Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  One tragic story comes from a victim’s mother who asks to visit me after I’m released from the hospital. Her daughter was one of the first known people to encounter David Michael.

  Becky Rundahl was a newlywed, starting out her married life in Honolulu with her husband, a military man. She took a job as a waitress to help with the bills and meet new people. Her life was ordinary but happy until she met him, a regular, who ordered coffee, black, no cream, no sugar, no food.

  He’d come in and she’d refill his coffee mug over and over.

  First she found him endearing. Plus he’d tip well. She’d confide in him, telling him her problems. With a dead-end job and a husband who was married to the military, and no friends on the island, she struggled with isolation.

  Perfect for David Michael.

  He listened and never made her feel stupid for complaining, just nodded and agreed with her. At least that’s what she wrote in her diary.

  One morning, he asked her out for a drink.

  She declined, her paltry gold wedding band around her finger.

  The next time he invited her and her husband out for a glass of wine.

  Even though her gut told her to cancel, she didn’t have a reason not see him outside of work hours. Plus, he invited her husband. Nothing could go awry with him present.

  Except her husband had a last-minute work emergency.

  Frustrated, she went solo. She had too many cocktails, her disappointment lessening with each martini.

  She started to feel weird, wicked tired, and he suggested they leave, offering graciously to drop her off at home. Accepting his ride, they stumbled back to his car, but when she woke up, she wasn’t in her bed, she was tied up in the back of his trunk.

  David Michael had taken her cross necklace, wearing it as his own, placing the gold chain around his neck. This was after he dumped her body in the Pacific.

  She lived in the small room for three years, unable to escape, eventually dying of blunt force trauma. He would wear a fake wedding ring at the bar when he was working. He said it put girls at ease that he wasn’t hitting on them.

  The poor mother learned all story through a meticulous journal. Becky’s cross was found around David’s neck when he died.

  When the authorities searched his paltry home, they found plastic totes that belonged to each of the victims. The items belonging to the girls were considered his ‘lucky charms,’ as he referred to them. He would mail the victim’s family something that belonged to the missing girl, periodically over time, even having them write letters or in my case, sending personal effects like my tooth.

  Epilogue - Bristol

  As soon as I’m cleared to travel, Blair and I are ready to go home, this time together, the thought of her flying alone without me not even a thought. We spend our last weeks in Hawaii having long talks that go into the night, Max sometimes shouting at us playfully to shut up so he can sleep, our giggles traveling down the flight of stairs into his room. We have a lot to catch up on and all I want to hear at the beginning are light-hearted stories, nothing heavy. There’ll be lots of time for that later.

  Max goes home with us, renting a car at the airport. We drive to our hometown, past a monument at the high school dedicated to me. It’s surreal, like having a funeral when you aren’t dead. I understand, and am flattered, knowing I wasn’t forgotten, even at times when I felt that way. The Mole loved to drive that point across to me – that everyone had moved on from my disappearance.

  My relationship with Max is starting to blossom into something else, his sweet nature and calming force a positive influence on me. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m falling in love with him, but on my terms, slow and cautious.

  Storm clouds scatter across the sky, cotton balls that blanket the cornfields and flat landscape, the smell and view of the ocean a faraway place. Paradise for others was hell for me. Max drives down the long gravel road, pensive, his first time to the Midwest. The scenery’s paradoxical compared to Hawaii. Silence lingers between us as we all focus on our own thoughts, getting into our own heads.

  The farmhouse still stands after all these years, for better or worse. It reminds me of when I left, yet it became stagnant, just existing...like I had been in that room.

  It’s depressing. The land and house seem sad and desolate, the panes of glass stare out, paint peeling, screens torn and ripped, the grass ankle deep and growing. No doubt oncoming rain will bring the blades up even more.

  My excitement grows as we drive closer. Anticipation growing, I have to sit on my hands to keep from shoving the car door open and sprinting up the porch. It doesn’t matter how it looks from the outside. This is home. My home.

  What matters is that we’re all together again, the first step towards healing as a family.

  “You okay?” Max gives me a side glance, his brown eyes troubled.

  I nod, scared my voice will break if I speak.

  Blair leans over the head rest and touches my shoulder. She’s in the back with Bruce, who now has a name – a loving tribute to my father. I love him to pieces. My trepidation as a parent has slowly subsided as I’ve been given the space to nurture not only myself, but also him, thanks to Max. I took a parenting class and have been coming into my own as a mom. I’m by no means close to perfect, but I know I can give him a good life. My confidence is coming back.

  The tires sputter over the gravel as we come to a halt. “Do you want me to come in with you?” Max puts the car in park, idling as he peers over the dash.

  “Not yet.” I shove the door open. “Give us some time.” I squeeze his hand, kissing Bruce in the back, and step out, breathing in clean air and manure.

  “Take as long as you need.” He holds up his coffee mug and the paper, still preferring it to a tablet. “I’ve got this to entertain me.” Houston is at a doggy hotel, no doubt enjoying a life of leisure with other spoiled pets.

  I want to run to the front door, just like I did as a child, coming in to show my daddy fireflies in a jar or the dandelion crown Blair and I made. Except Daddy’s no longer alive and Mother’s a stranger now.

  Will she accept me?

  It feels weird to knock, but ten years gone is a long time. Hesitating, I put my fist up to the door. It opens before I even pound on it, signaling I’m home.

  Home.

  Even in disrepair, it’s still where I came from.

  My mother stands there, clothes drooping, wilting away before my eyes, gaunt circles under her eyes. “Mom?” I tremble.

  Her eyes widen dubiously. She pushes her glasses up as they water, looking back at me with my same eyes, the pupils dilating as she stares at me in fascination, then horror.

  Gripping the edge of the door, she stammers. “Is this some kind of a prank? Please tell me this is real, that you’re home.”

  I grip her hands gently in mine. “Hi Mom, I’m home.” She wraps her arms around me, and I smell cinnamon and her Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Looking over her shoulder, I rub her thin frame, the tears cascading down both our cheeks.

  Ten years.

  My eyes scan the small kitchen in disrepair.

  “Come on in, honey.” It’s been so long since I’ve heard that out of my mom’s mouth. I want to bottle it up, record her voice.

  She eyes the black sedan outside. “Did you come alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who is with you?” She’s curious, her eyes drifting past me.

  “My family,” I offer.

  “Family?” She takes a step back. “You have a family?”

  I nod, “And of course, Blair.”

  “Blair’s with you?” She touches a hand to her heart. Waving to the car, she takes that as her cue to come inside, wanting to give us a moment in private to reunite.

  Blair takes tentative steps, her sneakers slowly making their way up the stoop. “Hi Priscilla,” she says.

  “Blair.” She reaches for a hug, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t believe I’ve got both my
girls back.” Blair grabs my arm, pulling me into the shared hug, all three of us crying and holding one another.

  “Do they want to come in?” Mom’s curious as she glances out the kitchen window.

  “In due time.”

  “Let me put on some coffee.” She busies herself, dumping out the old grounds and refilling the ancient machine.

  She looks timeworn, her face lined with wrinkles.

  I did this to her, I think bitterly. It was selfish of me to not contact them as soon as I escaped. But a voice inside reminds me what The Mole said about hurting them…and Bridget would’ve been left to die if he hadn’t already killed her.

  Scared to ask if my bedroom’s the same, I peer at the door that leads to the stairs. “You can go on up.” Mom gives me a small smile. “It’s the same.” She wrings her hands. “It’s just like you left it when...” She pulls off a necklace, the thin chain holding a silver key.

  I manage a wan smile. “What’s this?”

  “The key to your room.”

  Taking the stairs two at a time, they creak underneath my feet. The door has a sturdy metal padlock, the heavy wood still covered with the same poster – one with the Wallflowers, a band I used to like. Bob Dylan’s son Jakob is the lead singer.

  Holding my breath, I slide the key in the lock, removing the padlock.

  Slowly, I turn the handle like it will burn me if I go too fast.

  Dust mites float in the air, the hardwood still the original from when we moved in. It’s polished to a shine, but I’m in awe that everything remains the same, like no time has passed.

  The flowered comforter, my desk, bulletin board and pictures.

  I’m seventeen again. It’s surreal.

  I caress a picture of Blair and I as children, our mouths turned up in a smile, best friends when we were younger.

  Until we drifted apart.

  My cheerleading squad is captured, me in a split position, pom-poms in hand.

  I made varsity my first try freshman year.

  An ‘A’ on a geography quiz hangs from the board, a calendar with school reminders and cheer practice, chorus, and debate team. Student council. Every activity is marked in a different color pen – red, green, purple, blue.

  Opening the closet doors, I finger my old clothes, the style now retro, smelling of furniture polish and mothballs, my body a different size and shape than back then. At the bottom of the closet, my shoes are stuffed on a wooden shelf, my tennis shoes, cowboy boots, and sandals.

  Old leather yearbooks line the top shelf, the other side’s still littered with tubes of nail polish, hair brushes and scrunchies, old gum, and instructions on my driving test. I had taken Driver’s Ed at sixteen and was just waiting until I had more time to practice.

  My mother’s voice drifts from the vent below. She’s on the phone, her tone muted so I can’t make out her words.

  I pull my phone out of my purse, texting Max, letting him know that I need some time. He’s going to check into the only motel in town and get settled until we’re ready for him to come back.

  Before I can sit down, I check our old bathroom, the counter stained, the sink rusted and cracked. The shower’s unused, no soap or shampoo, the toilet handle still jangly like it used to be back then.

  Why hasn’t Mom hired anyone to fix it?

  A gold chain catches my eye, and I realize it’s my ‘B’ necklace. With shaking hands, I clasp it around my neck, feeling Daddy’s presence as I finger the delicate chain.

  Peeking in Blair’s room, I expect to see her old twin bed, sky blue comforter, and pictures of her favorite bands.

  Instead it’s a quilting room. An old wooden desk with a sewing machine and rows of fabrics, yarn, and various projects litter the table next to the window.

  Nothing remains of Blair.

  A bookshelf sits in the corner, filled with Bible stories and trashy romance novels.

  Why aren’t there any remnants of her in the house?

  My heart sinks and I realize the scrutiny Blair’s been under all these years, shouldering the blame. I’m not the only one who has suffered.

  Walking back into my room, I sink down on the bed, pulling my shoes off, crossing my feet up under me like I did as a teenager, the clear phone with the rainbow wires still beside the bed on my nightstand.

  I drift off to sleep, a pillow tucked underneath my head, imagining my childhood, the smell of the pasture, wildflowers, and our Sunday family dinners of pot roast and gravy, or turkey, corn, and mashed potatoes.

  For once, I doze off without looking underneath the bed, in the closet, or peeking over my shoulder.

  The Mole’s dead. Will’s dead.

  I can finally rest in peace.

  Blair comes in a little bit later, busy downstairs talking to Mom, her footsteps heavy compared to my muted ones.

  She softly knocks on the door, peeking her head in. “Bristol?”

  “Yeah, in here.” I groggily motion for her to come to the bed. “I can’t believe she left it the same,” I sigh, patting my side.

  “I know.” Blair stands awkwardly for a moment, looking around.

  “Come lie down with me.” I hold the covers out to her. She crawls into bed, my hands resting around her waist, spooning her. Her hair smells of lavender and her sweater of nicotine. But most of all, she smells like my sister.

  “I missed us,” I whisper. “And I’m so sorry you never left, or felt you couldn’t move on.”

  Her shoulders tremble and I feel wetness on her cheeks, the tears mixing with mine. We cry, our bodies shake as we relive the past ten years in ten minutes, a cleanse as we release our feelings.

  Later, our mother tiptoes in.

  She manages to climb in between us, her arms wrapping around both of our shoulders, her tiny frame fitting perfectly. “I’m so sorry,” she wails to Blair. “You deserve so much better than me as a mother.”

  We all huddle together, sharing stories, crying, time passing fast, unlike the slow passage of time in the room. It’s amazing how when you’re in the moment how quickly it goes.

  I tell my mom about Bruce, what a happy child he is, and she’s thrilled to be a grandma, her eyes lighting up at the idea of another child in the house.

  We talk about Max and how he rescued me, and we stay like that, our fingers intertwined, until my foot falls asleep, Mom’s back spasms, and Blair starts coughing.

  And then it’s time to get up and rejoin the world.

  Post Epilogue - Blair

  Blair Post-Epilogue

  Today is my first day of class and I’m nervous, wondering what the young, twenty-year olds will think of this old lady in class.

  I might be exaggerating a tad, I’m in my early thirties.

  Priscilla’s set on me finishing college. It’s her dying wish to see both her girls complete their education, so she says. I’m only going part-time to start, but the thrill of being back in the classroom, learning, and putting it to use has me excited for the first time in a long time. The community college started a satellite campus for Creighton, so now I can finish what I started, where I began my journey.

  I quit the bar and moved back to the farm, trading off with my mother to baby-sit Bruce. Bristol’s also working on completing her education, starting first with her GED.

  We have a focus on education in this household.

  Max and Bristol are engaged to be married and are looking at houses in Nebraska. He’s back in Honolulu, tying up loose ends with his practice and selling the house.

  They’re thinking Omaha, Max planning to join a veterinary practice or starting one of his own.

  We’re all trying to make up for lost time and doing the best we can.

  And I have my own update on my love life.

  Max has a good-looking brother, four years older than him, and we’ve started to date.

  All in all, the Bellamys are doing the best we can.

  And in the meantime, I adopted a rescue, Harold the bulldog.

  As I
’m heading out the door to my car, Priscilla stops me. “Honey, I have something for you.” Her hands shake, Daddy’s old leather Bible in them.

  Confused, I hold it in my hands.

  “There’s a letter stuck in there,” she explains.

  “It’s not...it’s not from him, is it?” I think of the packages and letters from David Michael, wanting to put it to rest.

  Priscilla’s face drains. “No, no…it’s from your father.”

  I feel a hand clutch at my heart, squeezing my insides.

  “I’m sorry.” She’s genuine, “he wanted you to have this. Left it after…after the accident.”

  I’m angry, and hurt, but I’m working on forgiveness with Priscilla. We have a long way to go, but I nod, choosing to thank her for the envelope, holding in between my fingers, scared it will be heartbreaking to read, further blame for the past decade.

  Waiting until I turn on my engine, it sits on the seat next to me, staring at me in earnest. I can’t wait any longer. Before I pull out onto the highway, I gently tear open the envelope. Inside, on my daddy’s old church stationary, is a letter typed out to me. Daddy always had the worst handwriting.

  My oldest and wisest Blair,

  I raised you and your sister to be good Christians, have decent morals, and repent for

  your sins. I’ve tried to uphold my end of the bargain, choosing to lead by example and not by the old adage of’ do what I say, not what I do.’

  Except I’ve faltered at this as of late.

  There’s something I have to get off my chest, and I’m a coward for not looking you in the eye and saying it to your face. I love you, and I’m sorry. I’ve failed you as a father since your sister disappeared.

  Please know I don’t fault or blame you for your actions. In fact, I admire the steps you took to try and find Bristol, and you showed maturity by involving the authorities and contacting us, as hard as it was to do.