by Sharon Sala
The little girl was at the kitchen table, on her knees on a chair, diligently putting raisin eyes, noses and belly buttons on the tray of gingerbread men that had yet to be baked.
Outside it was winter, but inside, spring had already come. The woman rolled and cut out the last of the dough, knowing that when she gave her daughter this tray to decorate, she was going to be delighted. This one was filled with bunnies and tulips and Easter egg shapes, just waiting for a little girl’s touch.
“I thwough, Mommy.”
“Good girl. One more tray and we’re through.”
When she saw the new cookie dough shapes, the little girl giggled and clapped her hands, convinced that her mommy was the most fun ever.
Her mother was standing in front of the cookstove. Tendrils from her hairdo had come loose and were falling down around her forehead. Her face was pink and flushed from the heat, and the front of her dress had a slight dusting of flour.
“Mommy, will I be pwetty as you when I gwows up?”
The woman smiled and then popped a raisin in her daughter’s mouth. “You already are, Sweet Baby, you already are.”
Tory awoke with a knot in her stomach and a pain in her heart. She turned to look at Brett, who lay sleeping beside her. Moonlight shone through the part in the curtains, slicing across his belly in a thin, white glow, and highlighting the scar from the bullet wound high on his chest.
She rolled toward him, needing to feel the warmth of his body to take away the chill in her soul. She’d walked over every inch of the yard and up and down the driveway a dozen times this afternoon, and with every trip she had purposefully ignored the yawning doorway of the house. The thought of going inside had been terrifying. But she couldn’t ignore it forever. Tomorrow they would start the search for her mother’s body. They would ask her things she didn’t want to remember. They would expect her to go in that house. And she would. But not with them. The first time, she needed to do it alone.
And so she lay wide-eyed and shaking, waiting for first light to complete her journey. Brett had brought her back to the place of her birth, but she was going to have to take the last steps toward home all alone.
***
Dew-stained grass dampened the hem of her blue jeans as she moved toward the house, clutching the flashlight in her hands as if it were a Jedi sword. Although the air was still night cool, she was sweating beneath her jacket. Nerves. That was all. Just nerves.
A whippoorwill called from a nearby tree, and somewhere off to her right, its mate answered. At that moment, the urge to go back for Brett was overwhelming. But she kept on walking, her eyes focused on the darkened doorway of the house. The air was still, empty of motion and sound. Everything around her seemed to be waiting. But for what? For old ghosts to be laid? For the last of old memories to resurface? For old wounds to open—or maybe to heal?
And then she was there, standing at the doorway to the house and staring into the darkness. Something skittered across the flooring inside, and she switched on her flashlight, catching the last glimpse of a scurrying mouse as it disappeared through a hole in the floor. She took a deep breath and relaxed.
I can understand your fears, little fellow. You scared me, too.
Then she tilted her chin and stepped into her past.
There was a light switch on the wall near the door. She flipped it. The sudden illumination of a forty-watt bulb, hanging from a dangling fixture in the ceiling, shed more light on the place than it could bear.
Outside, the air suddenly stirred as a morning breeze began to swell, pushing a draft through the old house and lifting the hair from Tory’s neck. She shuddered and then moaned beneath her breath as the ghostly fingers of air moved past her face.
Oh God, oh God, please help me get through this.
She moved farther into the room, then closed her eyes, letting herself remember—letting herself go.
***
Brett didn’t know what woke him, but the moment he turned over and realized he was in the bed alone, he knew where Tory had gone. He rolled out of bed and, in a panic, began grabbing for his jeans and shoes.
He bolted outside, only then aware that the first light delineating differences between trees and shadows had come and gone. All the way to the house he kept telling himself to relax, that Tory was a strong woman. She had come this far on guts and nerve. She could make it the rest of the way on her own, too. But the closer he got to the doorway, the more nervous he became. Although he heard nothing that could give him alarm, he kept remembering the fragile hold she’d had on reality only weeks earlier.
As he rounded the corner, he saw light spilling out of the doorway and told himself to calm down. The last thing he needed to do was burst in and scare her. But anxiety got the best of him, and he cleared the first step, calling her name.
“Tory?”
His only answer was the wind, wailing through the window openings like a woman in mourning. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly crawled as he thought of a six-year-old child coming home to this emptiness.
“Tory? It’s me, Brett. Where are you?”
Something scooted off to his right, scratching against the old wood like a boot on a sandy floor, and he thought of his Glock, locked in the glove box of the RV.
“Tory, baby, is that you?”
And then he heard a sigh, like the last gust of escaping air from a birthday balloon, and he turned, only then aware of the small closet to his right. The door was slightly ajar. As he stared into the opening, he thought he saw movement beyond.
In that moment, his mind flashed on Tory, and of coming back to their old apartment to find her huddled inside the bedroom closet and clutching that doll. His heart sank.
God, please let her be all right.
As he started toward it, dread of what he might find weighted his steps. The rhythm of his heartbeat shattered, rocking from one side of his rib cage to the other in an erratic, pulse-pounding throb.
Please, God, please.
He heard her choke, and his own breath stalled. With trembling fingers, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled, letting light into the darkness of Tory Lancaster’s mind.
***
Tory walked through the house room by room, and was startled by its size. In her memory, the rooms had been huge and the space endless. Now it felt tiny and cramped. As she stood in the hallway, looking into her room, she had to accept that the only thing that had changed was twenty-five years’ worth of perception.
She moved back from the doorway. It was unnecessary to go farther. Whatever of herself she’d left behind wasn’t in there. A small doorway beckoned at the end of the hall, but she refused to move toward it. It was obvious from where she stood that the bathroom fixtures had long ago been removed. And later today, the floor would follow. After that…
She shuddered and spun sharply, heading back toward the front of the house. Tory’s ghost didn’t lie beneath the bathroom floor of this house. If it was still here, she knew where it would be. In that closet.
Moments later, she stood before it, debating with herself as to the wisdom of what she was about to do. And while her good sense kept telling her to get back to Brett, old memories wouldn’t let her go. With a resigned sigh, she reached for the doorknob and opened the door.
A small cobweb hung high in a corner, and there was a pile of old feed sacks on the floor. They’d been folded neatly together and then wrapped and tied with a length of baler twine. Art was nothing if not neat.
She moved the beam of the flashlight up one wall and then down the next, mapping each inch of the coffin in which she’d buried six years of her life. The urge to run became stronger. To get out before the old fear came back. But Tory stood firm, refusing to give in, refusing to leave. Instead, she took a tentative step forward, then another, and another. When she was all the way inside, she turned, staring back into the room beyond. Then she took a deep breath, turned off the flashlight and reached for the door.
***
She was crouched in a corner with her head on her knees, and when Brett first saw her, his heart skipped a beat. Afraid to move, he called out her name.
“Tory?”
She lifted her head and looked up.
“Brett. I knew you would come.”
He exhaled on a shaky groan and then extended his hand. When she curled her fingers around his wrist, his heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm.
“Come on, sweetheart. I bet you’re starved. How about I make you some pancakes?”
Using his strength as her own, she pulled herself upright, then walked out of the closet and into his arms. Brett wrapped his arms around her, resisting the urge to take her and run. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She sighed. “Not just yet… but I will be. I really think I will be.”
His vision blurred as he looked down at her face, then he leaned forward and kissed the edge of her lower lip where it trembled the most.
“That’s my girl.”
The pain behind Tory’s heart kept easing with each breath that she took, but what she’d found in that closet had been more than she’d expected. Now that she’d faced it, she wanted to leave it behind. And to do that, she knew she needed to tell.
“I saw him when he came in the door,” she said.
Brett froze. He didn’t know exactly what she meant, but he wasn’t going to interrupt her by asking for explanations. If need be, that would come later.
“I knew who he was. I didn’t like him. He was Ollie’s friend. He’d been here before.”
She shuddered, then sighed, taking strength from the warmth of Brett’s embrace.
“I was inside the closet, and I thought if I didn’t move he wouldn’t find me. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see him moving back and forth. He kept cursing about Ollie owing him money. And then I saw him stop. I saw him look toward the place where I was hiding.” She looked up, needing to see Brett’s face when she said it. “When he saw me, he grinned.”
No! Sweet Jesus, no! Something inside Brett began coming undone. There was a growing horror within him that he couldn’t ignore. He wanted to stop her from uttering the words he knew he would hear. But there had been too many years of denial already. It was time to face the past, no matter what it had been. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers and feeling her breath on his face.
“It’s okay, baby. Just say it.”
Tears spilled out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her voice shifted into a softer, higher pitch, like that of a child.
“I wet my pants and started to scream.” She drew a shuddering breath. “And then he said he would take what Ollie owed him out of my hide.”
Oh God. Brett picked her up and then held her, unable to move.
“He raped me, Brett. I was just a little girl, and he raped me.”
“I love you, Tory.”
She choked on a sob and hid her face.
Anger for what she’d endured made him sick, but he couldn’t give in to his feelings without injuring hers. And she’d been hurt far too much in her life as it was.
“Don’t turn away from me, baby. Don’t ever turn away from love. I’m so sorry for you, but it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. Nothing could do that, do you understand?”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and slid her head beneath his chin.
“Brett, thank you.”
His voice was deep with emotion as he kissed the crown of her head. “For what?”
“For being faithful.”
He shifted her in his arms and then started toward the door. “You’re welcome… and thank you,” he added, as they stepped out into morning.
This time it was her turn to be puzzled. “For what?”
“For coming back to me, time after time.”
She sighed. “You were all I had. I was afraid to let go.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
He put her down just outside the door to Ryan’s RV, dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and began mopping her tears.
She stood without moving, absorbing the tenderness of his touch and the love in his eyes. And then he kissed her.
“Tory… sweetheart?”
“What?”
“Did you ever tell anyone about what happened to you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He cupped the side of her face, tilting her chin until she was forced to meet his gaze.
“Why not?”
Her shoulders slumped.
“Because I didn’t remember it until this morning.”
Brett’s face flushed. He kept remembering what he’d read in her file. Of her days of hysteria and then months of being mute. No wonder. It wasn’t enough that her world had been destroyed. Her body had suffered as much or worse. Anger boiled, spilling out between them in a short, but succinct curse.
“Son of a bitch.” When she flinched, he took a deep breath and hugged her to him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m just angry for you, not at you.”
“I know.”
“Do you remember his name?”
She shook her head. “I never knew it.”
Rage boiled. “I’ll find out, and I’ll find him, and when I do—”
Tory pressed her fingers against Brett’s mouth, gently stifling a promise he could never fulfill.
“Don’t,” she said. “There’s no need. God deals with people like that in His own time. Remember Oliver Hale. He didn’t escape justice, and neither will that man. I accept that, and so can you.”
Brett caught her hand before she could take it away and then threaded his fingers through hers.
“You, my love, are one hell of a lady.” He lowered his head and pressed her hand to his lips.
She gazed down at the dark swirl of hair on the crown of Brett’s head. She remembered how close she’d come to losing him, and her heart tightened with love.
“Hey, you. How about those pancakes?”
Brett lifted his head. “Yeah, how about them?” he said, and then opened the door and helped her up the steps and into the motor home.
“Let me wash up, and I’ll help you make them,” Tory said, and headed for the bathroom.
Brett watched her until she was out of sight. Without thought, he turned the lock on the door, shutting them in and the rest of the world out. For now, it was all he could do.
Fifteen
Tory was standing in the hallway when they ripped the first board out of the floor. As the crack of wood split the air like a gunshot, splintering and sharp, she flinched. And with each succeeding board, she kept hearing Oliver Hale’s voice.
I put her under the tub.
She shuddered. Her poor mother. Twenty-five years waiting to be put to rest. And then Brett stepped up behind her, wrapping her in his arms.
“Tory, baby, are you all right?” he asked.
The urgency in his voice was impossible to miss, and after what she’d revealed this morning, she couldn’t blame him. He was probably waiting for her to come apart at the seams.
She felt Brett’s chin at the crown of her hair, felt his thumb rubbing at the pulse point at her wrist. All right? As long as he walked beside her, she would always be all right.
“Yes, Brett. I’m fine.”
Men in orange coveralls were all over the place, pulling nails, moving boards, taking pictures. Twice she had to move aside to let one of them pass, but each time she resumed her watch, unwilling to relinquish her space. This had been her home—and her nightmare. More than anyone else, she had a right to be here.
As the demolition of the small room continued, Denton Washburn leaned in an open window to their right to greet them.
“Morning, Miss Lancaster. Mr. Hooker. Hell of a mess.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” Tory said.
At that point, Rentshaw stepped out of the bathroom, and waved her down. “Miss Lancaster, may we speak with you a moment?”
The urgency of panic stayed with her, but she made herself relax. If they’d foun
d something, they would have said so.
“Want me to go with you?” Brett asked.
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
He touched her hair and then kissed the side of her cheek, watching intently until she reached the end of the hall and began conversing with Rentshaw. Satisfied that she was going to be all right, he headed to the window where the police chief was standing, then squatted on his heels so that he was eye level with the chief.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
When Hooker lowered his voice, Washburn’s interest was piqued. Obviously, whatever Hooker was about to say, he didn’t want advertised.
“What’s up?” the chief asked.
“You told us yesterday that you took part in Tory’s rescue.”
Washburn nodded. “If you can call it that. I always consider a rescue as a save. We didn’t save that little girl from anything.” He frowned as he remembered the condition in which they’d found her. “Everything was over before we got here, but yes, I was one of the officers who took her out of the home.”
“Okay,” Brett said. “We know you came after her, but what we don’t know was how your people were notified. Who called you? Who told you she was here?”
A curious expression crossed Washburn’s face. “You know, that was some years back. I’d have to do some thinking.”
“Then think,” Brett said. “It matters.”
Washburn turned and spit, his eyebrows knitting as he stared down at the ground for some time. Finally he looked up.
“You understand that to verify this, I’d have to dig through some really old files, but I’m thinking we got an anonymous call. Seems to me like someone claimed to have been driving by and heard screams, or something like that.”
“Damn.” Brett stood abruptly. He’d been afraid of something like this.
Now Washburn was more than curious. Without waiting for an invitation, he headed for the front door, joining Brett moments later in the empty room off the hall.
“Now you answer me a question,” he said.
Brett wouldn’t commit himself. “If I can.”
“What I just told you fits into something I don’t know, doesn’t it?”
Brett nodded.