“You two are such babies. I’m going on by myself and you can do whatever you want.” Prudence stuck her nose in the air and spun around. She marched off into the trees, leaving Wendell and Samantha to shiver in the dark.
“Pwoodance, come back,” Samantha called.
Wendell looked all around and then sank to the ground next to her, sobs wracking his body. “We’re lost,” he said. “I want to go home! I want Mommy.”
She put an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close. “Pwoodance wiw come back. She won’t weave us here.”
“Yes she will. She hates me.”
“No she don’t. If she hated you, she wouldn’t bwought you. She didn’t want to weave you.”
Wendell considered this a moment. “You think so?”
“Why else she bwing you?”
“To get rid of me,” he said. “Then she won’t have me around anymore.”
“We can find her,” Samantha said. She got to her feet and then helped Wendell up. “You can have these. They keep you safe from any bad things.” She handed the tiara and scepter from the princess costume to him.
“Are you sure?” he asked as he put the tiara on. She nodded and took his arm, leading him in the direction Prudence had gone. They didn’t get far before they heard a monster wailing and thrashing in the brush ahead. “It’s going to eat us!” Wendell screamed. He pulled on Samantha’s arm, but she couldn’t move.
This is it, she thought. I’m going to Heaven now like Molly’s mama. I should have stayed home. I never should have left. In that moment it wasn’t Veronica she realized she’d miss but Molly. Molly who had treated her so kindly and gently, just like a real mother. When Molly woke up tomorrow and found them gone, she would feel so sad. Samantha thought of Molly crying by the hearth earlier as she spoke of her lost mama. Now Samantha, Prudence, and Wendell were all lost. I’m sorry, she thought, resolving to go back if she were spared.
She had just finished her silent prayer when she made out human words among the monster’s growling. She got to her feet and pulled Wendell along with her into the brush. The closer they got, the more recognizable the monster’s voice became.
Samantha pushed aside a branch to find Prudence entangled by her long hair in the brush. She clawed and kicked at the branches, growling naughty words as she fought to get free. “Pwoodance! We taught you a monster,” Samantha said.
“Do I look like a monster? Get me out of here!” Samantha and Wendell worked together to untangle Prudence’s hair from the brush. She continued kicking and screaming, hitting them several times. She popped loose in a forward surge that brought all three to the ground. “Stupid hair,” she said. “I’m going to cut it all off.”
Samantha helped pick leaves and branches from the tangled copper mass, thinking again of Molly as Prudence ranted on. “We shouwd go home,” Samantha said.
“What? Are you crazy? They’ll beat all of us this time when they find out we left,” Prudence said. Wendell started to cry at this.
“I don’t want to get beaten,” he said. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t want to come. You made me.”
“If I get a spanking, you’re getting one too,” Prudence said. “Even if I have to do it myself.”
“If we go back now, they might not find out,” Samantha said.
“Of course they will. That snotface Joey will tell them.”
“This is your fault,” Wendell said to his sister.
“No it’s not. It’s her fault,” Prudence said, pointing at Samantha. “She’s the one who wanted to leave.”
“You the one who hewped me out of the cwib.”
“Only because you were bawling so much I felt bad.”
“It’s not fair. I didn’t want to come.”
Prudence punched her brother in the shoulder. His crying turned to heaving sobs. “Stop crying, you stupid baby! All you ever do is cry and whine.”
Before Prudence could hit Wendell again, Samantha touched her arm. She heard something heavy crash in the brush behind them. She pointed to the bushes a moment before the man in black from the party appeared. “There you brats are. You three have an appointment with Mr. Switch,” he said. He flicked a thin rod in his hand, the rod slicing through the air in front of him. “I think I’ll start with Fatty.”
Samantha scampered into the brush, branches whipping into her face and tearing at her clothes. She kept going long after her pretty dress became a tattered rag, hearing the man’s heavy footsteps behind her. She couldn’t let him catch her; he would do things far worse to her than Mama Veronica last night.
At last Samantha emerged from the brush onto a rocky trail leading into the hills. She followed the path as it wound uphill, her pursuer’s footsteps growing closer. She chanced a look back, but didn’t see him. Where did he go? she wondered.
Her legs felt so heavy that she could barely stand and her chest burned with every breath. She couldn’t run anymore. She needed to find a place to hide until she thought of what to do.
She stumbled along to the end of the path, seeing the entrance of a cave. She’d be safe in here for a while, long enough to catch her breath and think of what to do next. She only hoped Prudence and Wendell found a similar place to hide.
She almost tripped over something as she entered the cave. A wire of some kind stretched near the floor. What an odd place to put a wire, she thought. She made sure to watch her step in case there were more so she wouldn’t scrape herself up any more.
At the center of the cave, she came to a circular pool of water. Something red and glowing covered the surface of the water. She laid down at the edge of the pool, leaning towards the surface. She reared back an instant later.
The patties of red plant material formed themselves into faces. Each one bore a similarity to her own, except they were older and thinner than hers. “It’s me,” she said. She saw herself as a girl, a teenager, an adult, and even an old woman with wrinkles and white hair. “What is this?”
Before she could lean down to touch the red algae, she heard footsteps behind her. The man in black carried a flailing Prudence under one arm and a limp Wendell under the other. “This is too perfect,” he said, advancing towards her.
Samantha backed away from the pool until she bumped up into a wall. She knelt down, putting up both hands in supplication. “Pwease don’t hurt me,” she said. “I’ll be good. I pwomise.”
“No more games,” the man said. “I’m going to be rid of you and your little friends for good.”
“You can’t,” Samantha said. “Mama Vewonica wiw be mad.”
“Well, that may be, but the way I figure it, you kids were playing in this cave and whoops—” He hurled Wendell into the pool. There was a flash of red light and then Wendell vanished. Prudence screamed, kicking and clawing at the man. “You fell in and disappeared. What a shame.”
He seized the struggling Prudence with both hands. With no other alternatives left, she spat into his face. He growled with rage and then threw her into the pool after her brother. Another flash of light and she disappeared. “Now it’s your turn, Fatty,” he said, taking a step towards Samantha.
She lay there on the floor of the cave, curled up into a ball as he approached, tears pouring down her face for her lost friends. They’re gone, she thought. They’re gone and it’s my fault. He picked her up by the front of the dress, looking into her teary eyes. A smile came to his face. “You’re nothing,” he said. He dropped her into the pool.
Her scream was cut off by a flash of blinding red light.
Chapter 11: Savannah
A scream still echoed in Samantha’s ears as her eyes opened. She found herself not in a dark cave, but a shabby motel room. She conducted a brief inventory: cheeks small, hair straight, stomach flat, and breasts—she had breasts! “Oh thank God,” she said.
She got up off the stained carpet of the motel room and stumbled over to the sink. When she reached out to turn on the faucet, she paused a moment to stare at her long, slim fingers. She wan
ted to kiss each one. “Get a hold of yourself,” she said. She turned the faucet and splashed lukewarm water onto her face.
A nightmare. It had all been a nightmare. She couldn’t remember ever having such a vivid dream, but then again she couldn’t remember anything.
She fumbled for the light switch, jumping back when the lights came on and she saw her face. Not three or ten or even seventeen, but much older. The tired, worn face of a middle-aged woman. She touched the lines at the corner of her eyes and lips, the bags beneath her eyes, and the gray hairs at her temples. “Is this me?” she wondered. Or perhaps this was the dream and she would wake up as a teenager or an old woman.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she said again. “This is ridiculous. I’m not dreaming. I’m—” Who the hell was she? That was the place to begin. Establish the facts.
She looked around the motel room for identification. She found a suitcase on the foot of the bed with no identification tags on the outside. Inside was a wrinkled pile of clothes, a toothbrush, and a gun. She picked up the snub-nosed revolver and without thinking opened the chamber. She dropped the gun when she saw the bullets inside.
She stepped away from the suitcase, bumping against a set of drawers. Her search of the drawers turned up only a telephone book for the greater Savannah area and a Bible. I must not have been here long, she thought. A search of the nightstands revealed a few ads for pizza restaurants and the channel listing for the television. She checked underneath the bed and in the closet without finding anything.
Her stomach began twisting into knots. So far she knew only that she was a middle-aged woman in Savannah, Georgia who carried a gun in her suitcase. There’s probably a good reason for that, she thought. The knots tightened and bile started to make its way up her throat.
She dashed into the bathroom, spitting a blob of yellow bile into the toilet. I must not have eaten recently, she thought, grateful for any clue that might help. She flushed the toilet and prepared to make another sweep of the room when she saw a handbag dangling from the back of the door.
She snatched the bag, taking it into the room to empty out onto the bed. She found many of the usual things a woman carried in such a bag—lipstick, compact, tampons, tissues—and something few other women carried. “Oh my God,” she said, picking up the black leather wallet.
The wallet flopped open to reveal a gold badge and identification for one Special Agent Samantha Young, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI; she was an FBI agent! At least that explained the gun. The photo on the badge looked old, ten years old at least when her face was smooth and her hair long and black.
In a billfold she found more conventional identification. A Texas driver’s license confirmed her name as Samantha Young—no middle name—born on July 22, 1959. She lived in Dallas in an apartment 8203 on 19953 Juniper Drive. Other than height, weight, and her status as an organ donor the license couldn’t tell her anything.
The billfold held three hundred dollars in cash as well as three credit cards registered to her, a library card, and a paper card for something called the Frequent Diner’s Club at Freshly’s Deli. That’s it? she wondered. No pictures of loved ones or pets. No notes or messages. No postcards or love letters. Not even any business cards. What kind of life did she lead back in Dallas? She would have to find out.
Among the items in the handbag she found a pair of key rings, one she assumed for her apartment and car back home while the other had a Thrifty rental agency key chain. The key chain listed her rented car as a 1999 Dodge Stratus. She decided to continue her search for clues there.
Before leaving the room, she considered whether she should take the gun. For all she knew someone had been trying to kill her and knocked her unconscious. If that were true, why didn’t she have any bruises or cuts or bullet wounds? “Don’t get paranoid,” she said. She closed the suitcase on the off chance a maid happened in while she searched the car.
She opened the door to her second-story room and climbed down a set of cement stairs to the parking lot. A sign nearby identified the motel as the Southern Comfort Inn. Somehow that seemed appropriate, though she didn’t know why.
There were several cars in the parking lot, but only one Dodge Stratus. She unlocked the passenger’s side of the car, where a denim jacket lay on the front seat. Feeling a sudden chill, she donned the jacket, noting how heavy the left side of the jacket felt. She patted the lining, finding a hidden pocket and inside this a pair of handcuffs and a switchblade knife. She snapped open the knife, a thin six-inch blade springing out.
She folded the knife back up and then felt around the jacket for any other clues. She found only a book of matches for a Wayfarer Tavern and container of peppermint Tic-Tacs. There has to be more than this, she thought.
She opened the glove compartment, finding the car’s owner’s manual and a receipt indicating she rented the car on July 16, 1999. That meant she was about forty years old. Only. The face in the mirror looked older than that. What kind of life have I been living? she wondered.
She didn’t find anything else in the glove compartment and was ready to give up searching the car when she spotted a wadded up piece of paper in the cup holder. She smoothed out the piece of newspaper, gasping when the wrinkles revealed an article about the death of one Mr. Steven Fitzgerald, 57, of Savannah. ‘“Mr. Fitzgerald was gunned down last night in his home. Police have no suspects at this time,’” Samantha read. The article went on to mention Mr. Fitzgerald had retired two years ago after thirty years in the FBI and moved to his hometown of Savannah. ‘“He is survived by a wife and daughter.”’
The article included a picture of Fitzgerald taken near the end of his FBI days. He had been a heavyset man balding on top with a walrus mustache. His eyes looked straight ahead, boring into her. “You’re sure about this, kid?” she heard him say.
“I’m sure,” she says.
“If you’re wrong—”
“I’m not wrong. He’ll be here.” They sit across from an apartment building, Samantha with binoculars trained on the fourth floor. The home of Juanita Suarez, her three young boys, and sometimes one Rolando Gutierrez, the prime suspect in the murder of a family in San Diego.
“You want a donut, coffee, anything?” Fitzgerald asks.
“I’m fine,” she says, keeping the binoculars to her eyes. She can’t afford to look away for one second or she might miss him. If they missed him, he’ll be on the next flight to Mexico or Brazil and they’ll never see him again.
“You need to take it easy, kiddo. You’re going to hurt your eyes staring so long.”
She hates when he calls her ‘kiddo’ or ‘kid’ or any of his other pet names. She’s twenty-six years old and already been in the field for two years. She doesn’t need a babysitter trying to take her under his wing. This is a serious business, she wants to tell him. How can you sit there filling your face when a murderer is on the verge of going free?
Suarez comes into Samantha’s vision. She’s younger than Samantha with the kind of body men on South Beach would notice. Though she probably doesn’t wear bikinis anymore after having three children, Samantha thinks. She resists the urge to get out of the car and run up there to knock some sense into this woman. Three children and she’s fucking around with a murderer.
Suarez picks up one of the kids—not more than four years old—as she goes to the door. This is it, Samantha tells herself. The door opens and there’s Gutierrez. He kisses his mistress and then the child like he’s just got home from a long day at the office.
Samantha tosses the binoculars onto the backseat and opens the door. “He’s in there,” she says over her shoulder as she breaks into a run.
“Hey kid, wait up,” Fitzgerald calls out. She ignores him and keeps going, bursting through the front doors of the apartment building. No time for elevators, she thinks as she starts up the stairs to the third floor.
She opens the door slowly, careful not to make a sound that might alert Gutierrez that anyone’s on to him.
She slides along the hallway, counting the doors to 3F. At 3E she pulls her gun from its holster and takes a deep breath.
She throws all her weight against the door to 3F, smashing it open with her shoulder. “Freeze! FBI!” she shouts, training her gun on Gutierrez and Suarez in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t do nothing,” he says to her in Spanish.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of four people in San Diego,” she responds in Spanish. “You, step away from him with the child. Keep your hands up,” she says to Suarez.
The woman takes one step back and then another. Samantha keeps her gun trained on Gutierrez, resisting the urge to put a bullet through his head now. As she’s reaching back to take the handcuffs from her belt, she hears Suarez whispering something into the child’s ear. Some kind of prayer.
From the corner of her eye, Samantha sees the child flying from Suarez’s hands towards her. On instinct she drops the gun and catches the little boy. When she puts him down, she hears the click of a safety being released. “Now, pig, you’re going to get me out of here,” Gutierrez says.
Samantha raises her hands, wondering where the hell that slob Fitzgerald is. He probably had a heart attack making it this far, she thinks. No matter, she can take this guy on her own. “We’re not going anywhere,” she says.
Gutierrez takes a step towards her, the gun pointed at Samantha’s head. “How many more are there?” he asks.
“Two in the hallway and three more by the elevator. Plus local PD all around the building,” she says.
This causes him to smile. “You lie,” he says. He reaches out with his free hand to grab Samantha by the hair. “You’re a foolish little girl to come here alone.”
“Is that right?” she says. She knees him in the midsection and then bats the gun from his hand. A kick to the back of his leg trips him up. He takes Samantha to the floor with him, still clinging to her hair. She rolls atop him and breaks his grip along with his wrist.
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