by Amy Cross
“But -”
“Darren Cooper's fat,” she continues, “and ugly. This guy was kinda hot, even though he was kinda old too.” As the scream continues, she uses a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and she turns to look over toward the other side of the square. “Whoever the guy was, I've never seen him in town before. That can't be a coincidence, can it? It's a stranger who came and did this.”
“Seems that way,” Bobby mutters.
“Do you think it could have been me?”
He turns to her.
“Who got kidnapped, I mean,” she continues. “Like I said, I saw a strange guy last night. Maybe... What if instead of taking Jessica and doing this to her, he'd done it to me? Do you think I could have been the one screaming right now?”
“Well...” He pauses, before nodding. “I guess so. Sounds like you had a lucky escape last night.”
“Yeah,” she mutters, listening to the scream for a moment longer. “I guess I did, but...”
“But what?” he asks cautiously.
“Nothing, it's just... Do you think it's 'cause she's prettier than me?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Not that she is,” she adds hastily, “just... I mean, if this maniac saw me and then saw her, and he chose to take her, then do you think it was 'cause he thought she's hotter? 'Cause she's totally not.”
He opens his mouth, but the words catch in the back of his throat.
“She barely wears any make-up,” Kelly continues, “and to be honest, the last six months she's been getting just a little plump.”
“Right -”
“So it can't be based on looks, can it? 'Cause if it was based on looks, he'd totally have taken me and I'd be the one who's screaming now. Right?”
He pauses. “Right;” he says finally, clearly a little confused. “I'm sure there was a little more to it than that...”
“I'm not easily offended,” she replies, taking a step back as the scream continues, echoing along the street, “but seriously... Jessica is not all that.”
“Um...”
“I hope you find her,” she adds. “It'd totally suck if she kept suffering like this. People just can't get on with things, you know?”
With that, she turns and makes her way home, leaving Bobby standing alone with his thoughts. He watches her heading away for a moment, before turning and looking back toward the town square.
Chapter Twenty
“Jessica Barton,” Roake mutters as he makes his way along the deserted school corridor, examining the various framed photos of sports teams from over the years. “Jessica -”
Stopping suddenly, he sees her name printed under a photo of a hockey team from the previous term. Taking a look at the image, he sees a smiling, happy-looking girl standing on the left of the back row. A banner behind the players announces them as regional winners of a competition.
“Hello Jessica,” he whispers, unable to take his eyes off the photo. “I'm so sorry you got mixed up in all of this. I promise I won't...”
He pauses, before slipping the frame off the wall and opening the back. Once he has the photo out, he carefully tears the sides off until he's holding just the section showing Jessica's face, and then he turns it around and places it against the wall while he writes on the back:
Jessica Barton
Pine Ridge, U.S.A.
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out his wallet and removes another torn photo piece, this time a black-and-white image of a smiling girl with dark curly hair. He turns this scrap over and reads the scribbled note:
Anna Hoeks
Amsterdam, NL
For a moment, his mind flashes back once again to his debauched, decadent years in Amsterdam, and to his later realization that while he'd been distracted, Anna Hoeks had screamed and screamed for mercy in another part of the city. He remembers stumbling through the hoards of tourists at Dam Square, his hands covered in blood, and he remembers the sense of hopelessness that almost led him to give up. Finally he slips the picture of Anna back into his wallet and takes another look at the image of Jessica.
“I won't let you down,” he whispers. “Not like Anna and the others.”
He stands in silence for a moment. Or at least, what passes for silence. Even in the school's deserted corridor at the edge of town, he can still hear Jessica Barton screaming in the distance.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Allie?” Bobby shouts, as he knocks on the door again. “Allie Barton, are you in there?”
He waits for a moment, as the scream continues to ring out across town. Sighing, he tries the door handle without much expectation, only to find that it turns easily and that he's able to pull the door open. Leaning through into the house's dark interior, he immediately smells what seems like rotten food, along with the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer.
“Allie?” he calls out, before clearing his throat. “Um... Alison?”
He listens, and a moment later he hears a brief grunt from somewhere else in the house. It's not much of a sound, but it's just enough to let him know that someone's home.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, stepping inside and making his way across the front room.
The place is mostly dark, with just a hint of sunlight around the edges of the drapes covering the main window, and there are a couple of empty bottles of red wine on the table by the sofa, along with a glass that has been left on its side. A bottle opener has been left on the floor, next to a copy of TV Guide and a plate containing a half-eaten sandwich. As he reaches the table, Bobby sees a red wine stain on one of the sofa cushions, with scraps of cigarette ash scraped across the fabric.
A moment later, he realizes he can hear an intermittent buzzing sound coming from the kitchen, loud enough to just about be made out over the sound of the scream outside.
“Allie?” he calls out again. “Allie, are you decent? Is Jessica here? It's Bobby!”
Heading over to the next door, he looks into the kitchen and immediately sees the source of both the buzzing sound and the foul stench. A bowl of fruit on top of the refrigerator has been left to go off, with flies all over the rotten oranges and bananas.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, taking a quick look to make sure no-one's in the kitchen before turning and heading toward the bedrooms, “how can people live like this?”
Making his way to the first door in the dark corridor, he suddenly realizes he can hear someone snoring on the other side.
“Allie?” he calls out, knocking gently. “Alison Barton, this is Bobby from the police department. It's important, I need to talk to you about something. Can you open up?”
He waits, but there's no reply.
“Well, can I come in, then?”
Again, no reply.
“I'm coming in,” he continues, with a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Just... I'll give you three seconds to make yourself decent, okay? One, two... Two-and-a-half. Three.”
Turning the handle slowly, to give her an extra second or two, he pushes the door open and peers into the gloomy room. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but finally he sees a figure on the bed, slumped in a mess across the crumpled duvet.
“Alison?” he whispers, as he notices a musty, sweaty smell in the room. “Um, can you wake up for a moment? It's important.”
When she doesn't reply, but just keeps on snoring, he takes a couple of steps closer to the bed. Stopping suddenly, he realizes that she's completely naked, so he quickly averts his eyes before spotting a bed-sheet on the floor and pulling it up and laying it over her body. As he does so, he sees some old cigarettes on the pillow, and another wine stain on the mattress, and then he realizes that the sheet is damp in places. Looking down, he sees dark red patches of wine.
“Lord have mercy,” he mutters, before nudging the woman's shoulder. “Alison Barton? It's me, it's Bobby! This is important, you need to wake up right now, okay? It's about Jessica.”
Muttering something, Alison starts to stir. She r
olls onto her back and opens her eyes, staring up at him as if she's not quite sure what's happening and can't focus properly.
“Jesus,” he continues, grabbing the sheet and pulling it up to cover her chest. “It's me, it's Bobby! Listen, this is important. It's about your daughter Jessica. You remember Jessica? Your girl?”
Alison groans, but all she manages is a few guttural sounds before her eyes close and she slips back to sleep.
“Christ,” Bobby mutters, “you're not just hungover, are you? You're actually still drunk!”
She whispers something, but her voice is too low for him to hear.
“Huh?” he replies, leaning closer. “What was that?”
She whispers again.
“I can't make out a goddamn word,” he tells her. “Listen, Alison, this is really important. It's about Jessica.” He waits for an answer. “You remember Jessica, right? Your daughter?”
Alison's eyes flicker open for a moment, but she still seems unable to focus.
“For God's -” Spotting some white powder on the night-stand, he leans over and takes a closer look. “Cocaine? Seriously, Alison? Where do you even get that stuff in a place like this?”
She whispers something, but her eyes are closed again now and it's clear that she's not really aware of anything that's happening. After a moment, she rolls onto her side and grabs a pillow, pulling it closer, as if she's decided to go back to sleep.
“Do you hear that scream outside?” Bobby asks. “Alison? Do you hear it? That's real, that's someone in this town. In fact, I don't know how to tell you this, but we think... Well, we think it might actually be Jessica.”
No response.
“Alison?” He nudges her shoulder gently, and when that doesn't work he nudges it again. “Can you just try to focus for one goddamn second?” When that doesn't work, he moves closer and uses his fingers to force her eyes open, before leaning toward her face. “Alison Barton, this is Bobby Briscoe from the police, I'm here to talk to you about your daughter!”
She stares up at him, but her pupils are dilated and her stare is vacant.
“Are you kidding me?” Bobby asks, letting go of her face before getting up from the bed and heading to the window. He starts pulling the curtains open, only for the rail to collapse and drops down onto him. Light floods into the room as he sets the whole thing aside, and then he fumbles with the latch for a moment, finally getting the window open and allowing the sound of the scream to be heard more clearly. Turning to Alison, he waits for her to respond. “Do you hear it now?” he asks, starting to feel increasingly desperate. “Alison?”
She tilts her head slightly, but away from the window, as if she's not remotely interested.
“That's your daughter!” Bobby continues. “That's -”
He pauses, and finally he sighs as he realizes that Alison has gone back to sleep.
“For God's sake,” he mutters, heading back over to her and hauling her up off the bed before gently slapping the side of her face. “Listen,” he says, as firmly as he can manage, while trying to keep the sheets up to cover her breasts, “I know you're drunk and high and whatever, but you need to wake up, do you hear me?” Forcing her eyes open again, he turns her face toward the window. “That's Jessica out there! That's your daughter! She's in trouble and she needs you! I mean, I'm not really sure what you can actually do, but she needs you! Do you understand?”
“Who's making that racket?” Alison whispers, her voice drained of all energy. “Tell 'em to shut the hell up. People are trying to sleep.”
“That's Jessica,” Bobby says firmly. “That's your kid, making that noise!”
“Jessie,” she says dreamily, with a faint smile. “Sweet Jessie...”
“Yeah,” he continues, “it's Jessie, so you need to wake up!” He waits for a moment, hoping she'll spring into action. “Alison? Are you... Are you gonna spring into action at all?”
“I...” she begins, but her voice fades away.
“Okay, I think you understand now,” he tells her, letting her go, “so let's -”
She immediately slumps back down onto the bed, before rolling onto one side and muttering something under her breath.
“Jesus -” Pausing, Bobby stares down at her for a moment before realizing that the situation is hopeless. Alison Barton is clearly in no fit state to recognize anything that's happening around her, not even the scream that's filling the room. Figuring that there's no point wasting another moment on her, he heads back out into the corridor, before spotting another door nearby. Heading over, he pushes it open and looks inside to find a room that he can only assume belongs to Jessica. Compared to the rest of the house, this room is neat and clean. The bed has been made, complete with a couple of old toy bears resting on the pillow, and books are neatly piled up next to mugs and a few pens. When he spots a diary on one of the bookshelves, he picks it up and flicks it open, finding page after page of handwritten entries.
“Sometimes I just don't know what I'm going to do with my life,” he reads out loud, as the scream continues. “Mom just gets drunk every night and I want to leave, but I feel like I'm trapped here. No college will accept me, and the only skill I've ever picked up is the ability to clean up each morning after another of Mom's drunken nights. Without money, I can't get out of here, and without getting out of here, I can't get money. I feel like I'm trapped,with no-one who can help me and nowhere I can go. I know it's pathetic, but at this stage the only thing that can save me is if someone comes along and saves me from out of the blue. Then again, no-one ever comes to this dead-end town. Why would they? We're in the middle of nowhere.”
Beneath those lines, there's a cartoon sketch of a man in armor, riding some kind of animal.
“My knight on a shining llama,” Bobby reads, allowing himself a faint smile.
Flicking through some more pages, he finds other drawings. Finally he comes to another text entry, for a night just a short time earlier.
“Tonight, Mom was worse than usual,” he reads. “Really ranting and screaming, mostly about Dad but also about other things. She's angry at Mary for not giving her a job at the diner and giving it to Janine Holt instead, and at Harry for not taking her on at the gas station. She was ranting and cursing all night, drinking loads of wine and just generally turning into a mess. It was one of the rare nights when I couldn't calm her down, not even with all my usual tricks, so I just came to bed and now here I am, listening to her shouting out there in the kitchen, complaining that the world isn't fair and that everyone's against her. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I swear, but I'm starting to think that anything would be better than staying here with her. That's not even an exaggeration. Anything.”
As the scream continues outside, he turns to the most recent entry.
“I did something really stupid again,” he whispers, reading from the page. “It's been almost fifteen days since the last time I cut myself, but I ended up losing quite a bit of blood in the bathroom. Mom was already passed out by then, so it wasn't hard to clean up. I'm disappointed in myself, though. I thought I was over that childish crap, but apparently it's becoming my go-to escape route, like I'm some kind of walking cliche. The worst thing is, it felt so good. Really, amazingly good, and I'm scared I'll do it again and again. I don't want to kill myself, at least I think I don't, but I guess it's possible I could go too far. I need to get out of here before that happens. I swear to God, or to anyone else who's listening, that I'll do anything to get away. Whatever it takes. I just don't want to do anything stupid again, but I know I will. I feel like I'm screaming on the inside, but of course I'm all polite to everyone I meet. I need to leave. But if anyone out there can somehow hear me, I swear I'd rather be anywhere than here. Please, come and save me.”
Running a finger over the last couple of words, Bobby realizes that there seem to be tear-stains on the page.
“Huh,” he mutters, closing the book. As well as the sound of the scream in the distance, he can also hear Alison snoring in the
next room.
After a moment, he gets to his feet. The bed creaks as he tosses the diary back onto the desk, and then he heads to the door. There's a part of him that wants to drag Alison Barton kicking and screaming out of bed and dunk her face in a bucket of ice, just to wake her up, but he knows that'd be a waste of time. He heads out of the room, but at the last moment he ducks back inside and grabs a pen from the pot on Jessica's desk.
“Just commandeering this,” he says sheepishly. “For police use.”
With that, he hurries away, leaving the diary on the desk.
Chapter Twenty-two
“You're new in town, huh?”
Stopping on the sidewalk for a moment, Roake considers his options before finally turning to see that a group of men have come up behind him. One of them in particular, a heavyset guy with an unimpressed stare, seems especially concerned. Having expected to be accosted at some point during the day, Roake hesitates to answer, instead trying to work out how best he can defuse any tensions.
“You picked an interesting day to show up,” the largest guy continues. “It must be almost two years since a tourist last came to Pine Ridge, and then you rock into town just as...”
His voice trails off, but the scream can still be heard all around them.
“I'm not a tourist,” Roake says cautiously. “I -”
“British, huh?”
Roake nods. “I've been looking for -”
“We know,” the man says firmly. “People have been talking. Obviously in a close-knit town like this, everyone keeps everyone else up on any developments. We're not suspicious by nature, but you've gotta understand, today isn't like any other day. We're all kinda... not ourselves right now, what with everything that's going on.” He pauses, before stepping closer and holding out a hand. “Don Ridley. I'm the mayor so I'm taking charge of the effort to find young Jessica, and as part of that effort I feel like maybe I oughta ask you a few questions. Just to set things straight, as it were.”