(2001) The Girls Are Missing
Page 19
Her leg hurt and there was blood where the screwdriver in her pocket had stabbed her. It woke her up. She snatched the key from the ignition, forced open the door, and ran to the trunk.
The key. He had taken the trunk key. She tried the one she had. It jammed in the lock and she couldn’t get it out.
The screwdriver was a big one, half an inch thick. She pried at the lock, bent the metal of the lid, but the lock would not break.
She looked back, hearing a sound. How far had she come before the crash? Did he still have his gun?
She wrenched again at the lid. Finally she ripped the metal so it tore away from the lock.
“Mary Ellen!”
The girl whimpered. Her hands and feet were tied, her mouth gagged. The bonds on her feet were clumsily wrapped, probably after he had thrown her in there
She heard the sound again. Like running footsteps. She tugged at the bonds on Mary Ellen’s feet. They were clumsy but strong, and it was too dark to see.
“You’ll have to try—I can’t carry you.”
Ridiculous to think anyone could run like that. At least she could pull the gag off Mary Ellen’s mouth.
As soon as it was off, Mary Ellen began to choke and cry.
“Oh, Joyce … my own father … it makes me sick. I’m going to be sick.”
“Sshh, I think he’s coming.” She struggled with the rope,
pulling, tugging. One strand slackened, another tightened. Mary Ellen cried out. She pulled still tighter and at last worked a loop over the bare feet.
The rest of the rope slid off. She helped Mary Ellen from the trunk. She would have to guide her. The girl was stiff from her hours of confinement. It would be hard to run with her hands still tied, and with her tender bare feet.
Now she heard the footsteps clearly. He was coming around the b6nd, running heavily, his whole body bent forward. He lifted his arm. He still had the gun.
“Run, Mary Ellen.”
How far to Cedarville? It was miles. Maybe three. More than they could run, the way they were. She heard his feet, a heavy slap, slap. The rubber thongs.
“Run,” she said to Mary Ellen. “Run!” Their only hope: their feet. He had a gun. And longer legs.
“Joyce, there’s a house. Joyce.” Mary Ellen doubled over, holding her side. “I’m going to die.”
She could see it through the trees. The lights. They couldn’t draw him to the house.
“You go,” she said. “I’ll keep on the road. Don’t let him see you.”
“No.”
Only twelve years old. She was afraid to go alone.
“Mary Ellen, we have to, there’s no other way. If we both go, he’ll get us both. Tell them to call the police, Cedarville police.” She pushed Mary Ellen up the short driveway, and as she ran on, watched her darting through the shadows.
Please be good to her. At least they would believe her. They’d see her hands.
Too late she realized that Carl might assume they had both gone to the house. She couldn’t see him now, there had been another bend. If she went back, she would waste precious time.
But she couldn’t let him get Mary Ellen.
She heard his slap, slap. Heard him stop. She could see the house lights, but no longer the driveway. Or him.
She picked up a stone and threw it across the road.
“Get up, Mary Ellen,” she said. “You’ve got to get up and run. Get up.”
She began to run again. She couldn’t hear his feet for the sound of her own. She stopped. There was nothing.
Slowly, silently, she crept back until she could see him. He was standing at the end of the driveway, watching the house.
Carl, that was Carl. Her husband. And now a stranger. With a gun.
He didn’t know she was there, watching him.
She picked up another stone and moved closer. Could she do it? Outside the house, a floodlight sprang on.
If she missed, he would know exactly what she was doing. And then he would have to choose—her or Mary Ellen.
She took another step, and lowered the stone. She couldn’t. Not him. Not anyone, in spite of the gun.
She couldn’t—but what about Mary Ellen? The people in the house, innocently involved? Just because she couldn’t.
She swung back her arm and carefully aimed. Couldn’t see him very well. Couldn’t get closer. She aimed and threw the stone.
It sailed past his head and crashed into a bush at the foot of the driveway. She saw the blur of his face as he whirled around.
She ran into the underbrush at the side of the road. It slowed her, but at least he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see she was the only one. The bushes scraped and tore at her.
She saw him on the road, pointing the gun at her. She screamed as he fired.
She felt nothing. He had missed.
“Run, Mary Ellen,” she called again. “You go that way. I’ll—”
Another shot. And then moving lights. A car.
She stumbled from the bushes, waving her arms. The car veered to miss her and sped on. Unbelieving, she saw its taillights vanish around a bend. One unbelieving instant, and then Carl leaped from the bushes.
She ran, knowing no one would save her. No one cared. How many shots left? Just keep moving, and it was dark. Only the dark would help her. Run to Cedarville. Three miles.
Another car. Two. She turned her face to shield her eyes from the light.
Then it slowed, blazing in her face. It hurt. She didn’t understand at first that it stopped. She heard a door open. Strong arms went around her and held her up.
“It’s okay now,” said Frank D’Amico’s voice. “It’s okay.”
He started to help her into the car, then flung her against it as shots resounded in the woods.
She tried to see, but he blocked her, protecting her. There were voices, more shots, crashing of bushes.
Then someone said, “We got him, Chief. I think he’s dead.”
Frank turned back to her and held her tightly against his broad chest. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s all over now.”
“Mary Ellen,” she whimpered. “My children. My Gail.”
29
She would not go back to the house. The fire was only a minor reason. They told her it smelled of smoke, but was not really damaged. It had smoldered in the chairs and then the woodpile. Probably a cigarette, Finneran allowed.
Frank nodded, and said nothing. She could see it on his face. It was no accident that a cigarette, or whatever, had gotten inside the house. She could hardly blame them, whoever had done it. But how did they know? How had they known it was Carl?
“I didn’t know,” she said again and again. She couldn’t touch the sandwiches or coffee the police had sent for. Perhaps she would spend her whole life there, in that room in the police station. With Frank, and Gail and Adam, and Mary Ellen.
Mary Ellen couldn’t stop crying, sickened by her father, by her ordeal in the trunk. She cried even for him, now that he was gone. And in the midst of her tears she ate three sandwiches, and Joyce knew she had a resilience that would carry her through.
Frank asked, “What are you going to do?” When she failed to answer, because she didn’t know, he said, “I could put you up at my house for a while. You gotta stay somewhere. I think at this point we could all use some sleep.”
And they would be safe with him.
“They’ll get over it someday,” he added. Meaning the mob. The fire. It seemed she could almost read his thoughts, and he hers.
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, “not even then. Not until he came up behind me at the bathroom door. Do you think they’ll ever understand that?”
“Of course they will. Look what you went through, and your kids.”
“It wasn’t as bad as what happened to them. But I really didn’t know.” To her dismay, her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks.
Clumsily he patted her hand. She wished he would hold her, the way he had when he found her on the road
. But maybe not here, in front of the children.
“Nobody’s blaming you,” he said.
“But I—I wondered. I just couldn’t believe it. I wanted to ask you. And Dr. Ballard. But then it seemed so crazy.”
“Mommy,” said Gail, “can we go and live in Pennsylvania?”
She saw the look on his face. She knew Gail was right. They should start over again, in a different place.
“Yes, I suppose we can,” she said, “for a while. Until we sort things out and decide what we really want to do.”
Her eyes met Frank’s. He would understand that, for now, at least, Cedarville was not the place for her. After tonight, he would help her get away. And then—
“Let’s keep in touch,” he said.
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Girls Are Missing
All Rights Reserved © 1980, 2001 by Caroline Crane
Contents
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