses would be toilet papered, a few might be egged (though I never had a taste for that particular brand of mischief) and out on the road to Blanchard an outhouse or two might get tipped over. That was, in a nutshell, Halloween in the Corners.
Some things are the same. As we walked among the streets we saw many leaf stuffed boogey men. There were still plenty of pumpkin jack o’ lanterns, although there were a good many more plastic ones. And there were still cobs of corn.
Many things are different. The cut outs of witches and ghosts and so on mostly come from K-mart, not dad’s jigsaw. Homemade treats are suspect, and must be discarded. Trick or treat now takes place on Saturday, not on Halloween, and begins at 4 PM so the little ones can be home before dark. Are these good things? Perhaps not. Are the necessary things? Probably. The world, and despite our best efforts, The Corners HAS changed.
The days when our children could roam free and be safe are gone. We need to be vigilant, watchful, and cautious. We lament the passing of that simpler era, but our lamentations don’t change the facts.
We have had a terrible loss here in our town. Mike Mistick’s daughter Sioban, as you all know, is missing. We are all hoping and praying for her safe return. Each person in this town is doing all they can to find her. These words are surely not needed, but none the less I print them: If anyone has information, any information at all, that might help locate this girl, please contact Reggie Picket. A picture of Sioban and the number of the constable are located in the Police section of today’s paper.
As this Halloween arrives, pay particular care to your children. Ignore their protests and go with them onto the streets. It is important. It doesn’t have to be a city; it doesn’t even have to be Halloween. Wherever you go, there might be monsters.
Thomas Tharon
Chapter 9
I had wanted to talk to Meg about her folder on Monday, but she was in and out so quickly I didn’t have a chance to catch her. She left her copy, a piece about the ghost stories that she had collected from some of the kids in school. I was busy most of the day getting the paper ready to be sent to the printer’s server in Meadville. By the time afternoon rolled around I had some time to think.
Mostly what I thought about, I am ashamed to say, wasn’t the poor boy Meg had found. Mostly I thought about Maggie. The way the sun made her hair look like some polished oaken halo. The way the corners of her eyes crinkled up when she smiled, which was often. The soft lilt her voice had. The way her lips looked while she talked. And how badly I wanted to feel those lips against mine. I had it bad all right.
I called her, hoping to get together, but she said she was supposed to drive over to Siegly and visit a fellow teacher, who was out with th
e flu. She would be subbing for the woman for a week or more and wanted to get her lesson plans. I was disappointed, but just hearing Maggie’s voice made me feel a little better.
I debated calling Meg at her house, but again decided that I had best wait for her to come to me. Things were difficult enough around town without appearing any more strange than I already did. I swung by the Dinor, saw that Sarah wasn’t working, and went in to have dinner. Chancy made me a burger with the works, a side of fries, and as an afterthought added a pickle, just so I would have a vegetable. Business was slow on a Monday night; a couple of teens I didn’t know came in to eat, probably before going home to supper. Chuck Peters had the special, which was meatloaf and gravy, and after a bit Tommy Slicdale came in and ordered the same. He nodded to me, and I nodded back, but we didn’t exchange any words. I couldn’t help but think of him coming on to Maggie. If I spoke to him I was apt to turn nasty, and that would be a mistake. While I was having coffee Jason Hurley came in for his supper. I though about the story Cora had told me. It might be worth while to talk to Jason at some point. I certainly had to talk to his father. A column about the town’s oldest resident would be a sure winner. Maybe I would go over to Shickley’s this week and do that.
I was just about to leave when Reggie came in. He walked over and sat next to me at the counter. “Already had your supper, did you?” he asked me. Chancy brought him a cup of coffee.
“I did. Was just getting up to go.” Reggie nodded and ordered the special from Chancy.
“You gonna be at your office later on?” He made the question sound casual, but I had the feeling that was for the benefit of those within earshot. He clearly wanted to see me about something and it wasn’t about the newspaper.
“I expect I will. Why don’t you stop by after you have your dinner?” I said, trying to sound just as casual. I left a ten on the counter to pay for my meal and a healthy tip for Chancy. Reggie nodded and went back to his coffee. He was a cool customer all right, with his big, slow looks and those icy blue eyes that missed nothing.
I went back to the office and decided to do some bookkeeping while I waited. Using the spreadsheet I had created on the PC, I filled in the latest round of expenses and payments. I had been a bit optimistic about the paper’s profit margin. Even with what amounted to a full slate of ads the income would not cover the costs, let alone allow me to pay myself anything. My rates, which I had lowered repeatedly to lure in advertising, were simply too low. And my circulation wasn’t really high enough to justify anything more.
I couldn’t very well run the paper at a loss forever. I had enough money saved to live, especially here in The Corners, for quite some time, but not enough to put out the paper for more than a year or so. I had planned on making some extra money by hopefully syndicating the column. I decided it was time to call in a favor. I emailed Larry about the idea.
Larry.
How are things in the big city? Hopefully quieter than here. We have a missing teen, one who makes Lolita seem like a nun. And some other odd things going on as well. Still waters run deep and all that. To answer you, no, I have no openings. In fact, I was looking for a favor from you. Know any editors who might bite at a syndication of my column? I attached the ones written so far. Let me know what you think.
Tom
Reggie showed up around seven. He had an odd look in his eye, and carried a cardboard box with him, a case of Yukon Jack. It wasn’t filled with liquor, though; it was filled with file folders and notebooks. “I want to show you some things, and maybe pick your brain a bit.” He reached inside the box and pulled out one full bottle of Yukon. “I didn’t come empty handed though.” He set the box down on the desk, and went over to the coffee maker. He brought back two cups and filled them with the brown, syrupy liquid. “To solving mysteries” he said and drank his down. I followed suit.
For those of you who have never encountered this northern drink, it is a sickly sweet, one hundred proof, deceptively easygoing booze, like a Canadian Southern Comfort. It creeps up on you, and you can drink far too much of it before you realize just how hammered you are. I had a feeling it was not the last toast of the night.
Reggie pulled a battered notebook from the stack. “Elmer’s notes. He had an idea about Jenny’s disappearance. Thought it was connected to some other open files.” He thumbed through the pages until he came to a little chart, showing dates and names. “Elmer was a bit fanciful in his thinking. He kept his mouth shut mostly, but his mind was always going. I don’t know that this is anything but foolishness, and that’s a fact. But I thought it might be nice to get another opinion. One I could count on to be discrete. If you follow my meaning.”
“I do.” I said and took the notebook from him. At the top of the page was the chart, made out in black ink. The last name on it was Jenny Jacobs, who vanished in May of 1994. It listed her as last being seen at the penny candy store that used to be just around the corner from my house on Cleveland. She was fourteen.
Above her another girl was listed as a missing person. Sally Mae Simpson, a runaway from Clearfield, was last seen hitching on County Road 6016, which becomes Main Street in The Corners. A motorist recalled seeing her about 3 PM on March 15, 1993, just outside of town. The ides of March, I thought, not a good omen. She was fourteen.
Before that there was one Christine Mallard. A runaway from Siegly she was seen hanging around town for several days in August of 1992. Wherever she was reported to be, she was gone by the time Elmer got there. Eventually she stopped showing up anywhere. She was sixteen.
The very top name on the list surprised me. From all the way back in 1991, this girl was from The Corners. Emily Barker had not come home from school in the last week of September. This was Bertram and Barbara’s daughter. I had never known that she had vanished, I just assumed she was grown and gone. Despite an extensive search she never turned up. She was fifteen.
Reggie watched as I read the information. When I looked up he handed me the Styrofoam cup filled with more Yukon Jack. I took it and gulped it down. “The Barker’s daughter?”
“Yup” Reggie nodded. “Made quite the stir at the time. Eventually they just gave up hope I guess. No reason to think she isn’t still out there somewhere. Same is true of all these girls. Just runaways who never came back. But somehow…” he looked away, out the front window, “somehow I don’t think they are out there at all. I don’t know why exactly, but I think each and every one of those girls is dead, and that’s a fact. And…” he added, “I don’t think they ever left The Corners.”
That gave me a chill. What he was suggesting, what he was feeling, was that there was a predator, right here in the town. A serial killer. A molester. That made me think of Meg’s investigation. I almost said something then, but I wanted to talk to Meg first. I looked back at the page. In pencil, at the bottom, two other names had been added. Mellissa Puerty was missing from Coudersport and last seen on State Road 144 (which becomes Cleveland Street) just outside of town on July 4, 1996. And just last year a runaway from Siegly, Vanna Stewart, was last seen panhandling outside of the Pizza Parlor on August 16th. Both girls were fourteen.
“Did you add these names?” He just nodded. “Jesus. Do you really think it’s possible?” He looked away and didn’t speak. I poured us both anther cup. We drank.
“I just don’t know, Tom. I was hoping you would tell me I was damn crazy and that Elmer was indulging in wishful thinking. And that there was no need to add another name to that list.” If what Reggie was thinking was true, someone had killed at least seven young girls. It boggled the mind.
For a long while we sat in silence, periodically slugging another cupful of liquor. Finally I broke the silence. “I can’t tell you that you are crazy, Reggie. I have no way of knowing anything. How often do runaways disappear, and not turn up later?”
“Not unheard of, and that’s a fact. Girls, boys, they get involved in things, prostitution, crime, drugs. Thing is, if the parents are the sort to keep looking
, odds are the kids are the sort to eventually make contact. The ones that are gone for good are usually the ones the parents could care less about. None of these kids fit that profile. Still, it DOES happen often enough. Kids find someone to live with, sometimes even get married. Or they end up out of the picture elsewhere. And never get identified. Still.”
I drank from my cup. “Still,” I agreed. “Not one of these kids is from very far away. And not one of them ever turns up anywhere past The Corners, is that it?”
“That’s it.” Reggie lit another smoke and sat staring out the window into the darkness. I picked up one of the folders and started leafing through it. Missing person report filed in Clearfield. A State Police bulletin. A national database fax. Reports of interviews. A notice of a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for Christine Mallard. A reward offered by the parents of Sally Mae Simpson, for fifty thousand.
“This girl isn’t some welfare kid on the run” I should have said wasn’t. If Sally Mae were still alive she would now be 21. “This girl came from a family with at least some money.”
Reggie leaned over, blowing a cloud of smoke out. He saw the file I was looking at. “Yeah, Simpson. Her daddy has a fairly large dental practice. Offices in Clearfield, DuBois, Bradford. Not filthy rich mind you, but not a pauper. If you look further you’ll see that got upped to one hundred thousand. Nobody ever claimed it. Last I heard no one had ever even tried. That was a weird one all right. From Elmer’s notes it’s clear this girl isn’t lost, something happened to her. Typical story. She wasn’t getting along with her Mom. Of course I ain’t never seen a fourteen year old girl who did, and that’s a fact.” Reggie’s words became more cornpone sounding as the liquor took effect. I myself was having a hard time focusing and felt the room getting ready to spin. “Turns out she had been in touch with a friend from horsey camp. You know those summer camps they send girls to, to ride the horses and learn to be proper upper class ladies?” I nodded. I knew the camps indeed. “Well, this girl, I forget her name but it’s in the notes there, Sally Mae had called her the night before she took off. The girl lives in Milton of all places. Supposedly Sally Mae was gonna hitch to her house and hide out there. After the phone bills had been traced and the call turned up, the girl admitted it. She said Sally Mae hated things at home and was coming to stay with her. She never showed up, never called again. The poor thing was worried sick about it, but didn’t say anything for fear of getting in trouble. Last place Sally Mae was seen was out on 6016. Right near here.” Reggie ground out his smoke and reached into his pocket for another. The crumpled pack was empty. He threw it into the wastebasket in disgust.