There Was a Little Girl

by Cynthia Luhrs

  “If you lost your job you’d be under a lot of stress too. And your mood would change. But you won’t lose your job because you work for your uncle.”

  “Do you really need to clean the refrigerator now? I’m trying to have a conversation with you. Come back in here and talk to me. And you know very well my uncle would fire me in a heartbeat if I weren’t pulling my weight. That’s a low blow.”

  I look into the room, noticing how the soft light turns his brown hair the color of old wood. Once again I’m struck again by how attractive he is. My heart sinks because I know it’s time.

  “I want to know where you disappear to all the time.”

  Still pulling food and condiments out of the refrigerator, I smile at the thud they make as they hit the can.

  “Disappear is a strong word. I just need time alone.”

  “You’re a liar. I think you’re having an affair. Are you going tell me who it is? I saw you flirting with Chase the last time we met Mother at the club.”

  My hand stops, hovering over the trash as his words sink in. The plate of fried chicken still in my hand, I walk into the living room and stand there with one hand on my hip.

  “How dare you call me a liar.” My hand is shaking, and instead of my voice rising, it’s becoming soft and low. The funny thing is as long as he’s known me, he should know what that signifies.

  “Chase? You’re accusing me of fucking around with Chase? You know he wouldn’t let me out of the bathroom at the club. He’s a pervert. Probably a date rapist. How dare you.”

  Jackson stands up and leans forward. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

  My eyes narrow, and before I know what I’m doing, my arm cocks back and the plate goes flying. It hits him square in the face, the chicken bouncing off his nose. The plate falls to the carpeted floor. In all my life I’ve never lifted a hand in anger to anyone. Well, of course I’m not counting the people on the list. That’s different.

  “That’s real nice, Hope. My mother was right. You are no better than white trash. I need someone who can stand in the spotlight with me when I run for senator. I thought it would be you. But now I know it isn’t. Never could be.”

  He walks to the door, his hand on the knob as he pauses and turns to me.

  “And you can call yourself by your middle name all you want, but I know your real name is Katherine Hope Jones.”

  He sees the look on my face. I feel cold and hot at the same time.

  “You thought I didn’t know? My parents looked into you as soon as we started getting serious. I know your father killed your mother and dog in front of you. That an alligator ate part of your mother. And I know you moved to Kansas to live with your grandparents when they sent your father to jail. Oh yes, let’s not forget he was killed in jail. You’re low-class trash. Goodbye, Hope.”

  The door shuts softly behind Jackson. I’m so numb I can’t even cry. I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the living room looking at the mess scattered across the floor, but finally I sigh and bend down to pick up the fried chicken and the plate. Throw it all in the trash.

  Maybe Jackson is right. I am broken inside. But I don’t have time to sit and cry over him. I can hear all the voices of the neglected and the abused begging for me to help them. I see their sad eyes in my sleep, hear the whimpering, and know I have to go on.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Did you say your peacocks escaped?”

  Grayson scrubbed a hand across his chin. He should’ve shaved instead of catching an extra ten this morning. Dispatch sent him a call that at first he thought was a joke. But the woman confirmed all seven of the peacocks were running into the road and she was afraid they’d get run over. Said they normally stayed in the yard, but a big white dog had run through and chased them and now they were frightened. Could he help her get them back into the fenced yard?

  “I’m finishing another call then I’ll be there.”

  He hung up, shaking his head. One thing about this job: it was always different.

  Malcolm and the other officers were busy on calls. It was one of those days. Looked like he was on his own. As he turned onto Highway 70, something brightly colored ran across the road. A peacock darted through the front yard of a house and ran around the back.

  Grayson pulled into the driveway as the woman came out to meet him. She was wearing a red silk robe covered with dragons over a pair of tattered and ripped jean shorts. You met all kinds in this line of work.

  “I’m glad you’re here. They’re so upset they won’t come to me.”

  Sheila looked to be in her late fifties—no, he revised his guess as she came closer. Late sixties. She held up a bag.

  “They love those little lizards that are always running around, but no way was I going to touch them.” She held out a matching bag for him. “Go on, take it. For heaven’s sakes, it isn’t lizards. It’s berries. They absolutely love raspberries. I figured we can get close enough to throw a few to them and then make a trail back into the yard.”

  Well, he’d heard crazier plans. “Let’s go catch some peacocks.”

  The rest of his morning was spent luring the birds back into the fenced yard. This was one of those things he swore if it ended up on YouTube it would probably get millions of views.

  “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve done if one of my babies got hurt. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  Grayson wiped his brow. He was soaked from chasing after the birds, his fingers stained the color of fresh blood. He would’ve liked nothing more than to grab a glass of lemonade and sit in one of the rockers on her porch, but several calls had come in that required his attention.

  “I wish I could, but it looks like it’s going to be a really busy day.” The woman thanked him again as he got to his truck and checked on his next call.

  “Here. A to-go cup.”

  “Appreciate it.” The lemonade was tart and icy cold. He gulped down half and laughed when she held up a pitcher.

  “Let me give you a refill for the road.”

  CHAPTER 47

  TED HAMMER IS A TRUCKER based out of Greensboro. He likes to post pictures on Facebook and Instagram showing odd sites he encounters during his travels. Like the Last Shell Oil Clamshell Station in Winston-Salem. He posted that the other day.

  I guess even criminals have a following on social media. And this guy? He said he found a cat in his backyard killing birds. Said it meowed too much at night, keeping him awake. So what did he do? The deviant cut off the cat’s tail and back paws. The cat belonged to a little boy three houses down. And good old Ted? Ten days in jail and probation from owning animals for two years.

  While looking into him, I find out he’s also been in trouble for picking up prostitutes at truck stops. Figures. I don’t ever want to talk to these people. It’s too dangerous. I’m not a physical person, and the men could easily overpower me, so my preferred mode is to shoot them and leave. But with Ted? I don’t see another way. Rules are meant to be broken, whispers the comforting voice in my head.

  Before. I used to be scared to walk in the woods alone. Or walk down the street in a sketchy neighborhood. Not anymore. Over the two weekends I followed Ted, he always ended up at the truck stop outside of Greensboro. His preferred spot to pick up prostitutes. Poor girls. They’re outside when it’s freezing cold, dressed in the skimpiest of outfits and highest stilettos. Out during the blazing heat. This year they must be dying. It’s one hundred and two today. Feels like walking through a hot tub…without the bubbles.

  The cab of the truck is dark orange, with stripes along the bottom doors. Easy to recognize. As I watch, the door opens and a girl climbs out. She looks so young. I seriously doubt she’s even eighteen. My friend, the darkness, sits up, scenting the air. A truck pulls out and headlights wash across her face, making me suck in a breath. Her lip is bleeding and there’s a red handprint on the side of her face. So not only does he use hookers, he likes to hurt them too. And he proves my theory…tha
t people who hurt animals also hurt others. Those they consider weaker than themselves.

  I know the routine. Three for the night. Greedy bastard. While I wait, I flip the visor down to check my makeup. Heavily lined dark, smoky eyes and hot-pink lips look back at me. The pink matches my shoes. And I’m wearing a leopard-print minidress. The poster child for a lady of the night.

  Once when my grandparents were taking me into Wichita for the day, it was still early when I looked out the window and saw a man and lady walking together.

  “Oh, she’s pretty,” I said. Gramps burst out laughing as Gram pursed her lips trying not to laugh. That was when they explained about hookers. I must have been nine or ten. The woman’s image stayed with me…high heels and legs for miles. Long, curly hair and some kind of fur coat. I was fascinated with hookers for years after that…not the sex part, but the whole dress-up part. When Gram found me playing dress-up, she sat me down and told me why the profession wasn’t the best choice. To this day, I laugh, remembering the conversation.

  It’s time. I make my way around the Jeep, cutting through parked trucks so he doesn’t see that I’ve arrived in my own vehicle. A train runs near the truck stop. Parallel to the tracks, I lean against a streetlight where he can see me. The light comes on in his cab and the door opens. Men are so predictable.

  “Hey, little lady. Want to have some fun?”

  Pushing off from the lamppost, I add extra sway to my walk. When I climb into the cab my dress rides up, exposing my left butt cheek. It smells musty and reeks of sex. There’s a messed-up bed in the back, wrappers on the floor, and a couple of empty Dr. Pepper cans strewn about. He’s watching me, sees the moment I notice what’s so odd. What looks like gray carpet is tacked up everywhere. And the absence of noise finally registers. Through the windshield I see lights. The train is coming but the sound is extremely muffled.

  His face splits into a horrible grin. “Acoustic tiles. Keeps it nice and quiet in here so we won’t be disturbed.”

  The only reason someone would have those covering the interior of their cab is because they’re not a good person. I’m completely creeped out. Has he already moved on to mutilating people?

  While he’s thinking it’s a good thing the cab is practically soundproof, I’m thinking the same thing but for completely different reasons. He pulls the curtain over the driver’s-side window, and it’s dark in the cab except for a small light in the corner over the bed.

  He roughly pushes me back, the other hand fumbling with the buckle of his pants. Ted sees something in my eyes that makes him reach for my throat before I can react. His palm is callused and sweaty, his fingers digging into the sides of my throat. I’m thrashing about, trying to buck him off me, desperately scrabbling for my bag. He didn’t even ask why I have it. Never bothered to check it. Mistakes can be deadly.

  I’m kicking and flailing. Black flickers at the edge of my vision when my finger brushes cold, comforting steel. With one touch I’m able to center myself. I no longer require air. The darkness has broken down the door and come out to play.

  Ted’s getting excited pressed against me, so into slobbering on me he’s not paying attention to my hands. Overconfident. He should’ve restrained me. I slide the gun from the bag, press it to his temple, and pull the trigger. It’s horribly loud inside the cab. My ears ring, everything around me wavering. Shoving him off me, I roll to my knees and touch my face. My fingers come away red. I’m covered in blood and brain. I listen and wait.

  But no one comes. The padding has done its job. What was meant to conceal rape also conceals justice. Locked in the cab with the curtains drawn, I have time. Wipes come out of the bag. I work fast, wiping myself down, the interior of the cab, any surface I might have touched. I couldn’t exactly come in wearing plastic gloves, now could I?

  Worry slices through me. Did I leave traces of DNA? Any strands of hair? Then I brighten. Who knows how many hookers have been in and out of this truck? There’ll be way too many for them to find anything usable. Plus I would show up as unidentified. There are no records of my fingerprints or my DNA on file. Unless they found your blood at Lake Johnson, says the voice. Don’t worry, it whispers, we’ll take care of them too if need be. I won’t let you go to prison. Our work is too important.

  A quick glance in the mirror shows me spatters in my hair. The wipes help but don’t get everything. It’s the best I can do.

  A terrible stench fills the air. I have to breathe through my mouth. Looking over, I see brown on his hairy white ass. His bowels have released, and with his pants around his knees, it’s making a mess. Dry-heaving, I use my elbow to push the curtain aside and peek out. No one’s coming. People hear what they want. See what they want. Thank the stars above for acoustic tiles and noisy trains.

  I wait a few more minutes, trying not to throw up from the stench. What on earth has he been eating? Then, using a wipe, I open the door to the cab and lock it behind me.

  Back in my car, I decide I’ll pick a random exit to stop and change clothes. Dispose of everything. He makes number nine. The list has taken on a life of its own, growing longer and longer. And I’m so very tired. But I have to believe that taking nine predators out of this world will at least save a few. And that makes it all worthwhile.

  CHAPTER 48

  THE NEXT MORNING I HEAR the phone ringing, but I put the pillow over my head and ignore it. When I roll out of bed around two that afternoon, my heart flutters. Gram. I’ve been avoiding her calls. While I’m not afraid of things that go bump in the night anymore, I am afraid of my gram. That across the miles she’ll know, sense the unforgivable acts I’ve committed. There’s no pretending with her. No masks like we wear in our day-to-day lives. So I do the only thing I know: I pull away. Hearing her displeasure at what I’m doing would break me. So I’ll avoid her until I’m strong enough to face her.

  Yawning, as I stare into the fridge I decide on a green smoothie for energy. Into the blender I throw kale, spinach, and cucumber for my greens. Then I add apples from the farmers’ market and frozen blueberries. Top it off with a piece of ginger and a tablespoon of hemp seeds and I’m good to go. Water goes up to the fill line, my mouth watering as the blender whirls to life. The finished product looks incredibly disgusting. It’s sort of a grayish-purple color, but it tastes fantastic. My body smiles as the smoothie works itself through, flooding me with the nutrients it craves. Yesterday, I made a smoothie that came out brown. It went down the sink. All I could smell was Ted’s poop. No more brown smoothies for a while.

  Gram’s sweet, wavering voice on my voicemail fills me with guilt. I should be there with her like I promised. Perhaps after the next name.

  I’m completely out of shampoo and toilet paper. Going to the store seems like such an effort. As I’m locking my door, his voice startles me.

  “I haven’t seen Jackson around lately. Is he out playing golf?”

  “We broke up a couple of weeks ago.”

  Grayson looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Breakups are hard.”

  “It was time. We’ve been moving in different directions and I think the whole job thing was the final straw. His mother never liked me anyway.”

  At that he smiles. “Mothers never think anyone is good enough for their baby boy.”

  “Enough about me. How’s work? By the looks of that, not too good.”

  He holds up a can of beer. “Was on my way down to the gym.” He sounds sheepish. “I know. Beer and running don’t mix. Had a couple of hard cases. Sometimes it gets to you.”

  We walk down the stairs together. The silence stretches. He wants to tell me something. Instantly, I’m on alert.

  “You see things that make you think the worst of people…”

  “Things?” I ask.

  “The cruelty human beings are capable of inflicting upon animals and each other never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes I think I’m in the wrong job.”

  “I think you have to work on turning off your empathy. Turning off that part of
you that loves every animal.”

  “I know. And usually I can. Some days are harder than others.”

  His dirty blond hair is long past due for a trim. Golden highlights shine when the sun hits his hair.

  “I read somewhere once. Maybe it was somebody’s biography, I don’t remember. But they said take that part and visualize a room inside your head. Then put the thing in the room and shut the door. Locking it with a big, heavy key. Then tuck that key away and the door stays locked. Only open the door when you want to let the thing out again. So for you…every morning when you go to work, lock away those feelings—but don’t forget to unlock the door and let them out when you’re not at work. You’re a good guy, Grayson. Don’t become too hard.”

  We’re almost to the gym when he looks at me. A flirtatious look, and I know what’s coming.

  “So I was wondering…want to do dinner and a movie one night?”

  I smile to soften the blow of the words. “No, I don’t think so.”

  His face falls. “I get it. You’re not over Jackson. Too soon?”

  “I could lie and say that’s the reason, but it’s not.” I push my sunglasses up on my head so he can see my face, the truth in my eyes. “You deserve someone full of light. Not darkness. I’m not a good person.”

  “Of course you are. Jackson was a fool.”

  “No. If you knew…” I look away. “I’m really sorry. I’d love to stay friends, but that’s all I have to offer.”

  He bounces on the balls of his feet, his t-shirt blindingly white in the fall sunlight. “I think you’re selling yourself short. Any guy would be lucky to have you.” Hazel eyes look deep inside me.

  “It’s sweet you think that. But I no longer have anything to offer. It’s better that I’m alone.” And with that, I step off the sidewalk, walking away.