Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  Gritting my teeth, I pull myself up, cradling my arm.

  “There you are,” a calm voice says behind me.

  Swallowing, my fingers wrap gingerly around a broken limb.

  “It’s time to calm down. Let me take you home.” His blond hair’s sticking straight up, the mole glowering at me.

  “Oh, you found her. Phew.” The man stops right behind him, screeching to a halt, the dried mud on the ground damp from recent rain. He’s dressed in camo pants and an olive green slicker.

  “Marian, let’s go home.” The Mole smiles at me, his tooth stands out, distinctly yellow.

  “I don’t want to.” My eyes wild, I turn to look behind him. The dark-haired man’s concerned. His eyes skim over my disheveled appearance – my white nightie that’s now mud-stained and ripped, the blood and bruises covering my body.

  Oh, and I’m about to give birth.

  “Are you okay?” the stranger asks me, stepping forward.

  “She’s fine.” The Mole speaks for me.

  “No. I’m not. I’ve been kidnapped.” I’m weak, my elbow gushing red. “Can you please help me? I need medical attention. And the police.”

  “What’s your name?” His kind eyes never leave my face. The other man hollers in the distance. “Hold on, Rob,” he screams, “I’ll be right…” Before I can give him my name, before he can finish his sentence, a flash of metal glints.

  A loud cacophony echoes through the trees, disbelief as I stare at a burgundy stain that swells on the man’s chest and grows bigger, his hand lifting to cover the gaping hole. His eyes flinch as he sinks to his knees.

  “Rob…” he whimpers. “Get help.” These are his last words, The Mole hit him directly in the chest, as if he were the bulls-eye on a target.

  He falls forward gradually, his forehead smacking the dirt floor in a final bow. The Mole’s giddy, ecstatic about warranting his shot, hitting him with the butt of the gun for full effect.

  Rob, hearing a gunshot, starts wailing for his friend, panic tinged in his shrieks.

  The Mole gives me a glazed look. “See? This is what happens when you don’t listen. This is all your fault. You killed an innocent man.” He wipes his palms on my nightgown, the red a contrast to the starkness of white. “Make it two innocent men. I can’t leave the other one behind, now can I?”

  I feel faint, the smell of gunpowder filling my nostrils, a crumpled man’s body before me. I just want to lay down, my lids heavy, any chance at freedom dead in front of me, lifeless like the innocent bystander.

  The Mole walks in the direction of Rob’s shouts, his .22 caliber gun aimed in front of him. Closing my eyes at the burst of gunshots, I quiver, my hands reaching to protect my ears, drowning out the surprise, then the revulsion. A flight of birds scatter as the sound reverberates through the trees.

  Turning to run, his voice is behind me, deadly, “If you run, I’ll shoot you in the back.”

  Resigned, I stumble towards him instead of away. The branches of the thick limbs heave and shake, motioning me to turn around.

  I’m rewarded with an icy stare. “Let’s go. You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

  I wobble closer, his impatience closing the distance between us and my plodding feet. Heaving me over his shoulder, he whistles as he lumbers toward the caverns and away from the brush.

  “Got a little sidetracked.” He pats my butt. “But we’re almost there."

  My eyes flicker and shut, his heavy footsteps a trance as I drift in and out of consciousness.

  35

  Bristol

  I picture Blair’s face, her dark hair and brilliant hazel eyes staring back at me, willing me to keep pushing, to fight. It’s like she’s here rousing me awake, knowing if I give in to sleep, I’ll never wake up again.

  We reach the shallow opening, the sunlight balmy against my back, replaced by cool air once the roof of the cave blocks us from warmth.

  My eyes scan the walls, the rocky flooring, every nook and cranny, until the path becomes laden with boulders. The Mole’s having a hard time carrying my extra weight, stumbling, his breathing laborious.

  Catching the wall just in time, my body slides into a handstand pose, fingers grasping for a firm grip so I don’t tumble on my head. He manages to grab one of my legs before I hit the jagged rock face-first. Instead, it gashes my stomach, pain settling in my belly.

  “You gotta walk now.” He’s gruff. “I’ll give you some water once we reach the end.”

  We both know it’s a lie, that the end is finality in this case. There’s no purpose in arguing with him or pointing out his flawed logic.

  I’m dead when we reach our resting spot.

  The divide’s coming up and if I can’t manage to flee as soon as we reach the tunnel that splits off, I’m a goner.

  “In front of me.” He points, standing aside.

  I step around him, slow and calculated. I’m drawing on sheer will to propel me forward. I need the last of my frenzied energy to sprint.

  The Mole grabs the back of my barely-there nightgown, “I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

  We move at a snail’s pace, my eyes playing tricks, going in and out of focus, my mind trying to guide my panic-stricken brain.

  I see infinite blue up ahead, the water and sky blending into one limitless expanse, the sun casting shadows as it bounces off a rock formation.

  It’s too beautiful a day to die, I think. As much as I want to bolt, with only one shot, I have to wait for an opportunity, a chance when he’s not as in tune with my movements.

  Opportunity presents itself when The Mole hears a smacking noise, stopping short as his eyes dart over his shoulder to confront the sound.

  It’s now or never.

  I raise my foot, kicking it behind me, high enough to connect with his kneecap. Caught off guard, he rips the rest of my nightgown, splitting it at the seams as I lurch forward.

  Spinning around, I aim for his crotch, a fluid movement as I bash his nose with my fist at the same time, anger and frustration taking precedence over the effects of the liquid-soaked rag, at least for now.

  Grabbing a fistful of hair, he angrily pulls me towards him.

  Howling in protest, I claw at his face, the ugly mole staring at me as it becomes a casualty underneath my broken fingernails, chipped and torn, black and dirty.

  Screaming at the top of my lungs, I take off, though it feels like little more than a hurried walk, my injuries and weakened state preventing me from sprinting.

  Unfortunately for me, the walkway winds around the cave, but there’s no railing to shield against the waves that lap up the side, pulsating high against the algae-covered rock. Droplets of water splash and thunder as they crash into the boulders.

  The Mole’s behind me, his face beet red, nose bloody. Dirt mixes in with the cherry color dripping down his face.

  Eyes pop out of his head, like a cartoon. “There’s nowhere to go, little girl.”

  Frantic, I dart to look at the water, the rocks, and The Mole closing in on me.

  He’s right, there’s nowhere to go. “You’re dead no matter what. You jump, you’re dead. And if you don’t bash your head on the rocks, if you live, I’ll find out and kill your sister. I know everything about her.”

  “No, you don't,” I shake my head in denial.

  “No?” He tilts his head at me. “Blair went to Creighton University, graduated with honors, got married at twenty-five, no children yet. She now lives in Burbank, California. I even have her address.”

  My mouth drops in horror.

  “You’d be surprised what you can find on the Internet since you disappeared.”

  I pause.

  “And your parents?” He shrugs. “They’re still on the farm.”

  Licking his lips, he reaches for me. “If you survive, your sister will have the same fate you did. Except I’ll cut her open while she’s still alive.”

  I shake my head.

  “You know I will.” He manically l
aughs. “You’ve seen the other bones.

  And what about poor Bridget?” he adds. “No one will ever find her. You’re the only one who knows where she is, that she’s even alive. If the cops arrest me, or I disappear, she’ll die slowly, starving to death. If she doesn’t kill herself first.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “And the others I’m keeping? No one will ever find them either.”

  “The others?”

  “Yeah, girls in other rooms. You have so much power right now to do the right thing.” Wiping his brow, he pulls his gun out of his waistband. “You’re already responsible for two deaths today, two innocent civilians.”

  Tears prick my cheeks as he continues. “I don’t like to shoot my girls, but I will if I have to, since you’re being extremely difficult today.”

  “Why?” I whisper. “What do you want?”

  “Marian,” he says simply.

  His hand reaches for me, his dirty nails pawing at my wrist.

  We make eye contact, his eyes an in-between shade of blue-green today.

  My bare skin prickles, I have no choice. Die at the hands of a freak or jump in the ocean, drowning, if I even make it to the water before hitting every cragged rock on the way down.

  Making a split-second decision, a huge leap backwards, I make sure to step off the cliff at the very edge, my body eerily still as I wait to make contact with either the rocks or the water.

  A gunshot rings out and I feel a whoosh as something passes me.

  A bullet.

  The Mole’s scrambling in front of me, yelling, his words gibberish. They get lost in the wind as he stomps his foot.

  I reach my fist out to try and grab at something, anything, the waves coming faster than I expect. In movies they always have time to think about their decision before they jump, plan out their escape, knowing exactly how they’ll hit.

  Unfortunately I have neither time nor an exit strategy.

  Misjudging the clearance, I’m thrust onto the side of a heavy boulder, hitting the serrated edges of loose rock. Slamming my head into the side, the sudden crash knocks me unconscious, my body floats on air, before it goes down with a flourish.

  Straight down.

  My eyes closed tight, I see my family, waving, welcoming me home, the farm in the distance, the red barn and corn fields surround us in a blaze of sunshine.

  I’m confused, wondering why they’re dressed in all white as The Mole looks on, holding me down as I struggle to reach them. As much as I try, he holds me at arm’s length, never letting me touch them.

  The world spins and goes black.

  36

  Blair

  I stare at the moldy ceiling, another leak evident as my eyes trace the brown stain inching across the off-white drywall. This place isn’t a dump, but it’s close.

  It’s clean but old and decrepit. The floors are hardwood, which I love, but they’re loud and squeaky. I’ve scattered area rugs on the floor to help with the sound of my footsteps, but I usually don’t wear shoes inside, preferring to be barefoot, even in the winter, which everyone says is weird.

  I can’t stop thinking about Priscilla, my mother.

  Closing my eyes, I attempt sleep, but it’s useless.

  I grab my phone, scrolling to look at the last message she sent.

  The grainy pictures.

  Damn her.

  Out on the farm, I’ve buried the memories of that night.

  A box holds all of my secrets, even the ones I didn’t tell the cops. They wouldn’t help find her anyway. Scared of negative press on their precious island, they buried Bristol in the back of newspapers, barely keeping her memory alive.

  Agitated sleep finds me, the old nightmare I hadn’t had in a while wrapping itself around me. I’m being pulled into the ocean and held down by a hand pressed firmly on my back.

  He pauses so I can choke water out of my mouth and nose.

  Yet as soon as I inhale, I’m pushed back under.

  This keeps repeating, my breath coming in shallow waves.

  This is how I continue until I wake up gasping for air.

  Waking up on sweat-soaked sheets from nightmares involving Bristol at precisely 1:17 A.M. every morning.

  By 7 A.M., I can’t take it any longer.

  I’m on the road, headed back to the place I grew up.

  It’s not home to me.

  I left at eighteen and never looked back.

  When I moved back home at twenty after my mental breakdown, my mother was combatting her own depression.

  After she had permanently locked the door to Bristol’s room, at least to me, I tried to gain entrance by breaking and entering. The pounding on the door wasn’t welcome, neither was the hammer I used. When I tried to explain to Priscilla that I needed some things out of her room, she yanked me outside, threw me my car keys, and told me to get the hell off the farm and never come back.

  So I haven’t.

  Father took the brunt of her anger and grief, but he’s only human and had his own meltdown. He spiraled downhill, his steadfast belief in God shattered after she went missing. Even though he counseled others on their mourning, this was different, this one personal.

  He understood me better than Priscilla, but I know he blamed me for Bristol’s disappearance. It never came out of his mouth, it didn’t have to. I saw it when I looked at him. His eyes were blank when they stared, they seemed to look through me, not at me.

  The foundation he wholeheartedly believed in crumbled, and he started burying himself in the bottle.

  It resulted in destructive behavior, his hands shaking at the pulpit, not from his passion for the sermon, but from alcohol withdrawals.

  He’d slur his speech, miss meetings and church functions, eventually stopped showing up all together. The congregation tried to pull together, intent on saving him. He was, after all, one of them, and their leader.

  But his dysfunction scared them. If this could happen to him, then what did that mean for their souls?

  No one could save him.

  And I went right down with him.

  When he died, it was awful and unexpected and tragic and miserable.

  He crashed his car into a telephone pole seven and a half minutes after leaving a bar. The engine exploded, causing a fiery scene that left burn marks you can see if you’re close enough, the concrete charred in places.

  Priscilla claimed it was a broken heart he died from, caused by me. Said it should’ve been me they buried. If only she knew how close I was at times to ending it all…

  But I can’t. Because she still hasn’t been found.

  I missed Daddy’s funeral, not that I didn’t try to attend. She forbade me from coming and had a local sheriff stand guard at the church entrance. I stood at a side door, dressed in black, my own private funeral.

  Alive or dead, I’ll take it, but I know it’ll be bones. The remains of her, the beautiful girl that had so much life ahead of her.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. I have to get it together.

  My hands shake and I pull over at the next gas station, in another small town, population close to zero, for a pack of cigs which I tell myself every other day I’ll quit.

  In my defense, my other bad habits I’ve given up. I still cuss like a sailor and I still smoke on occasion, but this seems justifiable.

  Rummaging in the glove box of my ancient maroon car, one I’ve had almost as long as Bristol’s been gone, I find a green BIC lighter. Opening the box, it takes a couple tries to get the damn light to take, my hands trembling in protest. I can’t decide if it’s rebellion against seeing Priscilla, the farm, or smoking a Camel cigarette.

  I’m only an hour from the town I grew up in, but it might as well be another continent.

  She asked me to stay away, so I did.

  Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard or that I didn’t cry myself to sleep, abandoned by my family at twenty.

  The town is marked by a small wooden sign, no bigger than a cemetery plot. I know this because Bri
stol’s got one that’s been waiting on her all these years. Of course, Priscilla didn’t buy her a plot, that would mean they had given up hope, that she was truly dead.

  But the town mayor declared a ‘Bristol Bellamy day’ complete with a town meeting and a pancake breakfast that raised money so she could have a proper headstone.

  Morbid, but necessary, he said.

  Priscilla hemmed and hawed on what to write, finally completing the inscription.

  To our daughter, the light you shine comforts us as Jesus guides you on your path back to us.

  Love, your devoted parents & Oggie.

  There’s no mention of me, her sister.

  I was written off as if I had disappeared right along with her. Sometimes I wish it were me that had been kidnapped or killed or drowned or….

  They would’ve had their favorite child, Isaiah would’ve come home, Daddy wouldn’t have died, and Priscilla could still play the victim since she lost a child.

  Deep down, only she would’ve known it was the throwaway kid.

  The farmhouse is about five miles out of town, depending on how fast you speed through the four stop signs and three stoplights.

  I expect progress since the last time I was home, but disappointment shadows my face as I take a long drag of my cigarette, the pack now half-empty.

  Good thing I bought two.

  The town hasn’t evolved, I guess it hit pause when she went missing, same as the rest of us. The high school on my left hasn’t even expanded. The circular parking lot and hawk out front just has one additional monument – a statue dedicated to my sister in front of the high school, captioned with, “Bristol Anne Bellamy, a kind-hearted soul, the one we strive to be like and befriend. God bless your soul.”

  It’s surreal to see her face carved in stone, a school photo the image they used to reconstruct her smiling face in marble.

  Moving my eyes back to the two-lane highway, I keep speeding by the open pastures and the cattle grazing, a red barn in the distance. The farm we settled on wasn’t ours at first, it was the church congregation’s. After Bristol went missing, then my daddy died, the church congregation felt sorry for Priscilla, paying off the mortgage and passing the deed to her.