She Lies Close

by Sharon Doering

  A bare-chested, pot-bellied man lies on a plastic lounger in his driveway. An arm’s length away from his lounger, his little Smokey Joe wafts beefy hamburger smoke toward the street. The Steve Miller Band plays at a modest volume from an unseen stereo in his dark garage. He has a bandage on his hand.

  This is Lou, the man who told me Leland Ernest is a suspect in the kidnapping of Ava Boone. The man who told me Leland was following his daughter, Rachel, home from school years ago. The man who told Leland, If you talk to my daughter again, I’ll slit your throat.

  I still haven’t seen the seventeen-year-old or the wife. It makes sense that I haven’t seen the teen; often they’re on their bed or couch, sleepy, bored with schoolwork and consumed by their phones. But what about his wife? Doesn’t she work or help with the yard? Get the mail? Either he killed her, made her up, or she is a shut-in. Imagining her as a TV-addict shut-in elevates my spirit. Someone more messed up than me.

  Lou has no inkling that since he told me my neighbor might be dangerous, I have barely slept.

  I imagine stopping on his sidewalk and saying, “Hey there, Lou. Get a load of this. While I was bringing in the groceries the other day, Leland had the nerve to give my three-year-old a handful of Tootsie Rolls.”

  “And what did you do?” he would say, his voice flat, his basalt eyes unblinking. “What did you say?”

  Yes, Grace. What did you do? What did you say?

  Nothing, you did nothing.

  Well, I’m not—

  You’re not what?

  Well, I’m not entirely sure—

  Pathetic. Weak.

  There’s a dead robin inches off the curb. Its wings are flattened, it is sunbaked, and two flies hover above it. I leap over the bird, grateful I noticed it in time to avoid bringing death home on the bottom of my sneaker. My mind is still ticking, keeping time with my left foot.

  I pass Lou’s house without saying a word.

  A teenager on his skateboard passes me, the wheels of his board grinding loudly against the cracked asphalt. For a split second, he tilts 45 degrees to the right. I blink and he is standing erect again, his right foot touching the street, propelling him faster. A half-block ahead, he turns the corner, gone.

  Sweating hard, breathing harder, I pound out the last sixty seconds of my sprint. A small burst of endorphins gushes inside my head. I force a smile (smiling makes you happy).

  Three houses away from my house, I transition sloppily from sprinting to walking. The ticking inside my head stops abruptly, reaffirming its association with the business of inner ears or sinuses.

  My beautiful next-door neighbor Brooke and two of her beautiful friends sit in lawn chairs on her driveway, laughing and drinking out of red solo cups, a wine bottle on the ground between their chairs. Their small children doodle on the driveway with chalk. None of these women or children appear distressed or distracted by the suspected child kidnapper living one house away. Maybe it’s a distance thing, and Brooke truly feels unthreatened by Leland because he’s not her next-door neighbor. My kids are the default bait, the sacrificial offering keeping her children safe.

  I consider stopping to talk, but I’m still pissed that she didn’t tell me about our freaky neighbor and she didn’t tell me not to buy this house. Also, my accommodating, considerate side knows that joining their impromptu driveway soiree would bring discordance to the affair. I wear turmoil like perfume. People smell it.

  By and large I belong indoors, holed up with the other self-doubting, wobbly, anxious, financially distressed people. As a group, we generally do not go outside and mingle. We are ghosts. Behind closed curtains, we fret over unpayable lawyer bills and debt and loneliness or our ex-spouses’ cruel or threatening texts. We rush through grocery stores, rarely making eye contact because we aren’t sure if, when spoken to, we will lose our shit.

  I give my neighbor and her friends a wave and head for my mailbox, perpetual puker of bad news, useless crap, and environmental burdens.

  Leland Ernest’s garage door opens. His black Dodge Charger, rust along the back bumper, slowly backs out. Mid-driveway, it stops. He steps out of his car, leaving his engine running and his car door open, and walks back into his house. Forgot something. Happens to me all the time.

  I wait by my mailbox, pretending to leaf through my mail. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes are trained on his garage.

  Seconds later, he comes out carrying work gloves in one hand. The outline of his body is so crisp, so bold, it seems he is the only person in the world. He wears a brown short-sleeve button-down shirt with an oval-enclosed logo above the breast pocket. One of the letters in the oval may be “F”. He is going to work.

  Where he works is a question that’s been burning a hole in my mind.

  If you think too hard, you will miss your chance.

  I walk briskly up my driveway and type my code into the garage door keypad. I note his direction, duck under my lifting garage door, and dash inside. In a frenzy, I grab my mom’s car keys from the kitchen table. I notice Wyatt’s little league cap on the floor. I grab that too. His head is smaller than mine, but I’ll resize it as I drive.

  I have my mom’s CRV started before I close the car door. I back out of my driveway in jerky fits. I’m not used to the CRV’s overly responsive brakes, but I don’t have time to coddle the brake pedal. I speed down Cherry Lane.

  Damn. My garage door. I’m pretty sure I forgot to close it. It’ll be fine.

  Leland turns left onto a two-way street that only gets busy during the peak of rush hour. I follow. His Dodge Charger is far ahead, waiting at the light in the left-turn lane, but no other car separates us.

  My mom’s CRV is gray, the most mundane of colors. I wear sunglasses and Wyatt’s baseball cap. No way he’ll recognize you.

  I am sweat-slick and flooded with adrenaline. Trees, cars, bikers, and clouds appear crisp and solid. No hint of wobble.

  Second car you’ve followed in two hours.

  So this is what you do when you have the evening off?

  23

  A STARCHY, SCRATCHY GRAVE

  I’m driving down a two-way road pinched by mature cornfields. I’ve been following him for fifteen minutes. He’s known it’s me from the start. Lured me here so he could hide my dead body among the corn husks.

  Quit it. He’s driving to work. He’s a normal guy who didn’t give Chloe candy. He’s a normal guy who had a misunderstanding with Lou’s daughter. He’s a normal guy who coincidentally gave Ava a Happy Meal toy shortly before she disappeared.

  Disappeared. As if it were a magic trick.

  Besides, a corn field is a terrible hiding place for a dead body this time of year. Any day now they’ll cut these stalks to the ground. He knows that.

  My hands slip along the steering wheel, and my sour-sweat stink fills the car. The corn stalks closing in the road are so tall and thick, it feels like I’m already suffocating in a starchy, scratchy grave.

  Leland Ernest’s brake lights flash, and I step on my brake. He slows and swerves left, revealing a bicyclist on the road. Black spandex leggings. Hot pink spandex tank top. Blond hair spilling from her helmet.

  Leland comes to a full stop beside the bicycle. Even though I’m sixty feet behind, I stop too. I don’t want to be sitting on his bumper.

  The bicyclist flails her arm at him and loses her balance. She puts her sneaker on the ground to stop her fall, and ends their brief exchange with her middle finger.

  His tires squeal and smoke as he guns it.

  What the hell? What did he say to her?

  I ease onto the gas, allowing more distance between our cars.

  I am not a calm investigator. I am like an eighth-grade girl who has snuck out in the middle of the night, walking through dewy grass and sweating though the night is cool, to meet a high school boy. Wise enough to know she’s walking toward danger, green enough that she can’t articulate or imagine the details of what that danger might be.

  Corn gives way to a scatter
ing of townhomes. We cross train tracks, then pass an industrial park where the road leading in winds around squat, mostly unlabeled buildings. The only labels in sight are for Jake’s RV Rental and CR’s Boat Repair. We are clear of Whisper County and moving deeper into rural Niles County.

  This is ridiculous. Abandon your pathetic investigation.

  I decide to turn around at the stoplight ahead, at the intersection of a shopping center, when his turn signal comes on.

  He turns into the Farm and Fleet parking lot.

  I follow.

  He stops near the front of the lot, waiting as a minivan slowly backs out. An old Mazda Protegé the color of stale blood turns the wrong way down his aisle and weasels into the minivan’s spot.

  Bad idea, Protegé.

  Leland slowly drives past the wrongdoer and turns into the next aisle. No slamming his door and picking a fight. No honking. No giving the menstrual-red car the finger. I park two aisles away.

  Leland sits in his car for two or three long minutes. I sweat and pretend to talk on my phone. He steps out, holding a plastic bag in one hand, keys in the other. Instead of heading toward Farm and Fleet, he walks through the half-full lot toward the Mazda.

  Oh no, he’s going to smash the Mazda’s window, isn’t he?

  He doesn’t. Only walks alongside the Mazda before he disappears into Farm and Fleet.

  I back out of my spot and drive slowly past the Mazda. Empty. The driver must have walked into Farm and Fleet as I parked.

  The car is shabby, a few small dents, a dusty windshield. A fresh silver scratch splits the paint from front tire to rear tire.

  It’s nothing. Just a scratch. Hell, Chloe dragged a rock across my mom’s CRV weeks ago. My mouth gaping at her handiwork, I was about to dole out punishment when my mom patted my shoulder and said, “No worries. That’s what kids are for.”

  Just a scratch.

  Except my stomach feels oily because here is an angry person, a temperamental person, who feels he has nothing to lose. To top it off, this Mazda is old, a real piece of crap. The owner might not even notice the new scratch, which somehow makes the offense more disturbing.

  I close my eyes and see Ava Boone. Her small palm pressed against the glass of Leland’s second-story window. Her blank stare floating above her palm. Her brown curls. Her lips slightly parted, ready to speak.

  I see Chloe’s tiny, open palm holding three Tootsie Rolls.

  And what did you do, Grace?

  What did you do?

  24

  OCCASIONALLY I HAVE A HULA HOOP AROUND MY NECK

  I am bent at my kitchen sink, my lips under the running faucet, gulping lukewarm water like a kid as water splashes onto my cheeks and shirt and into the grimy sink cluttered with dirty dishes.

  Don’t think too hard.

  You sure about that? Maybe you should think a little harder. Seems like you’re on a rampage here, indulging every one of your neurotic impulses.

  I slip on a pair of disposable nitrile gloves. I keep my hair up in Wyatt’s baseball hat.

  My yard backs up to a house inhabited by a young couple who work long, driven hours. Leland’s property butts up to a house occupied by two teenage boys. Their adults may or may not be home from work yet, but it’s likely the boys are home. Leland’s yard ends in a bundle of saplings, a miniature forest, and the foliage mostly obstructs the house directly behind his.

  If caught, I will claim Concerned Neighbor. Oh my gosh, I was on my back deck shaking out the rug and heard glass shatter next door. I wasn’t thinking; I ran over and walked in.

  The houses kitty-corner and adjacent to our yards are blotted out by bushes so mature and overgrown, they are essentially trees. The west sky is a lovely swirl of fiery pink and purple sunset clouds, but sunlight still reigns. Early September. Darkness won’t conceal a thing for an hour or two.

  I drop a small throw rug on my back deck and walk casually through the grass to my neighbor’s house.

  His back porch is a ten-by-ten slab of cement possessing one plastic chair and one plastic pot of marigolds, which seem well-cared for and lovely.

  This isn’t going to happen.

  I am not willing to shatter glass. I am not willing to break a door or window. He wouldn’t leave his house unlocked.

  This is not going to happen.

  When the sliding door eases open, I freeze, stunned and uncertain of my next move. Out of fear that his backyard neighbors might see me through the foliage, I get over my fear quickly and step inside.

  The distinct, stagnant odor of his house hits me first. A male odor: hot dogs, dirty sneakers, and the last fumes of an evergreen air freshener. His kitchen counters are clean. Bare. Plain.

  This house was built in the eighties, and no owner has had enough money to update the laminate cabinets and countertops. My kitchen is the same, but my laminate counters are cluttered with dirty plates, too many forgotten cups, and half-baked art projects: cotton balls and paint brushes cemented to dried paint on paper plates and Play-Doh glued and taped to toys.

  Treasured heirlooms and sentimental Christmas decorations get socked away in cold, musty basements. People hide prisoners in basements too. At least that’s what my internet searches have revealed. That’s where I go first.

  I step down unfinished stairs into the dark, guiding myself by the wooden railing, bracing myself for anything from jars of floating body parts to a caged human. I Braille-read the bumpy cement wall, find a switch, and flip on the light.

  Leland’s basement looks exactly like mine, except his is tidy and mostly empty.

  I breathe in. Wet stone and a hint of animal. Cement walls and floors are bare except for stacked cardboard storage boxes.

  The boxes are labeled. Boy Scout magazines. Smithsonian magazines. Grandpa’s tools. Leland’s baseball cards. Old cell phones/ electronics. Piano books. Non-fiction. Fiction. Dad’s photo albums.

  Suspecting his labels are decoys, I lift a few lids. Sure enough, the contents match the labels.

  I clear my throat. “Ava?” I say, my voice sounding unused, rusty. “Are you down here?” I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. You don’t seriously believe she’s in this house, do you? “Ava?”

  Silence, except for the buzz of a fly trying to escape a tiny window that doesn’t open. Good luck, fly.

  I walk the periphery of the basement, making sure I’m not missing a secret, horrific room. The first closed door I come upon looks like it opens to a closet. It does. Inside the three-by-three-foot room are a few rusty barbell weights and a hole in the ground housing the sump pump. I continue walking the perimeter of the basement, careful not to disturb small spider webs where the floor and wall meet.

  Around the corner is a second door. Cheap standard hollow door, cheap gold-painted handle. From the layout, I expect this room to be larger than a closet. This space probably houses the furnace. I open the door and my heart does a quick triple step. I’m correct about the furnace. And there’s a utility sink too, the faucet corroded.

  But also. Right in front of me. A dog cage big enough for a German Shepherd. Empty, but still, a fucking cage. Leland doesn’t have a dog, why would he need a large metal crate? The bars are sturdy, and there are hinges on the front of the cage for a padlock.

  I inspect the cage for some clue, a swatch of torn clothing, a shred of shoelace, a long human hair, but there’s nothing. It’s clean and bare. I clear my throat again. “Ava? Are you in here? My name is Grace. I’m here to help get you back to your parents?”

  Silence, except for the fly. Of course. Because she’s not here.

  It’s been five months. Regardless of who took her, she’s dead.

  Sweat breaks along my cool skin and I shiver. It’s just a dog cage. He had a dog, it died, and he kept the cage because he’s planning on getting another dog. You are the crazy one. You are the criminal. You.

  I close the door, flip the light off, and run up the basement stairs. I wrap my fingers around the handle
of the sliding back door, ready to flee, when a nagging voice inside my head calls me a pussy.

  The ones who are really crazy, the ones who know they are crazy, those are the ones who are careful. Those are the ones who meticulously organize their shit. Those are the ones who wouldn’t keep a child in plain sight in their basement. Those are the ones who scrub their cages with an oxy cleaner and toothbrush.

  Upstairs, the carpet is pale blue. First bedroom possesses a roller shade, an old dresser, and a single bed. I open each dresser drawer quickly. Empty, all of them. This is his guest room. Maybe a grandparent or cousin visits once or twice a year.

  A computer on a desk occupies the next bedroom. His computer is turned on, and the screen is waiting for a password.

  I don’t bother. I can’t manage to figure out how I run out of storage on my smartphone and what is using all my data, or even what it means to have my data used up; trying to bypass someone’s password is out of the question.

  Jammed in the crevices of the desk, two photos stand upright. One is of an old man. Grandpa?

  Something creaks downstairs. My heart thumps and my pulse quickens. I wait, listening. Air sighs in and out of my lungs. His air conditioning is on, but barely. It’s stuffy up here.

  Old wood expanding in the heat, that’s all it was.

  The other photo is of a young boy holding a fishing pole, a small bluegill dead on the hook. Solid and big-boned, the boy is holding onto his baby belly. Leland. He has shiny white-blond hair and a slight tan. He stands on a dock below a stale sunset, slate water behind him.

  Last bedroom. Heat is oppressive in here. Leland left his roller shade up, and the sun has been cooking the air all afternoon. Birds chirp loudly. His window is cracked open. Warm air has been leaking in.

  I have transcended frightened and criminal. My body’s receptors couldn’t sustain the adrenaline jolts and they burnt out. I am strangely calm, a little sleepy even.