Hearing tears in her daughter’s voice, Martha felt her guts twist into a knot so hard and tight, she gasped for breath. “Uh, I’m okay; don’t worry about me, still sleepy I guess.” Fully awake now, she deftly turned the subject from herself. “Is the therapy helping him at all?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard to see any real change, not yet anyway. It’s been so long now, three months, isn’t it?” she asked. “How can he ever be normal again? How can he? I know I’d never feel the same if that happened to me. I couldn’t, oh my God, never!”
Her heart ached for her daughter and her five year old grandson, Will. “No wonder people took vengeance in the old days. At least they could, but our laws consistently favor the criminal, certainly not people like us.” Saying that brought back the helpless anger at the rape and sodomy of her only grandchild. This excessive rage was entirely new to Martha, and experiencing it, she felt helpless and uncomfortable because of it.
Recalling that day so well—it burned forever in her memory and always would—she remembered replying to her daughter’s frantic call. “What do you mean that man has gone free?” With tortured breath, she’d cried into the phone. “Jeannie, how can they do that? How can they let a monster like that loose to prey on other children?” Her mind had gone spinning into a bottomless black void that day, as she’d prayed, “Please, tell me it isn’t true.”
The speaker phone had rung in her ears as her daughter’s tear-filled voice related the sick details. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. A detective, Ryan Mapus, said the arresting officer forgot to read the man his Miranda Rights. A new rookie, who’d just completed training, overlooked that little detail. He just forgot, Mom, and because of that mistake, the evidence is inadmissible in a court of law. They can’t even use the DNA!”
“What are we to do if the law won’t protect us? How are we to save our children from people like that sick pedophile, Callahan? He’s out again, free to savage another child. My God, Jeannie, Will is only five years old. What horrors must haunt his little mind?” After a few more words, filled with hopelessness and despair, Jeannie hung up. Oh yes! Martha remembered that day all too well.
Her mind filled with foggy dreams of sickening content, seeing images of the things she feared Will had endured, until she’d cried out, “Oh, I can’t stand it! But what the hell can I do?”
Boiling rage and helplessness tore at her mind that awful day until at the end of her strength, she’d been forced to down a sedative and seek her bed in search of the soft swirling reprieve of blissful sleep.
Forcing her thoughts away from the memory of that haunting exchange, she returned to the present. “Honey, I’m coming over. Sorry about dinner. I want to see you and Will. Is Martin home today?”
“No, he had to be out of town for another conference over the week-end so we’re alone again. It makes me horribly nervous anymore. I hate being afraid like this, but some days that’s all I do. I want to move away from this town—this place.”
“I know, girl, I think of it, too. Like we have to uproot our whole family because the law can’t put these people away. It’s just not right.”
After her conversation with Jeannie, Martha was fully awake. She glanced at her bedside clock. The numbers said seven. She felt puzzled. It’s dark outside. Where has my day gone?
She stumbled into the bathroom, and looked in her mirror. Seeing purple stains on her right wrist, she stared at them. “How did I come by these?” Shaking her head, she realized she’d lost track of several hours again, beginning sometime in the night. She remembered going to bed, but not with purple stains on her wrists. That knowledge made her feel unsure of her thinking and gave her a distant, fuzzy feeling inside.
Something’s happening to me. I know it, have known it for the past two or three months. Tears of fear and frustration went sliding down her cheeks. Oh, Lord, am I going crazy?
Martha paced about her small, snug home, looking at her things. Those comforting, solid, and real things were where they always were, but she couldn’t shake her feeling of unreality. Her furnishings, her desk, sat in their normal places, but somehow, nothing was right.
She returned to her bed and lay there for a few moments, trying to put the past few hours together, and failed. “If I see a psychiatrist, everyone will think I’m crazy.” She punched her pillow. “But I have to, or I’ll really go mad!” Thinking about how her situation would be perceived at work, she knew she could never tell anyone about it. “Who on earth would hire a crazy nurse? They’d never give me another shift!”
Suddenly she started, heart hammering. “Have I missed my shift at the hospital?” She hastened to her heavy oaken desk and checked her work calendar. “No, thank God. I work tomorrow, but if this keeps on, I’ll mess up. How could I help it?” She hit the shower, laughing at herself. “And now I’m talking to myself!”
She washed her hair, scrubbed at the purple stains on both wrists, and worried silently. Nothing on my fingers, so how did I get these? Did I use gloves or what? Shaking off her confusing thoughts, she dried her body and moisturized her skin. She dressed in slim-legged jeans and boots. A long-sleeved sweater in a deep green, to hide the spots, completed her outfit. She’d kept her figure trim. Being tall and athletic helped, too. Her hair, chestnut-hued with streaks of blond, was short, dried easily, and curled enough on its own. It only needed a bit of brushing.
Satisfied with her appearance, without really looking, she grabbed her purse and felt a renewed shock. Oh Lord, when did I get this ugly purse? It’s awful, so gaudy—not my style at all. “What on earth is happening to me?” she asked as she headed to the garage and her car. “At least my car looks the same.” She heaved a sigh of relief as she got in and pressed the garage door opener.
Moments later, she pulled into her daughter’s driveway and headed for the door. It swung wide and her daughter, Jeanne Moulton, stood in the light of the open doorway. What a beautiful girl she is with her big, dark-blue eyes, and, long, luscious, golden hair, Martha thought. It breaks my heart to see her troubled this way.
“Mom, we really missed you earlier. What happened?”
Martha shrugged. “I slept too much, I guess. I get so tired from work and worrying. And then, I get so worked up thinking about how they let that predator get away with what he did, my blood just boils!” Thinking these things made her tense up tight inside, way too tight and she hated the feeling.
“Come on in, there’s food left. No one had much of an appetite anyway, and with Martin gone, things are worse.” Jeannie closed the door behind Martha and followed her to the den.
“Where is he?” Martha asked, tossing her unfamiliar purse on a nearby chair, noticing once again, it didn’t look like hers and an icy tingle passed through her. What else have I done? She couldn’t speak of her fears. Who’d believe such a thing—not knowing I bought a purse?
Jeannie failed to notice her mother’s moment of hesitation. “Will’s watching TV right now, but he isn’t getting any excitement or enjoyment from it that I can see. He’s never excited about anything anymore, not like he used to be.”
Martha hurt inside, seeing the helpless tears swimming in Jeannie’s wide blue eyes. She and Jeannie entered the great room, paneled in oak and furnished with a thick rug and several leather chairs scattered about. A large 60-inch Sony, flat-screen TV blared cartoons. Will sat before it, silently gazing at the action, reacting to nothing. The sandy-haired boy seemed in a trance, never noticing his mother and grandmother enter the room. They stood together looking helplessly at the sad, lost, little boy.
Shaking her head, Jeannie turned away. “Let’s move into the den where we can talk.” She wiped her tears with a tissue as she led the way. “He just sits there like that. I can’t believe they let that man get away with what he did. I just can’t. I want to kill him for what he’s done to Will!” Her hands clenched in anger, her lips flattened tight across her mouth. “Sometimes I hear him crying in the night. He clams up when I go to him, becoming
a zombie right before my eyes.” She slumped into the large, maroon leather recliner, her husband’s favorite, and curled into a defensive ball.
Martha sat in a fabric-covered chair. A cozy room—lots of books, great chairs, and soft lighting. Sitting in here usually made for quiet relaxation. That feeling was impossible to find these days. “Hon, time might help some, but I’ve read extensively about the effects of this. Unfortunately, it tends to stay deep inside, hidden from your consciousness.” She paused. “But it’s always there.” Trying to think of something positive to say, Martha couldn’t. “Turn on the boob tube, maybe something on there will help us forget for a moment.”
Jeanie switched on the local news. The newscaster, his voice high with excitement, exclaimed, “There’s been an assault on a jogger in Leesford Green, the local jogging park. The assailant apparently waited in a grove of trees and attacked the man as he jogged past. It happened early this morning. The victim is stable but the police report states that his injuries are devastating and permanent.” He cleared his throat, and continued. “His name is being withheld for the time being, pending further investigation, but it appears the victim was recently involved in a sexual assault case, arrested and released. We’ll continue to update our listeners on this situation as more information becomes available.”
Martha no longer heard his voice. The roaring in her head blotted all else from her consciousness. She felt lost in a raging, circling windstorm and gripped the arms of her chair.
Jeannie saw her mother’s knuckles turn as white as her face and hurried to kneel at Martha’s side. “Mom, what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something!”
Martha shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m okay now.” She uttered a hollow laugh. “Maybe it was hearing that news flash. Don’t you wish the hideous thing that man did to our little guy would happen to him? What if that was Callahan? God, I’d be so happy—wouldn’t it be just retribution?”
“Let’s keep the TV on,” Jeannie replied. “Maybe we’ll know later, or at least by tomorrow. Hey, it did take our minds off of things for the moment, didn’t it?” she said. “Oh, what if it was? Maybe he’s done this before and it caught up to him in a big way. Well, if it’s him...” She frowned. “How would something like that help Will? It’d please us immensely, but him? I don’t know. Maybe the therapist would know how an assault feels to an assailant.” She sighed. “All this on our wild suppositions.”
Martha stayed with her daughter for another hour. Talking to Will appeared to achieve little, though after a time, he came to her. He looked up into her eyes with his deep blue ones, so like his mother’s, and crawled up into her lap.
“I love you, Grammy.” At that moment she saw excitement shinning from his eyes. “Can we go to Biggie’s Burgers again? Can we, huh?”
Excited at the request, she threw a glance at Jeannie, her eyebrows raised. “You bet,” she said. “How about lunch tomorrow? Soon enough?” She squeezed him, rocking him gently. “Okay, Will?”
His eyes brightened. “Yep, Grammy, I need a Bittie Meal with chicken bits and Sprite.”
Martha welcomed that tiny sparkle in her grandson’s red-rimmed eyes. He’d been crying too much.
“Okay, Will, how about eleven tomorrow. Will you be ready by then?”
“Yeah, Grammy, I’ll be all ready.”
Martha couldn’t stop the flow of tears at his words, and the way he said, Biggie’s Burgers. “Maybe the therapy is helping, and something has taken hold. It would be Biggie’s, wouldn’t it?” She sighed at the tiny ray of hope she felt in her heart and saw in Jeannie’s eyes. “Okay, darling, see you tomorrow,” she added. “I have to be at work at three, but we’ll have lots of time together before that.”
Martha got into her car and backed down the driveway, leaving the boy standing beside his mother. His babyish hands clutched her skirt and the lost sadness had returned to his face. Seeing it, anger at his plight filled Martha with burning fire. This much fury, new to her and surprising in its intensity, puzzled her, but in her turmoil and worry over Will, she’d only begun to wonder about it. She certainly had cause for anger, but so intense?
As she drove, she gave thought to her lost time periods. It had happened again today, and she had no memory of purchasing the purse she carried. Where is my old one and when did I get this? Who put it in my house with my things in it? And why do I awake some mornings smelling like a barroom, smoke in my hair and all? Man oh man, I’m losing my mind! Suddenly she realized she’d driven past the jogging park. What am I doing here? It’s way after dark. Cold chills crept along her spine as she turned around and drove toward her home, her mind filled with confusion. Snapping on the radio, she heard another news flash.
“It has been confirmed. The identity of the man viciously attacked in Leesford jogging park is now known. He is identified as Frederick Callahan, age forty-two, a man, recently in the news, having been apprehended and released in a child molestation case nearly three months ago.” The announcer took a breath and continued. “The police have evidence in the case and the investigation is continuing. We will keep you updated as the facts come in.”
Martha couldn’t help feeling a satisfied glee as she pulled into her garage and switched off the motor. “Well, well, someone besides us thought he needed to learn a lesson. Wonder what they did to him? The announcer didn’t say, but anything done to that monster wouldn’t be enough.”
Once in the house, she turned on the news again, hoping to learn more of the case. “Same old stuff,” she sniffed, after hearing the same thing again. She went to bed and tried to read a romance novel. But finding the characters unworthy of her attention, she switched off the light and lay awake in the darkness, thinking.
Her roiling mind embraced the terrifying idea that she was in danger of losing her sanity. What happens in those blank hours and days I can’t account for? There aren’t that many, but what have I done besides shopping for a new purse? And the smoke I sometimes reek of? Where was I? Where did I go during those hours? What was I doing? Jeannie hadn’t seemed to know of these things, no one did. And this wild looking purse—it’s all too much!
Sleep came finally, reluctantly, but in her tortured dreams she was chased by unidentifiable monsters and tossed about in her bed. Sometimes huge, soft, cottony clouds rolled over her, enveloping her in that massive fluffiness without end. Nothing actually hurt her, yet she continuously felt threatened by a mind-numbing fear she had no way to escape.
CHAPTER 5
It seemed like any other day to Martha, except for her nagging worry over her lost hours, the strange purse, and smelling like smoke. She drove over to Jeannie’s to collect Will for their planned outing to Biggie’s Burgers.
Pulling into the driveway, she didn’t have to wait long. The little boy hurried out with his mother. Though Will didn’t come roaring out as he usually did, he certainly seemed brighter this morning, and any tiny bit of improvement in the child helped Martha forget her personal worries. Deep inside her mind, it lightened her outlook on just about everything.
“How are you, today, Will?”
“I’m okay, Grammy.” He offered no further comment as his mother placed his car seat in Martha’s vehicle and buckled him in. Waving a quiet goodbye, they drove away.
Martha watched him via the rear view mirror. He took no notice of passing trees, dogs, children, or even motorcycles. Normally, he’d yell excitedly when a Harley roared past. She shook her head and felt that unreasoning anger rising within her all over again. She worried about that, too.
She pulled into Biggie’s and extracted Will from his seat. Entering a familiar place, filled with good memories, she watched his expressions, hoping to see delight in those dull and darkened eyes. He’d always had fun here.
“What would you like?” Martha asked him as the young girl behind the counter waited. Will gave her a serious look and turned to the girl.
“I need a Bit
tie Meal with bits and a Sprite,” he piped up, his voice sounding so normal that Martha’s heart ached with joy hearing it. He’d spoken eagerly to the dark-haired girl, and without fear. Martha’s purpose had been to get him away from his stone-like presence before the TV set, to do something familiar and fun. It seemed to be working. His interaction with the girl was a sign that things were getting better.
A deep, male voice behind them, said, “My, what a fine young lad you have there.”
Hearing the strange voice, Will’s body tensed. He clutched onto her jeans and, trembling, hid his face against her.
“Handsome young fellow,” the man added.
The man’s words had a chilling effect on Will. He clung desperately to her leg, his fingers digging into her flesh. Martha, her pulse racing in agony for Will, turned to see a kindly old gentleman. A man who appeared to genuinely like young children. But the boy’s recent trauma had changed the way any encounter with an unknown male might appear to him.
“Why, thank you,” Martha managed. Receiving their food, she and Will hurried away from the man’s vicinity and took a seat in the children’s play area.
She set out Will’s lunch. “Oh, my, doesn’t this look good? May I have one of your fries?” she said, trying to lure his thoughts away from the encounter.
Will, sat frozen, saying nothing, his features pale. His eyes darted about. He took none of his food. “Okay, Grammy, you can have some.” His voice, tight with apprehension, made her heart ache. “Was that a bad man, Grammy?” he asked, his small face white with fear.
“No, son, I’m sure he wasn’t. Most people are good and kind. Try to remember that, Will.” She smiled reassuringly at the boy. “He looked like someone’s nice grandfather to me. Go ahead and eat,” she urged. “Then you can play for a while if you like.” Hoping he wouldn’t fear those of his own size, she added, “And you have to be small to enter the play place.” She pointed to the measuring line. “You can’t be taller than that mark.”
The Vigilante Page 3