My Lovely Wife

by Samantha Downing

  Millicent gives me the look. “Maybe some popcorn would help.”

  “No, no, you guys go ahead. Have a good time.”

  They leave without me.

  I do not turn on the news. Instead, I drive out to the church.

  The TV is not good enough. I want to see it for myself, this place where Millicent kept Lindsay and Naomi alive.

  It is out on a lonely road between nowhere and nothing. The only buildings along the way are a boarded-up bar, a run-down gas station, and an empty ranch at the end of a private road. This is why I never spotted the church on the GPS. The ranch is up for sale, and the address showed up on the tracker several times. She could walk out the back door of the ranch and be at the church in minutes. No one from the road would be able to see her.

  The area is flooded with cars, TV vans, and lookie-loos. I put on a jacket and baseball cap, and try to blend in with the crowd.

  Reporters are spread out in front of the church, and the steeple rises up behind all of them. They stand right in front of the yellow tape, which is protected by uniformed cops. Some are baby-faced. Others are bloated and on the verge of retirement.

  I have never been this close to Josh, never seen him anywhere other than on TV. He is shorter and thinner than he looks on-screen.

  An older woman is beside me, her eyes shifting between all three reporters.

  “Excuse me, do you know if they’ve said anything new?” I ask.

  “Since when?” Her voice has a smoker’s rasp. She has a thick head of white hair and yellowy eyes.

  “About half an hour.”

  “No, you haven’t missed anything.”

  Through a thick block of trees, the top of a white tent is visible. It looks like the same kind used at weddings and kids’ parties. “What’s that?”

  “The police set it up first thing. They call it ‘home base.’”

  “The chief’s back there,” says a man standing behind me. He is large everywhere, standing a good four inches taller than me and at least a foot wider.

  “They want to make sure,” he says.

  “Make sure of what?”

  “Make sure it was just those two women,” he says. “And not more.”

  “God forbid,” the woman says.

  There were two others of course—Holly and Robin—but neither was kept in the basement.

  Not that I know of, anyway.

  A bright light flashes on as Josh goes live. Once again, he mentions his sources, none of whom have names.

  They have given him more information about the underground room beneath the church, and he says they found something. On the wall, hidden in a corner, it looks like someone who was held captive tried to leave a message.

  Fifty-seven

  FOR A SECOND, I think about asking Josh if he has any further information. We have never spoken, I have never communicated with him outside of the letters, but this rumor about a hidden message makes me panic. Almost.

  Instead of doing something stupid, like I have so often in the past, I step back. Consider. Evaluate. And I reach a conclusion: Nonsense. The story is all nonsense.

  Josh’s sources are wrong. If it took the police less than a day to find this so-called message, there is no chance Millicent would have missed it. She may not know her son is sneaking out at night, but she can spot dust from two rooms away. She would not miss a message on the wall.

  And what kind of message would Naomi or Lindsay leave? Help? I’m trapped?

  It is unfathomable that Millicent told them her real name, so they wouldn’t have been able to leave behind their abductor’s identity.

  The hidden message must be a lie planted by Claire, no doubt to try and draw us out. Anyone who watches TV knows the police lie. This is likely enough to make me walk away. Go home. Talk to Millicent.

  When I arrive, the house is empty. I turn on the TV and surf through the news. Josh is still talking about this possible message but has no further details. A reporter on another channel repeats what Josh has said. The third reporter talks about the church.

  The Bread of Life Christian Church began with a single family and grew to a congregation of about fifty. Old pictures show a stern-looking group with worn faces and tattered clothing. In later years, the group appeared to have prospered, with a lot more bread; they were heavier, and a few even smiled. They peaked in the fifties and then declined into nothing by the eighties. As far as anyone knew, the building has been empty for at least twenty years. Because it is Sunday, the blueprints from the city planning office are not available, but local historians suspect the basement was part of the original building. It may have been a room for cold storage.

  I surf between the channels, waiting for something new to happen. Millicent and the kids don’t get home until about five. They spent the afternoon at the movies and the mall, where Jenna got yet another pair of shoes and Rory got a new hoodie. Both run upstairs, leaving Millicent and me alone.

  “Feeling better?” she asks. It sounds sarcastic.

  “Not really.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  The TV is off. I have no idea how much news she has heard. “They’re talking about a message,” I say.

  “A what?” Millicent walks into the kitchen to start dinner. I follow her.

  “A message on the wall. Left by someone held captive.”

  “Impossible.”

  I stare at her. She is ripping up lettuce to make a salad. “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” I say.

  “Here, finish this.” She slides the bowl and lettuce over to me. “I was thinking of tuna melts tonight.”

  “I ate the tuna for lunch.”

  “All of it?”

  “Most.”

  Behind me, the refrigerator door bangs open. She does not say anything, but I can hear her anger.

  The door slams shut.

  “I suppose I can throw together an eggplant casserole or something,” she says.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  We work side by side; she slices the eggplant, and I grate cheese for the top of the casserole. When it finally goes into the oven, Millicent turns to me. The circles under her eyes are darker than ever.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” she says.

  “It’s okay. We’re both on edge, with Claire and this church and all.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” She sounds surprised.

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re good, right?”

  She slides her arms around my neck. “We’re great.”

  It feels like we are.

  * * *

  • • •

  I GO UP to say good night to the kids. Rory’s light is off, but he is awake and using his phone.

  Before I can say a word, he says, “Yes, I’m texting with Faith. And Daniel. And I’m playing a game, too.”

  “Are you doing any of them well?”

  He lowers the phone and gives me that look. It is the same as Millicent’s. “And I’m not smoking weed.”

  As expected, he’s still angry.

  “So how is the girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Faith.”

  “How is Faith?”

  He sighs. “Still my girlfriend.”

  “Not sneaking out tonight, are you?”

  “Only if you don’t.”

  “Rory.”

  “Yes, Father?” His voice drips with smart-ass. “What lesson do you want to teach me tonight?”

  “Good night.”

  I shut the door before he can answer. I do not want to hear it. Not tonight.

  Jenna is just getting into bed, and I sit down to talk to her. Both the kids already know about the church and the basement under it, the same way they know about eve
rything faster than light. I wish there were a way to stop it, because she is just so young. Not young enough to still sleep with stuffed animals, but young enough to keep them around. But she still knows too much about this kind of thing. Girls are abducted and locked up in books, movies, TV shows, and in real life. It would be impossible for her to have missed that, and she hasn’t.

  “They were chained up down there, weren’t they?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “We don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “Probably they were.”

  She nods and turns over on her side, toward the nightstand. The light on top has a flower-shaped lampshade. Orange, of course.

  “How’s your stomach been?” I ask.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Why would someone hurt people like that?”

  I shrug. “Some people are just wired wrong. They think bad is good.”

  “I bet Claire catches him.”

  “I bet you’re right.”

  She smiles a little.

  I hope she is wrong.

  Fifty-eight

  THE FIRST PICTURES of the basement are surprising. It does not look like the medieval dungeon I have built up in my head.

  Instead, it looks like the unfinished basement of an old building. Dirt floor, wooden shelves on the wall, an old staircase. Only the wall farthest from the stairs is different, because it is the only one that indicates what may have happened in that basement. The wall has been bricked over and covered in stucco. A jumble of chains and cuffs lie on the ground beside it.

  Claire introduces the pictures at an evening press conference, and I watch it from inside a bar. It is the same bar I was in when Lindsay’s body was found.

  I nurse a beer and sit where I have a view of a front window. Across the street is the First Street Bar & Grill, where they make giant hamburgers to eat with their giant microbrews, and everything is cheaper than it sounds. Millicent is not a fan of burgers or beer, so we go there only to meet clients or attend a party.

  Claire goes through each picture and describes the details. There are close-ups of stains on the walls and the dirt floor. They look like rust, but she says they are blood.

  The bartender shakes his head. No one makes a sound. They are too busy drinking and watching.

  I cannot imagine Millicent leaving so much blood behind, if that’s what it is. Claire might be lying. Her eyes stare right into the camera, so it appears she is looking right at me. Or at the guy next to me. Or at the bartender. It is unnerving.

  I hate Claire’s pantsuits. Tonight, it is navy blue paired with a dark grey blouse. She always looks like she is going to a funeral.

  Claire stands at a podium near the church, although it isn’t close enough to see anything but trees. Not even the steeple is visible. The police chief and the mayor are on one side of her, and an easel is set up on the other. Large copies of the pictures are stacked on it, and a couple of uniformed cops flip through each one as Claire speaks.

  “We are already running tests on the blood, comparing it to both Naomi and Lindsay. We also discovered traces of saliva, and those are being tested as well.”

  She does not take questions. The whole press conference lasts about twenty minutes, which gives the newscasters and pundits time to dissect it. Claire didn’t say anything about a message left on the wall, nor was there a photo of one.

  The bartender turns the channel to sports news. I order another beer and hardly touch it.

  Forty minutes later, I see him. Across the street, Josh walks into the First Street Bar & Grill. It is his favorite restaurant.

  I came across this information by accident while driving down First Street a couple of nights ago. While stuck at a red light, I watched Josh get out of his car and head into the restaurant. The next night, I drove by again and saw his car parked out front. The third night, the same thing. On that evening, I walked by and saw him sitting at the bar, alone, drinking a beer while watching TV.

  I go across the street and sit a few barstools away from Josh. Since I have already eaten dinner, I order a shot and a beer. Same as he does.

  I look at him and look away. Then I look back, as if I recognize him.

  Without even glancing in my direction, he says, “Yes. I’m that guy from the news.”

  “I thought that was you. I see you on TV almost every night,” I say. Josh looks a lot different in real life. His face does not look as smooth. The texture of his skin is uneven. His nose is red, and so are his eyes. Too bad I didn’t bring the eye drops.

  He sighs and finally turns to me. “Thanks for watching.”

  “No, thank you for your reporting. You’ve really been the go-to guy on that big case, right? The women who were killed?”

  “I was.”

  “You still are. You seem to know everything first.”

  Josh drinks a third of his beer in one gulp. “Are you one of those true-crime freaks?”

  “Not at all. Just someone who wants this asshole caught.”

  “Cool.”

  I motion to the bartender for another shot. “Hey, man,” I say to Josh. “Let me buy one.”

  “No offense, but I’m not gay.”

  “None taken. Neither am I.”

  Josh accepts the shot. The bartender brings a couple more beers with it.

  Together, we watch the sports channel, talking back and forth about this team or that one. I buy a couple more shots but pour mine into a peanut bowl when he is not looking. Josh drinks his and orders two more.

  When a soccer game starts, he nods to it. “I bet on the Blazers. You?”

  “Same.” Lie.

  “You play? You look like you play.”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  He gulps down the rest of his beer and motions for two more. “I used to play for this soccer team called the Marauders. We sucked, but people were still afraid of us. That was kind of awesome.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  During a commercial break, an ad for the local news shows today’s press conference. Claire Wellington is once again on the screen.

  Josh shakes his head and looks over at me. His eyes are not as clear as they were when I walked in. “You want some inside information?” he says.

  “Sure.”

  He points to the TV. “She’s a bitch.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not because she’s a woman. Really, that’s got nothing to do with it. But the problem with having a woman in charge is that they have to change everything. Prove themselves, you know? And it’s not their fault they have to do that—I get it. I just wish they didn’t screw everything up.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s a million percent right.”

  The young, earnest reporter I have been watching is not the person he is on TV. I don’t know why I expected him to be.

  I order a couple more shots. Josh drinks his and slams the glass on the bar.

  “A couple days ago, I reported something a source told me. The next day, he calls and says I can’t talk about it anymore. Technically, the police can get fired for talking to the press. She’s just decided to enforce the rule.” He throws up his hands, as if this is an abomination. “Even if they talk to me. And I worked with the police when I got those letters from Owen. Or whoever sent them. I didn’t have to do that. I could have just read them on the air without telling the police at all.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “Your sources won’t tell you anything?”

  “Oh, they still tell me stuff. I’m just not allowed to report it on the air. Well, I guess I could, but I’m a nice guy. I don’t want anyone to get fired, especially not someone I need. That bitch won’t be here forever.”

  Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and rol
ls his eyes. “See, this is what I’m talking about. I get a tip from a source, the second time I’ve heard this information, but I can’t do anything with it. Y-E-O, it says. ‘Your Eyes Only.’” He lets out a big, noisy sigh. “Worst acronym ever.”

  “That sucks.”

  “No shit.”

  I wait. I stare at the TV, not saying a word, hoping to convey that none of this matters to me. Because the less I care, the better chance he will tell me.

  It takes him one more shot.

  “Okay, I have to tell someone,” he slurs. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny I showed you this. At least until they make it public.”

  “You think they will?”

  “They don’t have a choice.”

  Josh slides the phone over to me. The text is on the screen, sent by someone named J. The whole thing reminds me a little of being Tobias.

  Until I read the text.

  YEO: There are bodies buried under the church.

  Fifty-nine

  I THOUGHT THE TEXT was going to be about the supposed message on the wall. Instead, it is about buried bodies. “So what?” I say.

  “So what?” Josh says.

  “That church is over a hundred years old. There’s probably a whole graveyard of people buried there.”

  “I’m sure there is. But that’s not what he’s talking about.” Josh leans in and lowers his voice a little. The smell of all that alcohol hits me in the face. “Have you been out there?”

  I almost say yes, but then remember I am not a true-crime freak. “No.”

  “They have this big tent set up, but it’s behind a bunch of trees. That’s where they’re taking the bodies.”

  “You keep saying that. What bodies?”

  “The bodies in the basement aren’t from a hundred years ago,” he says. “They’re women who have been killed recently.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And I can’t go on the air with it.”

  Josh rambles on, complaining all over again about Claire and his sources. I am not listening anymore.

  Naomi and Lindsay have already been found, which leaves Holly and Robin. Holly was killed out in the middle of nowhere, in the woods, and we buried her out there.