by Jason Parent
Gloria knew she was required by law to report any abuse disclosed to her. She hated lying to Tessa, particularly when she was asking the girl to trust her, but finding out the truth took priority. Extracting a child from an abusive home had to be her primary goal.
Her lie didn’t matter; Tessa wasn’t talking. She would have to ask better questions, pry a bit deeper. The smart kids were always harder to crack.
“You started here as a freshman, but before that, you went to school in Denver. So you’re no stranger to big-city public schools. Still, that had to be quite a change. Fall River probably seems small to you. But it’s still big enough to get lost in the crowd, isn’t it? What was school like in Denver?”
Tessa didn’t say a word, just picked at her fingernails.
Gloria wondered if the girl was even listening. Perhaps I should try a more sensitive topic. If I get lucky, she’ll open up or at least lower her guard.
“I’ve read your file.” Gloria pulled a manila folder from a desk drawer and hunched over it as though it contained Tessa’s most precious secrets. In reality, only report cards, sparse details pertaining to the girl’s educational history, and Gloria’s notes were kept inside the folder. The rest, she had learned from Google.
She pretended to rifle through the folder. “It’s been almost two years since your mother died.” Gloria paused to observe the child’s reaction.
Tessa stopped fidgeting and frowned, her lower lip quivering. She looked up briefly, her cold stare saying more than all the words she had managed to utter since she entered the office. Fury raged behind the ice, and Gloria thought Tessa might leap out of her seat and attack her, but the anger seemed to pass quickly.
The wound is still fresh. Maybe the child wasn’t a victim of abuse after all. Maybe Tessa couldn’t cope with losing her mother. Dealing with a hurt in the past was a whole lot easier than dealing with a hurt that was repetitive in nature. Gloria wasn’t naive enough to believe that time healed all wounds, but Tessa was young and impressionable. She had a lot of time to try to heal.
“On top of her passing, you had to move from Denver and give up your old life, all your old friends. It’s not easy making friends in a new school. Unless you put in the effort, you’re not likely to make any.”
Tessa let out one of those long-suffering sighs that only a teenager could produce. Gloria knew she was losing her, if she’d ever been gaining her to begin with. The girl appeared annoyed, likely wondering how much longer their meeting would take.
As long as it needs to. “I can see that you don’t want to talk to me, and that’s fine. I understand. I’m a stranger. But if you give me just an ounce of your trust, I think you’ll find me deserving of it. Anyway, you have to talk to somebody. It’s obvious something’s going on inside that head of yours. Carrying around the burden isn’t healthy. And you don’t have to carry it alone. If you don’t want to talk to me, maybe I can arrange a meeting with your father, and he and I can discuss—”
“No!” Tessa leaped from her seat.
Surprised by the outburst, Gloria leaned back in her chair. But just as quickly as Tessa had jumped to her feet, she settled back into her chair, acting as if her reaction had been normal.
Tessa cleared her throat. “I mean… um, we shouldn’t bother Father with this. He’s had a hard time with the loss of Mother, too.”
Bingo! She’s scared of her father. I bet she’s hiding bruises beneath all that clothing, unless it’s purely psychological. I doubt it, though. The poor kid skulks like a dog with its tail between its legs. Though Gloria was now certain Tessa was a victim of child abuse, she still lacked evidence. “Are you sure?” she asked. “In the right setting, talking with your father may help you cope with the feelings you keep locked up inside you.”
“Please, Ms. Jackson.” Tessa finally looked at her. She tried to appear cool and collected, but the way her eyes trembled in their sockets gave her away.
Gloria saw through her act as if it were the box around a mime. Little signs and subtle movements—the clenching of her teeth, the brushing back of her hair around an ear—revealed much to those who understood their impetus. Together with her hollow words, they painted a portrait with dark colors. Tessa was broken.
She leaned forward a little. “I’ll make new friends. I promise. I’m just a little shy.”
It’s worse than I thought. Gloria felt tears welling up in her eyes. At that moment, she would have sacrificed everything to give the girl a chance at happiness. She stifled her heartache to be strong for the both of them. “Okay. We’ll see how things go for now. If you need anything, though, you come and see me. Okay?”
“Yes, Ms. Jackson. I will.” Tessa flashed her a smile. It didn’t seem forced, probably due to the relief she felt from Gloria’s reprieve. “May I go now?”
“Yes.”
Tessa left in a hurry, a stark contrast to the speed with which she had arrived. Gloria, however, had no intention of leaving the matter at that. Tessa didn’t need to know her suspicions. Too many times, Gloria had seen victims protect their abusers. She would not let Tessa be her own worst enemy.
She picked up her telephone and dialed a familiar number. The call was answered on the second ring. “Department of Children and Families. Janet speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Janet. It’s Gloria over at Carnegie. I think I have another one for you.” And I hope this time, we’re not too late.
Chapter 9
“Where are we going?” Michael didn’t like surprises. He’d experienced enough of them in the past two weeks to last a lifetime.
“I told you. I want you to meet someone,” Sam answered.
“Who?”
“Just someone. Don’t worry so much. How’s school going? Is everyone treating you all right?”
“I guess. Everyone’s treating me the same as before the shooting. Nobody talks to me. Except… well, Robbie Wilkins came up to me the other day.”
“Really? What did that son of a bitch have to say for himself?”
“He apologized.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s surprising. Still, I would keep clear of him. What he did to you is beyond normal teenage delinquency. He should be in jail, or at least in juvenile hall, if only you hadn’t refused to testify.”
“You know that would have only made things ten times worse for me at school. Besides, I would hardly want what happened to me published in the newspaper. Everyone probably knows anyway, but at least now they aren’t making fun of me for it.”
“Do you have any other friends besides Jimmy?”
“I barely know Jimmy, and he’s the closest friend I have around here… unless you count.”
Sam gave him one of her awkward smiles. “Have you thought about playing a sport? It would be a great way to meet new people and stay busy.”
“Like what? Football? I would get killed. Cross country? Soccer? Both seem like a ton of running to me. Anyway, the season is half over. Maybe I’ll try out for basketball in the winter.”
“I played point guard, you know,” Sam said enthusiastically.
“Oh yeah? When was that? 1965?”
“Oh, you’re a funny one. Anyway, we’re here.” Sam pulled up in front of a duplex on Rock Street. The house was old, probably built sometime in the 1940s. Its light-blue paint was worn and peeling. A shutter hung at a slant from one of the upstairs windows.
Michael glanced at the houses beside it. They looked pretty much the same, not necessarily run-down but aged and weathered. The only difference was their colors, one a freshly painted white and the other a horrid shade of yellow. It looks like Helen and Greg’s place. Hell, it looks like every duplex in Fall River. What are we doing here?
Sam leaned in close to him. “The guy who lives here is John Crotty. His wife has gone missing. I have to ask him a few questions. It’ll only take a couple of minut
es. He says his wife ran off with another guy, but I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “So why am I here exactly?”
“No reason,” Sam replied matter-of-factly. “I thought I could use an unbiased second opinion. Let me know what you think of him. Obviously, you aren’t supposed to be here, so let’s keep this between you and me. Afterward, we can get some dinner. How’s Flapper Jack’s sound?”
“Are you buying?”
“Of course.”
“Then it sounds good to me.”
They got out of the car and strolled up the walkway to the front steps. Sam rang the doorbell.
Almost immediately, the door was opened by a man who looked a little older than Greg. His expression was unfriendly, as though he was agitated by their presence. He donned a grin as phony as nondairy creamer.
Sam put on a phony smile of her own. “Mr. Crotty, do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure,” Crotty said. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Detective. Any news of my wife?”
“Unfortunately, there have been no new developments. I just had a few more questions.”
“Well, come in.” Crotty stepped back. “It’s getting too cold to be outside.” He nodded at Michael. “Who’s this?”
“My nephew,” Sam replied. “We’re about to grab an early dinner. This won’t take long.”
“Nice to meet you,” Michael said, extending his hand in an attempt to be polite.
Still holding the door open, Crotty offered only a grunt. Sam frowned, and Michael wondered if he’d done something wrong. He let his hand fall and proceeded through the doorway. Jerk.
Crotty closed the door and directed them over to a couch not far from the entrance. “Can I get you and your sidekick something to drink, Detective?”
“No, thank you. We’ve got to be going soon. I just wanted to ask if you could think of anything else about the man your wife was seeing.”
“Nope. Nothing more than I’ve already told you. Sorry. They’re probably in Hawaii by now, having the time of their lives while maxing out our credit cards. Is it wrong for me to hope that they both get eaten by sharks out there?” He chuckled.
“It happens,” Michael said. “I always watch Shark Week on the Discovery Channel and you should see—”
Sam put a hand on his knee. “Michael…”
Crotty barked out a laugh. “I like this kid.”
Michael was glad he could act as comic relief, though he had no clue what he had said that was so funny. He nodded. “Good. Then I’ll take that drink you offered. Soda, if you have it.”
Slapping his palms on his legs, Crotty stood and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with a glass half-filled with a dark bubbling liquid. “I hope Diet Coke is okay.” He held the glass out to Michael.
“Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.” Michael reached for the glass. As he wrapped his fingers around it, the side of his index finger rubbed against the tip of Crotty’s pinky finger.
Michael’s body seized. He felt himself falling back against the couch, but instead of stopping against it, he seemed to sink right through it. He heard echoes of Sam’s voice. She was asking if he was all right, but he couldn’t respond. The outline of Crotty’s face floated above him. Then, Sam and Crotty were gone.
Michael lies on concrete covered in dust and grime. The only light comes from a window that has been screened with a towel. The window is inches below the ceiling. A basement? Yes, but not one he’s ever seen before.
How the fuck did I get here? Muffled groans carry into his ears. His breath catches in his throat; he lies perfectly still. Someone else is here with him.
In the hazy light, he sees the back of a metal chair with a head and shoulders above it. They belong to a woman, or at least he thinks it’s a woman because the hair is long for a guy. The head is separated from the shoulders by a metal robot neck.
For a moment, he trembles quietly, waiting to see what the cyborg will do. She does not stand, nor does she turn to face him. Still, he keeps his distance, not knowing who she is, why she is here, or whether she is a friend or an enemy. He rolls onto his belly, rises to his feet, and creeps closer for a better look. Her neck isn’t robotic at all. It’s held in a vice. She cannot move, yet Michael is still scared. She looks creepy. He gathers his nerve and walks closer. The contraption around her neck has teeth on its inside, small triangles stabbing her skin.
“Hello? Are you okay?” His voice comes out so low that he can’t even hear it. He clears his throat and tries again. “Miss? Who did this to you?”
The woman remains silent, save for her soft moans. He reaches for her bare shoulder, her white blouse having slid off it, exposing a white bra strap upon which Michael’s eyes absently fixate. Inch by inch, his hand lowers unsteadily to that patch of naked flesh.
“Miss?” He knows he’s speaking, though he still can’t hear his voice. Can she?
She might be dead, he thinks, even though he can hear her sobbing. Maybe we’re both dead.
“Please… just say something.”
No response. Michael’s shoulders droop. He backs away then circles the woman in a wide arc.
Her black skirt is hiked up to her hips, almost to the point of showing Michael something he definitely doesn’t want to see for the first time on this stranger. Her panties are wrapped around her ankles and stained yellow with flecks of red. The sight makes him aware of a foul odor, like that of a dog kennel, and he wonders just how long the woman has been here. Shredded nylons run up the length of her legs, ending at mid-thigh where circular black spots on her skin look as though someone has put out a few cigarettes there.
Her blouse is slit down the middle from collar to belly button, exposing womanly curves filling out a lace bra. Bruises and bite marks are scattered across the tops of her breasts. Michael realizes he’s staring, and as his face heats, he raises his eyes to her face.
The woman appears to be in her mid-forties. Makeup is smeared across her cheeks and chin. Her tears have caused part of the mess, but the rest is hand drawn. Black mascara streaks beneath her eyes. Candy-red lipstick coats her lips, clownlike, as if whoever had applied it couldn’t stay within the lines. It clumps on her teeth. Her eyebrows are missing, the brown dot stubble in their place suggesting they were shaved off. Blush is applied so heavily to her cheeks that it almost hides the bruises. The worst of it is the word “filth” written across her forehead in what looks like permanent black marker.
Even though she has a gag in her mouth, Michael can tell that under normal circumstances, she has a kind face and striking features. Leather straps are fastened around her forearms and wrists, binding her to the chair. She is crying, emitting this gut-wrenching sound as sobs force their way past the ball gag. She keeps her eyes closed even after Michael tries to talk to her again.
Aw, man, this is so fucked up. What’s going on? Michael wants out of this basement. He doesn’t belong here. He prays that whatever force put him in this cellar will soon put him back where it found him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he prays for the woman, too, even though he has to question whether she’s real or a figment of his imagination.
Voices sound from overhead. Michael spots a staircase with a door at the top. An escape? He sidesteps toward it, keeping his eyes on the woman as if she could go somewhere. Her eyes shoot open, freezing him in place then drawing him back to her like a tractor beam. He trips over his feet when they refuse to cooperate with his mind, and he stumbles back onto the unforgiving concrete. Bracing for the impact, he cringes, but he feels no pain when he hits the floor. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything at all.
The woman stares at him, and the fear he sees in her eyes makes him equally afraid. On palms and heels, he scurries backward. Is she afraid of him or someone else? He wonders if the owners of the voices upstairs are friendly.
No, she is
n’t looking at me. Something about her gaze is off. She isn’t looking at him but through him. He waves his hand in front of her face. She doesn’t react. He is certain now that he is invisible to her, that more than shock is at play. What’s happening? Where’s Sam?
“Sam?” Michael calls.
But no sound passes his lips. Why can’t anyone hear me? He shivers, arriving at the theory that maybe only he is dead. Frightened and angry, he punches the floor, but he feels no impact. Part of him thinks his knuckles passed through the floor as though it were water. The concrete seems to ripple. But his rational mind assumes his eyes cannot be trusted. After all, he is sitting on that very floor.
A door closes upstairs, then footsteps and voices come from outside the building. Michael is thankful that at least one of his senses seems to be working properly. He runs to the window, thinking he’ll tear down the makeshift blind, but every time he reaches for the towel, his hand misses it. Everything remains slightly hazy, so Michael chalks up his bad aim to cloudy depth perception.
He peeks through the slit between the duct-taped towel and the framing around the inset window. The outside world looks vaguely familiar: grass and a cement walkway leading to a street, someone’s front lawn. Sam’s black Toyota Camry is parked at the end of the walkway. A tall, slender woman with a long, charcoal-colored wool coat and knee-high black boots walks into Michael’s line of sight.
Sam! Michael tries to yell, his lips forming the words, but his vocal chords stay unresponsive. Is she leaving? How can she leave without him? I’m still here, Sam, trapped in the basement. Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong. Damn it, Sam! Help me!
He pounds on the window and swipes at the towel covering it. No matter what he does, the window remains unchanged. Sam keeps walking away from him. She doesn’t hear him. How could she? Michael can’t even hear himself.