Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  “Of course.” I force a strangled laugh as I rub the moisture between his legs, thinking of my hometown, my bedroom, the band posters on the wall.

  Abruptly, he startles me out of my thoughts. “That’s enough.”

  With that, he stalks off to the dresser, opening the bottom drawer. “This is your nightgown.” He removes a thin piece of pink material. Something a little girl would wear. It’s long and Pepto-Bismol colored, a small, dainty white ribbon at the top with three buttons that’re decorative only.

  “You’ll wear this.” His statement brooks no argument.

  I nod.

  “Remove your robe.”

  I hesitate, my hand grips the rigid belt around my waist.

  We make eye contact, his blue-green eyes staring into mine. The displaced hair in the mole is like a third eye.

  Quivering, I undo the belt and slowly slide the robe off my shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. I try and shield my body from him with my hands, covering up as much as I can with my palms.

  “Little girl…” His voice trails off. “Arms up so we can get your nightgown on. You’re trying to seduce me, and I don’t like it.” He steps forward, gripping my chin. “Is this what you want?” He pulls my hand from my breast and puts it on his genitals.

  I shut my eyes, appalled. “No,” I say flatly.

  “Then listen. It’s time for bed.” The Mole interrupts my thoughts. “You’re moving too slow. Hold your arms up.”

  Instinctively, I move them behind my back, terrified he’s going to tie me up again, that I’ll be forced to sleep spread-eagled.

  “I must never come back in the morning to see you wearing anything else unless I say differently, do you understand, little girl?”

  Nodding my head, my hands tremble slightly as he pulls it over my head, brushing his hands lightly over my curves.

  I sigh in disgust, staring at a spot on the ceiling. It doesn’t have the typical texture of popcorn or smooth paint, or canned lights. It’s flat, but has a weird pattern.

  “And these.” He fidgets through the top drawer, handing me white underwear that go up to my belly button. “Put these on. It’s unclean to sleep naked. We don’t want anyone touching you.”

  Except for you, I think bitterly.

  “Also, after every bath, you have to spray this on you.” The pink bottle says Love Baby Soft, and he opens the top drawer and motions for me to hold out my wrists. “You need to put a dab on each wrist and then spray it on your neck.”

  I cough. The powdery smell overcomes me as I inhale it.

  “You don’t like?” He steps back, offended.

  Gagging, I quickly say, “No, I’m just not used to the smell.”

  He tilts his head. “What would you prefer? Something more sensual?”

  “No, no, this is perfect.” I add, “It reminds me of my childhood.”

  He’s satisfied with this answer, turning back to the dresser as he sets the bottle back in the drawer.

  But no…there’s something deeper that creates this time travel back to another age. Blair took an abnormal psych class her freshman year in college, and she used to tell me stories on different mental illnesses. She was explaining a fascinating story about this man who was raised by his grandma and after she died, he became obsessed. He never removed her from her bed, continuing to act as if she were alive, and from that moment forward, time stopped in his mind.

  I wish I knew the ending.

  My mom interrupted Blair’s story, telling her it was ‘dark and twisted,’ and then cut off her response to talk about my accomplishments on student council.

  Typical Mom.

  Blair thought I liked the attention from our parents, and it’s true, at first I did, except it became overbearing after she went to college and Mom had no one else to dote on. Her interest never wavered, and it’s impossible to please a mother that needs to be involved in my day-to-day and live vicariously through me.

  It’s like I can keep very little for myself and to myself.

  The Mole takes my hand and leads me to the bed, pulling the thin blanket off and helping guide me under the sheets. He flattens the pillow underneath my head, softly kissing my forehead again.

  He kneels on the floor next to me, his warm breath on my face.

  “Just remember, I can see you at all times,” he says. “I’ll know what you do, and I’m right next door.” He pushes my head down until there’s an indent in the pillow. “If you ever try to escape, I’ll kill you.”

  My eyes widen in horror, but he pushes my lids closed, like you would a dead person that accidentally died with them open.

  “Go to sleep, little girl. And don’t forget your responsibilities in the morning.”

  He smooths the covers over me, leaving my side to grab the ratty brown teddy bear from the shelf. He shoves it underneath the crook of my armpit, a hole where the stuffing is missing.

  I press my eyes closed, pretending I’m in the hotel room, back pressed against Blair’s. But sleep doesn’t come, not after he lays down on the carpet next to the bed and hums lullabies until he thinks I’m asleep.

  Not after he pulls the string to the lightbulb, shrouding me in darkness again.

  Especially not as his flashlight clicks on and he slides the metal door open and closed behind him, reminding me exactly how alone I am.

  19

  Blair

  Moira’s replaced by another officer by the time I wake up, and Goodman and Mark are both back in the room when my parents arrive. Jet-lagged and tense, both have aged overnight. Lines etch their faces and their movements are jerky and robotic. Both have coffee cups in their trembling hands as they sink into the chairs at the table.

  Both explain to my parents a timeline that's constructed to the best of our abilities. My parents ask about the boys and their potential involvement.

  The phone rings and I rush to answer it, my parents holding their breath. We’re all thinking the same thing – maybe it’s Bristol.

  Except it’s not, it’s Will.

  He acts as if nothing’s wrong. “Hey, you called yesterday.” He’s chipper. It grates on my nerves the second I pick up the phone.

  He’s guilty.

  “Took you long enough to call back,” I mutter.

  “What do you mean?” He’s apathetic. “I lost my phone.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes staring at my back, waiting to hear the outcome.

  “It got lost in the ocean.”

  “Yeah, let me guess, a shark swallowed it.” I twist the cord in my hand.

  “Why the ‘tude?” He’s annoyed. “What do you want anyway?”

  “Bristol’s missing, as I’m sure you know.” Bitterness laces my words.

  “No, how would I know?”

  “Because you were the last one with her.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “And you’re phone apparently just ‘disappeared.’”

  “Well it did, and I’m sorry she’s gone, but I don’t understand what it has to do with me.”

  “Did you physically come into the room with her?” I keep my voice even. “No one’s upset, we just don’t know why she wasn’t here.”

  “Yes.” He pauses. “She went inside and I left. That’s all.”

  “You sure you didn’t leave her outside?” I ask. “Or on the beach?”

  “Nope, seventeenth floor.”

  “Did you actually see her go inside the room?”

  “Yep.” I hear his name being called. He murmurs to someone in the background asking him a question.

  “Did you force yourself on her?” I can’t help myself. “Rape her?”

  A hand touches my shoulder. It’s my father.

  “Jesus, Blair, calm the fuck down.” I hear a girl’s voice giggling. “I gotta get going.”

  “Nicholas said you never came home. Where were you?”

  “Go to hell, Blair. I don’t know what happened to your sister.” He slams the phone down.

  I hi
t redial, but the phone rings and rings, and no one picks up.

  The room’s filled with tension, my mother cowering in her chair, my father pacing the room. Mark and Goodman talk to my parents, then they both leave.

  The three of us sit in awkward silence, my mother staring out at the water, the seagulls, people walking below, anywhere but me.

  I play with a straw wrapper, balling up the paper, twisting it, watching it meld into shapes.

  “How could you?” she speaks.

  I glance up. “Huh?”

  Her eyes are still focused in the distance, not on me.

  “Leave her with a boy. She’s not like you.” Her eyes glower at me.

  “Like me how?” I rip the wrapper in half.

  “A slut. A harlot,” she scoffs. “She’s a church-going girl. She doesn’t know about drugs and boys and whatever nonsense you told her she had to do for a good time.”

  “She knows more than you think.” I meet her eyes, defiant.

  Standing, she walks over to me.

  I feel it before it registers, a sharp crack where her palm slaps me. “Don’t you ever speak about my baby like that.”

  My hand reaches up to my cheek, rubbing the offended spot.

  “I never should’ve trusted you,” she repeats. “You’re the reason she’s missing. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “I know. Don’t you think I know?” I cry out.

  My father’s eyes are vacant, he says nothing at her outburst, his hands on his Bible, glasses tipped precariously on his nose. Any movement on his part will send them crashing to the floor.

  Goodman comes back later, scraping his knuckles on the door. He was able to interview Will and Nicholas at the surf shack.

  The bartender wasn’t kidding – Will does have a rap sheet.

  Goodman tells us that Will’s brushes with the law are primarily juvenile shit – hot-wiring a vehicle, underage drinking, and speeding.

  Until he mentions ‘arson and involuntary manslaughter’.

  Will was sent away to a boy’s home when he was only twelve.

  He was baby-sitting his twelve-year-old sister and thought it would be genius to set his mom’s boyfriend’s house on fire to collect insurance money. He didn’t count on the fact that the boyfriend didn’t have insurance or that his sister would be trapped in her bedroom. She locked in her closet for stealing food from the pantry since they hadn’t eaten in a couple days.

  I’m sick to my stomach, butterflies clawing at my insides.

  Will acknowledges to the investigators he was with Bristol but claims he brought her back to the hotel. The cameras in the lobby substantiate this-they were spotted getting on an elevator and he was spotted coming back down, alone.

  He left her at our room, the key card inside confirms this.

  “He couldn’t have escaped with her out the window?” Mother asks.

  “Seventeen floors?” Goodman raises his eyebrows. “Highly unlikely.”

  “But what about after they came up to the room?” My father asks. “Surely there’re cameras on every floor?”

  “Only in the lobby and the elevator banks.” Goodman frowns. “We’ve never had a situation like this.”

  “Surely she isn’t the first girl who got...lost.” Mother refuses to say “kidnapped, missing, or runaway.”

  “Usually they’re found drunk, sleeping off hangovers.” Goodman surmises. “This is an extremely rare case. Both boys have cooperated with our investigation thus far.”

  After a week, the hotel suggests moving us to a suite so we’ll be more comfortable but Mother refuses, so the three of us share the room.

  The pull-out couch becomes my makeshift bed.

  Though I don’t sleep.

  None of us do.

  We pretend, but we toss and turn, the days drag on into overwrought nights as we wait…and wait. We stay on the island another two weeks, helpless as hamsters circling a wheel, frantically spinning but without purpose.

  Tensions rise between my parents, the adoption of Isaiah put on hold, their grief twisting every word and gesture. It escalates between my parents and I. Between Will and Nicholas and all of us.

  Will’s cooperative at first, then he refuses additional questions and interviews, citing ‘work.’ He’s finally hauled in after they issue a search warrant for the surf shack and him and Nichola’s apartment.

  At the beginning, Bristol’s case receives primetime news coverage, helicopter searches, pleas for public assistance, and reward money. Local news turns to national interest – the story of Bristol Bellamy, a farm kid from rural Nebraska gone missing on spring break.

  The media loves to sensationalize the case, painting Bristol as this naïve girl out of her element in the big, bad city of Honolulu. I shudder at how they portray me, an out-of-control sorority girl that pushed my baby sister into drinking underage and clubbing.

  The atmosphere is nuclear – my mother’s bottled-up anger rises to the surface and then explodes until the next thought becomes a new obsession.

  “Why would you just leave her?” My mother shrieks, “and with a felon?”

  Then, “You were always jealous of her.” Shaking her head disapprovingly.

  My father tries to interject, his hands kneaded on his lap or his worn Bible as he stares at the floor, his voice monotone.

  But it’s pointless, her tirades continue.

  One morning, I’m on my side, curled up, my anxiety shooting through the roof, as I huddle on the pull-out couch.

  I try to slow down my breathing.

  Mother wakes up, the room still dark, and her eyes drift over to the sofa. “Bristol?” A smile tugs at her face.

  “No, it’s me.” I sigh, taking a deep breath.

  The disappointment in her voice stuns me. “Oh.” The smile immediately dies as she lambasts me for every character flaw and mistake I’ve made.

  My father reaches a breaking point when she throws the television remote across the room, narrowly missing my shoulder.

  “That’s enough,” he says, pushing his glasses up his forehead. “Damn it, Priscilla, that’s enough.” I’ve never heard him cuss, even ‘Hell’ is off-limits unless he’s using it in one of his forceful sermons.

  He’s been extremely patient, coddling her as she cries, picking her up when she falls apart. But this is too much even for him.

  My mother stares at him like he’s a stranger, unrecognizable.

  My father tries to play the intermediary at the beginning, reminding her that I’m struggling with my own guilt.

  “She’s having a hard enough time,” he murmurs. “It’s her sister that’s missing.”

  But what burns down my throat is what she says next. Under her breath, she mutters, “It should’ve been her.”

  The days seem to stretch on, minutes ticking by, and every morning, there’s renewed hope, but by evening, despair. It’s a constant mind game, the possibility she’ll be located, then with each passing day, it becomes less and less likely.

  We never speak of the statistics, though Goodman has tried to prepare us that she might not come home.

  The investigation continues – the hotel staff are interviewed, pizza place employees and patrons. At The Ocean Club, the bartenders and DJ are interviewed, verifying the boys were there, but they deny seeing us.

  David the bartender confirms two girls were with them.

  Leslie Billings and Haley Pritchett.

  The other workers say the same thing.

  There’s no recollection of a Bristol and Blair Bellamy.

  My parents assume I’m lying, or that I got the bar wrong.

  Leads pour in, but they’re from unreliable witnesses or do-gooders who want to help but can’t provide a shred of evidence.

  The only solid fact we know is that Bristol was alive when I left… but after 1:17 A.M., it’s like she walked off the face of the earth.

  There’s no trace of her after Will left her at the hotel door.

  Or so he says.

/>   20

  Bristol

  I finally fall asleep but wake up disoriented, forgetting I’m in a twin-size bed. During my thrashing, I roll over the edge, crashing to the floor with a thud.

  The teddy bear and my elbow take the brunt of the fall.

  Eyeballing the blinking camera, I quickly climb back in bed, rubbing the sore spot. I don’t want The Mole coming back in here and trying to snuggle me to sleep.

  Or worse.

  I wish I knew the time, but there are no clocks in here. It’s like I stepped back in another time period. Someone else’s childhood and someone pushed ‘pause’.

  When I fall into a restless slumber, I’m awoken by the clang of the door being thrust open. I keep my face to the wall, pretending to be asleep.

  If I thought that would keep him from humming and turning on the single lightbulb, I was wrong.

  In fact, he plugs in a floodlight that illuminates the foam walls and forces me to shut my eyes against the blinding glare.

  “Rise and shine, little girl.”

  I groan. “What time is it?”

  “Time for you to get up. No need for a bath this morning since you had one last night. Just wash your face. I brought your breakfast.” He’s wearing navy coveralls, like the kind car mechanics wear. Maybe this means he’s on his way to work and won’t stay long.

  Rolling to my other side, I sit up slowly.

  He’s humming, his back to me, standing at the yellow dresser. I slowly step out of bed, tiptoeing across the room. He’s searching through the contents, murmuring to himself.

  If I thought today’s outfit would be more consistent with the 90s, I was wrong.

  “Here you go.” He pulls something out of a drawer, it looks like a brown turd. “Today’s outfit.” It’s a drop waist dress, UPS brown, with orange frills down the front. To complete the look are cream stockings and black Mary Jane patent leather shoes.

  “Well, hurry and come over here,” he chastises. “You need to wash your face and put your Baby Soft on.” He uses the spigot to wet the washcloth and hands it to me. “Soap’s by the tub. You can rinse your face in there and brush your teeth.”