Daddy's Little Girl

by William Malmborg

And then it faded.

  Shit.

  He could smell it.

  At first he thought it had oozed out of his butt during the spasm, and while that may have happened, he realized it was his opened bowels that he could smell. And feel. A loop of them had come up with the object as it punched through him.

  Another spasm hit.

  Fluid bubbled up, his hand trying to hold it in but failing.

  A hissing sound followed.

  At first, he didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but then it dawned on him. He had just passed gas through his opened abdomen.

  Light appeared.

  He shifted his face away from it, a sudden memory of the headlights coming at him as he opened the door filling his mind, a cry of no echoing.

  Legs.

  He could see them behind the light.

  They approached.

  A gasp reached his ears, and then a gagging noise.

  An odd apology left his lips, one that was likely too soft for her to hear. Then, “Help me.”

  No reply.

  “Help me!” he said again, this time mustering up all the sound he could manage.

  Blood punctuated the request.

  Lots of it.

  Another spasm hit, this one knocking all sense from him.

  “I’m sorry,” a voice said.

  Lindsey?

  No.

  An explosion deafened him.

  He blinked.

  Gunshot?

  His ear felt like it was on fire.

  Another gunshot, this one hitting his shoulder.

  If there was pain, it was masked by the agony from his bowels, which were continuing to ooze.

  And then something seared the side of his head.

  He tried turning away but couldn’t, an image of her pressing the gun barrel to his temple appearing just as she pulled the trigger.

  Misty took three steps and then vomited, the smell of cordite mixed with that of the policeman’s bowels, blood, and brain tissue too much for her. She had seen death before. Had even caused it once by mistake. And as horrible as that was, this was worse.

  Voices.

  They echoed behind her.

  She turned and looked at the car.

  “…Volkswagen van…kidnapping suspects…Abigail Abbott…”

  Abigail heard but didn’t process the statements being made on the radio, the only thing that fully registered being the use of her name.

  Kidnapping?

  The box!

  She was in the box, body folded, unable to breathe.

  She needed to get out.

  She needed—

  The radio!

  Call for help!

  It all started to come back to her, her hands fighting against the fabric of the airbag in an attempt to reach the handset that was dangling somewhere, her fingers just needing to snag the cord, which was clearly visible.

  She got it!

  The door opened.

  “What were they saying?” a voice demanded.

  Abigail didn’t reply, her only focus being on getting the handset to her lips so she could call for help, the cord seemingly going on forever and ever.

  “I heard them say my name!” the voice continued. “And Daddy’s and Bitsy’s.”

  The handset appeared.

  “Did they say where she was?”

  Abigail lifted the handset to her lips, finger pressing on one of the buttons. “Help!” she cried, the sound of her own shriek startling.

  “No! No! No!” the voice said.

  “Help me! I’m Abigail Abbott. Misty has me and Norman—” An image of his body smashing against the hood and then being thrown somewhere unseen flashed before her eyes.

  Was he okay?

  No.

  “Norman’s hurt! Please help—”

  The handset was ripped from her fingers, the cord eventually torn free from the radio itself.

  And then Misty was trying to pull her from the car, screams of “you stupid bitch” and “I’m going to kill you” raining down upon her, all while the handcuff that was still looped through the steering wheel kept her body from being pulled free, the metal digging into her wrist.

  Voices erupted on the radio, her name being spoken by several different people.

  Did they know where she was?

  Could they tell that by a radio call?

  Did the car have a GPS or some other sort of tracking device?

  The phone!

  Misty continued to pull, Abigail’s body feeling like it was going to be ripped in half, the flesh on her wrist breaking against the cuff.

  “Handcuffs!” Abigail screamed.

  Misty didn’t seem to understand and kept pulling.

  The radio voices continued.

  “Handcuffs!”

  She screamed the word over and over again, until finally Misty released her grip on Abigail’s arm, her body falling to the dirt next to the driver-side door, handcuffed wrist stretched all the way up to the wheel, the sight of it hidden by the airbag.

  The phone.

  I need the phone.

  The radio call might not be traceable, but the phone call would.

  Misty pulled a key from her pocket and tried to get into the driver side of the car to find the keyhole.

  Abigail stood up and shoved Misty as hard as she could, a gasp exploding from the girl’s lips as she crashed backward to the ground, flashlight bouncing across the gravel.

  “You stupid shit!” Misty cried. “I lost the key!”

  Ignoring her, Abigail climbed back into the car, body fighting the airbag, which had now deflated, so that she could pull the door shut and lock it. She then reached across and tried to reach the other door, but couldn’t get it.

  Just get the phone.

  She reached for where it had been, but the slot was now empty, the impact having likely bounced it free.

  But where?

  She peered over the edge of the passenger seat, hoping to see a reflected gleam from the screen.

  Nothing.

  She then scrunched herself down and patted the floor by her feet, but found nothing but carpet.

  The same was true of the area beneath the seat, though she couldn’t reach the full length.

  How the phone would have even gotten all the way under there was beyond her, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere else, so…

  Misty appeared on the right side of the car.

  Without really thinking about it, Abigail shifted the car into reverse and pressed her foot on the gas.

  The grinding squeal from the engine was unlike anything she had ever heard before, and given the agony it was generating, she knew she wouldn’t get very far, but that was fine. All she wanted to do was move the vehicle enough for the passenger-side door to shut when she hit the brake so that she could lock it and find the phone.

  Misty would get in, of this she had no doubt, but the delay would be costly for her if Abigail could get to the phone. In fact, it might just put an end to this entire thing.

  Or she will kill you in a rage.

  It was a risk she was willing to take.

  The car died.

  She had gone maybe ten feet, the momentum not enough to even move the passenger door, let alone slam it shut.

  And then smoke appeared, along with the smell of something burning.

  Oh shit!

  She pulled at the handcuff link, fist squeezed, flesh continuing to tear, all to no avail.

  The burning smell got worse.

  Abigail continued to fight the handcuff link, blood now dripping.

  She then attacked the steering wheel itself, hoping to rip it free.

  Could she even do such a thing?

  The answer was no.

  She pulled and pulled, but it would not come off. Next she tried twisting it until it snapped, but that was useless as well, her knuckles white with the effort yet achieving nothing.

  Light appeared.

  The car was on fire.

  And th
en Misty was in the passenger doorway, screaming at her that the car was on fire.

  No shit!

  “The police officer has a key!” Abigail shouted.

  “What?” Misty asked.

  “That’s how he got free. They were in his chest pocket.”

  Misty turned and ran toward the barn.

  A buzzing noise echoed.

  It was near her feet.

  The phone!

  She peered down, but once again could not see it.

  And then the buzzing stopped.

  But it was there, somewhere, and if she got it she could pocket it before Misty came back with the key.

  She reached down and started patting the ground again, but like before, she could not find it.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  She knew it was there.

  The buzzing sound left no doubt.

  Frustrated, she sat back up and checked the hood of the car.

  The flames were growing.

  And Misty was nowhere to be seen.

  The keys in the ignition!

  Would they have a cuff key?

  The stench of the policeman’s body had gotten worse during the short period of time that Misty had been dealing with the stupid schoolgirl, and instantly produced a sensation in the back of her throat that would lead to another bout of vomiting. Or at least dry heaving since there was nothing left in her body. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time she didn’t want the schoolgirl to burn to death in the car, even though the bitch deserved it after what she had just done.

  No.

  She needed the girl.

  Not just for her driving abilities, as lacking as they were, but also for her company and companionship.

  Going off alone just wasn’t something she wanted to do—couldn’t do—especially if she failed to find Bitsy. The loneliness would be too much, as would the sheer volume of everything around her. Total information overload, her experience with the world beyond that of her father’s house too limited for her to make it to a new home and get it up and running. Not that she wouldn’t try if forced to, but having someone like Abigail with her would make things easier—even with the moments of disobedience.

  I can curb that.

  But only if I get her out of the car.

  Taking a deep breath, she headed into the cloud of fecal stench and began searching the stiffening body of the policeman, eyes watering as the smell seeped in through her nose, her attempts at not breathing in the stench becoming more and more difficult.

  The heat from the flames was starting to bake the inside of the car when Abigail slipped from the driver seat into the gravel, her left hand holding her right wrist where the handcuff link had encircled it, the fingers flexing and unflexing as she contemplated her next move.

  Misty was still in the barn.

  Go!

  A buzz echoed.

  The phone.

  Just go.

  Hesitation hit.

  She peered back into the vehicle, her eyes now level with the brake and gas pedals.

  The phone was sitting between them, screen side down, the dark case making it almost invisible.

  She grabbed it.

  Lindsey Call.

  Abigail hit the End button and then hit the main button to bring up the password screen. Near the bottom was the word Emergency. She hit it and then darted away from the burning car toward the side of the barn, eyes on the lookout for anything she could use to hit Misty with when she emerged from the doorway.

  Misty found the keys in the front right pants pocket, which had been caked with bloody fecal crud that had oozed from the chunk of skewered bowel. It was one of the most disgusting moments of her life, the sludge sticking to her fingers as she slipped them into the pocket.

  Keys retrieved, she wiped her hands on the upper part of the policeman’s shirt, near an area of the shoulder that still seemed clean, and then headed toward the door, startled by how big the flames had become.

  The gas tank!

  What if it explodes?

  She had to act fast, her feet starting toward the car just as something came toward her face, her head twisting away while her arms went up, the object impacting her left forearm with a heavy ping-like thunk sound.

  Pain flared, the entire arm going useless.

  Another swing.

  Misty dodged this one and watched as the shovel slammed into the side of the barn, Abigail wielding it with a fury that was eerily visible within the light from the flames.

  “No, no!” Misty shouted, backing up several steps, one hand held out in a “stop” gesture while her other hand reached for the gun that was tucked into her waistband.

  Abigail swung again.

  Misty pulled her hand back but wasn’t quick enough, the shovel clipping her knuckles.

  And then she tripped, falling backward just as she pulled the gun free, butt hitting the wet ground, the impact painless.

  Abigail came forward, shovel raised.

  “Drop it!” a voice commanded, a beam of light spearing her.

  Abigail froze.

  Misty peered around, toward the light, eyes just barely able to make out a figure standing near the edge of the barn. She had a gun in hand, one that was aimed at Abigail’s back.

  “I said drop it!”

  “My name is Abigail—”

  “Drop it!”

  Abigail took a breath and lowered the shovel. “My name is Abigail Abbott—”

  “On the ground, facedown.”

  “You don’t understand!” Abigail shouted.

  “I’m not going to tell you again. On the ground now!”

  Abigail glared down at Misty, the firelight still illuminating her face, and then eased herself down onto her knees.

  “Facedown.”

  Abigail let out a sigh and leaned herself forward onto the ground.

  “Hands out to your sides.”

  “You’re making a big—”

  “Hands out!”

  Abigail put her hands out.

  The woman stepped forward, flashlight beam staying on Abigail during the approach. She looked like a police officer, though her uniform was a different color than the man’s had been. She also had on a hat.

  The light shifted toward Misty. “Are you okay?” the woman asked, offering a hand.

  Misty nodded and lifted her free hand for the woman to grab, the firm grip helping her to her feet while the officer’s other hand held a gun on Abigail. She then released Misty’s hand to take hold of her radio.

  Misty lifted the gun and shot her in the face before she could make the call.

  Abigail screamed as the gunshot echoed, her initial thought being that the police officer, or whoever it was that was behind her, had decided to shoot her in the back, her body actually bracing itself for the impact that never came.

  No other shots followed, an odd calmness arriving.

  A moan reached her ears.

  It sounded like it came from behind her.

  The officer!

  She wasn’t dead.

  She could still—

  Steps crunched by her head and then moved toward where the officer was, the sound of something being lifted from Abigail’s side followed by a garbled plea and then a heavy thunk echoing.

  Abigail shifted so she could see, her movements slow so as not to be noticed, and watched in horror as Misty brought the shovel down onto the police officer’s face over and over again, and then, when that didn’t seem to be enough, shifted it in her hands so that she could stab the pointed part into the officer’s neck.

  Blood spurted.

  Abigail gasped.

  Misty turned, the firelight reflecting in her eyes as she glared down at Abigail. And then she knelt down and grabbed something.

  The gun.

  And then a pair of handcuffs, which she tossed onto the ground next to Abigail.

  “Put them on.”

  Abigail hesitated.

  Misty aimed the gun at her face.
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  Abigail cuffed her wrists, the familiar sensation of metal against flesh returning.

  Ten

  “Lindsey, no!” Gloria said. “You need to let the police handle this.”

  “But they’re not handling it!” Lindsey snapped. “I called them four times to find out why my dad wasn’t answering his phone, and they kept telling me he was busy. And now—” She simply pointed toward the police scanner.

  “You don’t know if it was your—”

  “How many other Normans do you know around here?” Lindsey demanded.

  Gloria didn’t reply to that.

  “And the last thing I heard from him was that he was going to go check a van that had been flipped over. An old Volkswagen van that looked like it had been driven right out of the sixties. Those were his exact words. How many of those have you seen around here?”

  Again, Gloria didn’t reply.

  “Lindsey?” Liz asked, coming down the hallway from her bedroom.

  “Yeah?” Lindsey asked.

  “Bitsy wants to know if she…he—” Liz shook her head. “Can Bitsy borrow one of your dresses?”

  “One of my dresses?”

  “She’s worried that if she goes back the way she is that Misty will be mad that she is acting like a boy.” Liz shrugged.

  “Oh, okay, sure, whatever.” She gave a dismissive wave, but then said, “Wait! Not the blue one.”

  Liz nodded.

  “How about not any of them?” Gloria said. “How about we simply call the police?”

  Liz looked from Gloria to Lindsey.

  “The only reason you didn’t want to call them before was because you were worried her dad might be one, but it seems pretty safe to say that he isn’t. At least not one from here.”

  “I’m not going to sit around waiting for an inept police department to get their shit together and try to help him,” Lindsey snapped.

  “What happened?” Liz asked.

  Gloria told her about the cry for help they had heard on the police scanner.

  “Fuck. Do you think he’s okay?” Liz asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not going to wait to find out.” Lindsey turned and started toward her father’s bedroom.

  Gloria and Liz followed.

  Lindsey went right to the closet and started reaching around on the top shelf, hands eventually finding the box she was looking for and bringing it down.