A gust of wind hit while she made this decision, one that chilled her to the core, her arms quickly hugging herself as she journeyed down the cold sidewalk, bare feet somehow finding every little protrusion, the sharp edges trying to halt her progress as she went across the pockmarked surface.
“Bitsy?” Katie called into the bathroom, the couch where the girl had been resting empty when she returned from the break room, the blanket folded, pillow on top. “You in here?”
No answer.
She stepped inside and did a quick check.
No Bitsy.
Next she opened the men’s bathroom and called into it.
Once again, no answer.
Shit!
She headed back to the sofa and looked around, eyes assessing which direction she could have gone.
Exit.
Oh no, no, no!
She hurried down the hallways to the rear entrance, one that required a key card when coming in, but not going out.
Cold air slammed into her as she opened the heavy door to peer out, a quick scan of the parking area revealing that Bitsy was nowhere to be seen.
Would she really wander away?
Or is she simply exploring the police station?
Though she desperately wanted it to be the latter, Katie was certain it was the former. Bitsy had left, her captivity-conditioned mind producing a desire to get back to her captors. Back to Misty.
And it’s my fault.
While she had been getting coffee and venting to Gary about how she had made headway with the girl, Bitsy had wandered away. The irony of it would have been amusing if it had happened to someone else and didn’t involve a child who had obviously been abused.
How could she be so careless?
How could—
A patrol vehicle pulled into the parking area.
Katie waited for the occupant to get out.
It was Dean, a five-year veteran of the force.
“Thanks,” he said, assuming she was holding the door for him.
“No problem,” she replied. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see a young girl wandering around out there on Main?”
“No. Someone lose a kid?”
“Something like that,” she said and pushed past him to go check the streets herself.
“Good luck,” Dean said as the door shut behind her.
Knowing it was probably pointless and that Bitsy was gone, Katie hurried through the parking lot and down the alleyway to Main Street, ponytail whipping back and forth as she quickly scanned the deserted street.
No Bitsy.
Next she hurried around the corner on the right and checked McDowell.
Once again, no Bitsy.
From there she rounded herself around until she was near the main entrance of the police station.
Still no Bitsy.
The girl was gone.
And she was taking Katie’s career with her.
Not her fault.
Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit peeved at the girl.
How could she do this?
How could she throw away her freedom to try to go back to whoever it was that had been holding her captive?
Katie knew the questions were useless and that her focus needed to be on finding the girl, who couldn’t have gone far, not while on foot and wearing clothing that would stand out, yet she couldn’t help but let them bounce around within her mind as she headed to her desk to grab the keys to her patrol vehicle, hope that she would bump into Bitsy as the girl finished a simple exploration of the police station going unrealized.
As humiliating as it was, she had to go tell Gary.
He would alert everyone to be on the lookout for Bitsy.
That was the most important thing at the moment.
Finding Bitsy and making sure she was safe.
After that, Katie could then deal with trying to repair the damage this would do to her career—if possible.
Goodbye FBI…
Stop!
Focus!
Gary was on the radio when she entered the dispatch area.
She waited a second, his eyes looking at a map he had laid out that he was continuously marking to show what routes were clear and which ones weren’t, the importance of having such up-to-date information before him unquestionable when trying to guide emergency responders to scenes.
A memory of Iraq appeared, their unit having come under attack as it provided security for a contracted waste-removal convoy that had been transporting piss and shit from a coalition base to a dump site outside of Baghdad.
The routes they had been provided for the convoy had been compromised and an alternative one dispatched to them over the radio, one that apparently hadn’t been noted as being unusable due to an attack three days earlier, the road nothing but a giant crater from the VBED that had hit an Iraqi police patrol.
“You okay?” Gary asked.
“Yeah,” Katie said, shaking the memory away.
“You saw the BOLO?”
“BOLO?” she asked.
“About the van and kidnapping suspect.”
“No, I was looking for Bitsy and was going to have you put out a message to everyone.”
“Wait, what?”
“She left. While we were in the break room.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Was the BOLO about her?”
“No, but it mentioned a van, a possible kidnapping victim named Abigail Abbott from North Carolina, and the name Misty, which is what caught my attention.”
“When did that come in?”
“Just a few minutes ago, while we were in the break room.”
“But nothing about Bitsy?”
“No. But still, what are the chances she is talking about a different van and a different Misty?”
“Is this Misty listed as a kidnap victim as well?”
“That’s what’s odd about it. The kidnap victim for North Carolina is specifically listed as a kidnap victim, one that went missing a couple days ago while walking home from school. But Misty is simply listed as a young lady the perp is traveling with.” He clicked around with his mouse a bit and then shifted his screen. “See.”
Katie leaned in. “Out of Champaign-Urbana?”
“Yeah, the suspect in the kidnapping works for the university.”
“Jesus. How did they link him with a missing girl from North Carolina?”
“Doesn’t say. Why don’t you give the investigator a call?”
“Okay, yeah, I’ll do that. Can you put out word on Bitsy?”
“Yep,” he said, picking up the radio.
Katie dialed the number of the investigator while he did this, his call going out as a phone down in Springfield rang in her ear.
Bitsy didn’t find a map in the center of town, which was a bit upsetting because she figured that if there had been one, she would have been able to locate the cemetery on it, which in turn would have shown her the direction she needed to start walking in. No map meant no direction, so she walked aimlessly for quite some time, sticking to the darkest areas she could find and ducking out of sight every time she saw a vehicle that wasn’t the van, which eventually led her into a neighborhood that bordered the downtown part of Smallwood, her feet finding that the sidewalks in front of the homes were, for the most part, less painful than the ones that had been in front of the empty businesses. Why this was, she didn’t know, the TV shows and movies that she and Misty often watched never addressing such topics.
And then something pierced her foot, the pain causing her to yelp, a chunk of something black and gritty coming up with her as she tried lifting her foot away from whatever it was that had stuck her, the weight as it dangled bringing about more pain.
It wouldn’t let go.
Dropping down to a knee and then her butt, she studied the issue, discovering that she had stepped on a torn piece of shingle, the small roofing tack having embedded itself into her heel.
Relief arrived.
Had it been a nail o
r some rusty piece of twisted metal, her ability to walk once it was pulled free might have been compromised, but it was simply a roofing tack, which she was familiar with and could walk on if needed. Not that she wanted to, her fingers quickly pulling the tack free, a bubble of blood following, but she could, Misty having used such tacks when teaching her to walk like a girl. Four tacks for each heel, lightly taped in place so that the tips were just pressed against her flesh, her feet forced to walk on her toes as if in heels so that the points didn’t push through into her skin. Misty had done this for several weeks, until walking as if she were wearing heels became something Bitsy did without thinking. The training had been pure agony and led to many tears, but in the end it had been worth it, the heels she eventually stepped into feeling like an extension of her body. She could walk, run, skip, and jump in them without a problem. Misty…not so much. But then she hadn’t been trained with roofing tacks.
She stood and took a test step.
As expected, the weight coming down hurt, but it was nothing like having four roofing tacks in there, or the candle flames while strung up. It was also a good reminder for her to watch her step and be a bit more careful. This time it had just been a roofing tack, but next time it could be something that sheared the flesh from her leg or twisted her ankle until it snapped. If that happened, she would never make it back to Misty.
“Sparky, no!” a voice shouted.
Bitsy twisted, eyes going wide as a dog charged toward her, a scream leaving her lips as she tried backing away and tripped over her own feet, the dog’s paws quickly upon her chest, nose in her face. And then it started licking her.
“Sparky!” a young man said, yanking the dog off her. Then, “I’m so sorry about that. Are you okay?”
“I-I-I-” Bitsy said, unable to continue, hands checking her face for bite marks, but only finding goo where its tongue had struck. It was gross.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he repeated. “Sparky gets excited when he meets new people.”
Bitsy rubbed at the goo with her sleeve and then looked up at the young man, who held out his free hand.
She took it.
He helped her back up to her feet.
“If you give him a scratch behind his ears, he’ll be cool and your best friend for life.”
Bitsy hesitated. She had never touched a dog before but knew that they sometimes liked to chew on things. Would it want to chew on her? Would it try to make her squeak?
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he said.
“It won’t bite me?” Bitsy asked.
“Oh no, he’s completely harmless. Just gets too excited. Right, Sparky?”
Sparky seemed to grow excited at hearing his own name.
Bitsy decided to give it a try and slowly reached out her hand to touch the dog behind his ears.
He swung his nose toward her hand, startling her.
“No, no, it’s okay,” the young man said.
Bitsy took a deep breath and tried again, this time managing to touch Sparky behind the ears and scratch at his fur.
Sparky smiled at her and started wagging his tail.
“She likes it,” Bitsy said, her own smile appearing.
“He,” the young man said.
“He?” Bitsy asked.
“Sparky’s a boy.”
“Oh.” She continued to scratch at the fur. “Sorry.”
“And my name’s Andrew,” the young man said. He held out a hand.
“I’m Bitsy,” Bitsy said, carefully taking the hand.
Andrew smiled. “Sparky was excited at the door. I thought he needed to use the bathroom, but I guess he just wanted to say hi.”
Bitsy didn’t reply to that.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Andrew asked.
“Yes,” Bitsy said.
“You have a bandage.”
“Oh.” She touched her head. “I bumped it in the storm.”
He eyed her.
“But it’s okay now.”
“That’s good. Do you live around here?”
“Oh, um…no.” She looked down. “Our house is gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrew said. “Were you heading to the school?”
“The school?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s where everyone goes if they lost their house.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“They have beds set up and people that help you find a place to stay.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that.” Was that where the Daddy-man had been taking them? Were he and Misty there now? Hope started to build. “How do I get there?”
“It’s actually not far from here. I can show you if you want.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Please.”
“Okay, yeah, let me just go get Sparky’s leash.”
Bitsy nodded again.
He smiled and started to turn, but then stopped and asked, “Did you lose your shoes?”
Bitsy looked down at her bare feet and for a moment was going to mention how she had outgrown her last pair of heels and didn’t have any new ones yet, but then decided he might not understand and simply said, “Yeah.”
“What size are you?” he asked.
“Um…” She shook her head.
He waved a hand. “Never mind. I have an extra pair for cutting the grass. They’ll probably be too big, but better than being barefoot out here. Lots of shit from the storm, especially toward the school.”
Bitsy nodded, though he didn’t see, his body already heading back into the house, his hand on Sparky’s collar, guiding the dog in with him.
She waited, uneasy about simply standing alone on the sidewalk.
A few seconds later, that unease faded as he returned, the end of a leash in one hand, a pair of old shoes in another. “Here you go. See if those will work.”
They weren’t heels, but she figured that since she was already in pants it would be okay. And if it wasn’t, well, Misty would punish her, but that would be okay too because at least they would be together again.
That was all that mattered right now.
“They good?” Andrew asked once she had them on her feet.
“Yes, thank you,” Bitsy said.
“Excellent, let’s go.” He gave Sparky’s leash a bit of a tug. “Come on, boy.”
Bitsy watched as Sparky started to walk, thoughts on how Misty gave similar tugs on her leash when they went on walks through the field behind the house entering her mind. She hoped such moments would happen again.
Six
“You okay?” Abigail asked, having heard a grunt in the darkness of the barn.
“Yeah,” Norman said, a heavy, wet-sounding breath echoing.
Coughing followed.
Abigail winced, the sound of his hacking something up turning her empty stomach.
“What were you doing?” she asked once he was finished.
“Trying to get—”
He started hacking again.
Abigail tried to block out the sound but failed.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s okay,” she replied.
As disgusting as the sounds were, she knew he couldn’t help them, not with his nose having been crushed. And honestly, she was no picnic herself, the smell of her urine-soaked panties and skirt filling the air every time she shifted herself.
Can he smell it?
He couldn’t breathe through his nose, that much she knew, but what about his sense of smell? Had that been compromised as well?
Ask him.
Do I smell like piss?
As crazy as it sounded given their situation, she couldn’t bring herself to voice this, not with the embarrassment it would bring.
He took a deep breath, one that was louder than his typical mouth ones, and then, her eyes just barely able to see him given the darkness, folded himself over once again, his head leaning in while his back arched against the post, almost as if he was thrusting his chest towar
d his face.
Why?
Brain damage?
When not hacking up bloody clumps of mucus from his busted nose, he seemed pretty lucid and aware, so if asked she would say he was okay, but then one never knew what was going on when it came to head injuries. Every minute that passed could be a minute when his brain continued swelling against the skull, his mental capacity growing worse and worse, uncontrollable spasms occurring as signals within the gray matter got triggered and crossed.
Is that what this is?
A spasm as his brain malfunctions?
The sound of his straining ended with a curse and then more hacking.
She cleared her throat.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
And if he’d said no?
Then what?
No answer appeared.
She wouldn’t be able to help.
And screaming for the Misty girl wouldn’t do anything.
“Oh, he’s hurt. I better call the police.”
Yeah, right.
She would probably pull up a chair and watch as he succumbed to his injury, an odd satisfaction and maybe even sexual release arriving.
Or would she?
Was she like the man?
On the surface the answer seemed to be yes, but maybe it wasn’t really that simple. Maybe she was a prisoner just like them, but one that had been conditioned to the point of being able to roam free.
Abigail had heard about such things happening.
After years of being a captive, subject to sexual abuse and torture…
She shivered.
Norman started straining again, and like the other times, eventually gave up with a curse.
Thankfully, he didn’t start hacking this time, just took several deep breaths through his mouth.
“What are you trying to do?” she asked, a clink of chain as she tried to adjust her own wrists into a more comfortable position reaching her ears. It didn’t work.
“Trying to open my pocket,” he said.
“Why?”
“I have a key.”
“Seriously?” she asked, the word key bringing a sudden spark of hope into her mind.
“Yeah.” Mouth breath. “And if I can get it out, I can get free.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“But?” she asked, sensing the word within his voice.
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