by Koethi Zan
‘Writing a book?’
‘Nope. Investigating.’ He couldn’t help but say it with a hint of pride.
She sat down next to him, clearly intrigued, and rolled her chair close to his.
‘You don’t look like a cop. You look more like the bad guys.’ She winked. Was she flirting with him?
‘I do a lot of undercover.’ Used to, anyway.
‘As what? A grad student? Look at you, jeans, hoodie, what is that, four-day stubble? You don’t look like you’ve slept in days.’ Definitely flirting. Adam suddenly felt uncomfortable. He’d been so focused on this case for so long that he’d forgotten what normal human contact was like.
‘You’ve been here every day this week. Working hard, I guess?’
He glanced up at her. So she had been checking up on him.
She blushed. ‘Not a lot of people our age in here. You stand out.’
‘Are you from Stillwater?’ he asked, mostly to break the awkward silence.
‘Born and raised.’ She didn’t seem too thrilled by the fact.
‘Maybe you can help me out then. I could use some local insight. You know, where do the kids hang out – that sort of thing.’
‘Sure, I’d love to.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, Tuesday nights we close early. You wouldn’t want to grab a bite to eat later, would you? Savoy isn’t half bad. It’s just a few doors down. I could give you the rundown over dinner.’
He glanced back at the microfilm machine, thinking of all those articles he’d yet to search, then looked over at her shiny red lips curled up into a half-smile. He was tempted to go, he had to admit.
But that’s what a lesser man would do. Someone without a mission. It might not seem like it, but he knew he was getting closer. He felt it. He couldn’t stop now, not even for a minute.
‘Maybe next week?’ He started gathering up the pages he’d printed out. ‘I’m close to a breakthrough and I’ll probably have to work all night tonight.’ Just like most nights.
‘All night, huh? Your dedication is admirable. It must be awfully important.’ She pointed to the boxes. ‘Do you think it’s a serial killer? That always happens, right? Like, the guy was in jail for twenty years and then when he gets out the same kind of murders start happening again.’ She shivered, playing it up. ‘There’s not a serial killer around here, is there? If that’s the case, you should definitely walk me home.’ She grinned.
‘I think you’re probably pretty safe.’ He smiled back. ‘Really though, I have to get through this.’ He pointed to the stack of papers. ‘I’ve been working on this for a long time and I finally have a lead.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be here in Stillwater for a while?’
‘Maybe. I’m searching for a man and a woman who passed through this town twenty years ago. That’s going to take some digging. I don’t know where they went from here. Disappeared without a trace.’
She shrugged.
‘Oh, you’ll find them. People don’t really disappear without a trace. You should know that, officer. Humans leave their marks on things. You just have to look . . .’ She rolled her chair toward him until their knees were touching. He could smell her floral scent. ‘Really. Close. Up.’
He pulled back. Now he was the one blushing.
‘Bye for now,’ she said, standing up. ‘Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. And be sure to put that microfilm in the return tray, will you? The yellow one, by the copier.’ She smiled.
Slightly dazed, he watched her sashay away from him, thinking only, ‘She’s right. I just have to look harder.’
CHAPTER 3
Cora hauled a black garbage bag out of the pantry and went back to the kitchen. One by one, she withdrew the contents and carefully placed each item on the rickety wooden table. James had done well to collect her belongings.
There they were: the tiny black T-shirt and dark skinny jeans, the light brown leather jacket, size two, brand new hi-top sneakers, size seven and a half. Cora didn’t bother folding anything, but she paused to stroke the smooth leather on top of the pile.
She dug around in the bottom of the bag again, fished out a smashed iPhone, and laid it next to the clothes, then took out a heavy black case and balanced it on its edge as she unzipped it. Hanging from a metal beaded chain was a silver medallion in the shape of a heart. She unclasped it and slipped it into her pocket. There couldn’t be any harm in keeping such a small thing.
She lifted the slim computer out of its snug padded compartment. She’d never held such a beautiful object. What must it have cost? Rubbing her flattened palm across its cold surface, she imagined that it belonged to her and felt the envy flare up inside. She must keep her mind clean as James had taught her, must focus on her duty. Yes, she must take heart, be strong and purposeful. She would reap her rewards.
She flipped it open and ran her fingers across the keyboard. Even this had to go. It was part of the plan.
Under the front flap of the computer case was a shimmering pink wallet, jammed with credit cards and worn receipts. Cora unsnapped it, pulled the cash out of the fold, and counted. Nearly thirty dollars. She tucked the bills into her dress pocket. Perhaps James hadn’t bothered to check it. She’d store it in her cash box until he asked for it and maybe he never would. He didn’t understand the household expenses.
She sighed again, more deeply this time, and lined up the girl’s effects in a neat row, her fingers tickling over each one. From the drawer by the sink, she withdrew her latex gloves, slid them on, and took out a clean towel to wipe everything down.
When she had finished, she opened the garbage bag and threw everything back in, then lugged it out into the yard behind the barn. The skies were mostly blue, but storm clouds were brewing off to the west. She’d better get this job done before the rain came. Leaning the bag against the wall, she built a fire in the pit a few feet away and soon enough had it roaring.
She took the computer out, set it on the ground, and went to the barn for her safety goggles and a sledgehammer.
It would be good to obliterate this thing she so coveted. Coveting was evil.
The fire grew hot behind her, flickering and spitting out sparks. The wind picked up. She raised the hammer, preparing to throw her whole weight into it, to dash this object of temptation into a thousand pieces and then burn them in the pit with all the rest.
But something stopped her.
She didn’t want to do it.
She took a deep breath. There was no choice, obviously. James had been very clear in his instructions, and there would be hell to pay if she didn’t heed them.
Why was she plagued with these urges to disobey? They were going to get her in trouble.
She put down the sledgehammer and paced a few feet away, glancing over at the boarded-up window of the house. She hated the way it marred the building, like an eye poked out. She bit her lip absentmindedly as she thought hard about what to do.
Walking back to the hammer, she lifted it up a second time. It felt heavier than before.
She swallowed. Then, without thinking – as if her body were not under her complete control – she flung the tool away. It clanged against the side of the tractor, the sound echoing across the valley.
She rushed over to check the damage, terrified that she’d broken something else, but it had only made a tiny dent. James wouldn’t notice such a thing.
She let out her breath with relief.
Everything was fine. It was all fine.
She glanced around as if someone could be watching her, ready to report to James. Moving fast, she shoved the computer back into the garbage bag and bunched up its edges in her hand. Running full tilt, she flung open the kitchen door and flew up the stairs to her bedroom. On her knees in the closet, she pushed aside a heavy clump of camphor-smelling dresses and shoved the bag all the way to the back.
James would never look there.
She sat down on the bed, panting, and slowly lifted her eyes to her reflection in the mirror above the burea
u. She was flushed, shocked by what she’d done. She’d never disobeyed him so directly before.
But she had to have these things, these treasures from a different world. She knew it was a sin to keep them, but it seemed so insignificant. As long as no one ever found them.
Especially not James.
CHAPTER 4
Julie adapted quickly to the routines of captivity. Initially, she’d considered her abduction to be an event, a single dot, a point in time and space. Not a new life.
Luckily, she’d always been a fast learner.
Her room – that’s how she thought of it now – held a single bed with a lumpy mattress rank with sweat and other unthinkable bodily fluids. They’d left her with a sad little excuse for a blanket, an old matted fleece thing with the image of Winnie-the-Pooh spread across it.
There was old Pooh, sitting there innocently with a dopey grin on his face, his hand dipping into the honey pot on his lap. Julie had spent endless hours looking at that sweet, dim-witted bear, imagining the taste of honey on her tongue. She would cry, remembering her mother reading A. A. Milne to her at bedtime when she was six. Some days, however, the memory hurt too much and she only wanted to shred his adorable face into a million tiny threads.
Truth be told though, she talked to him. He was the only friend she had anymore and at some level she was thankful he was there. He didn’t hurt her. He didn’t call her terrible names. He didn’t starve her and then feed her revolting inedible garbage.
Julie knew it wasn’t his fault, but he smelled too, just as bad as the mattress, and no matter what she did she couldn’t scrape that last bit of flaky detritus off his face. Nevertheless, she’d curl up in a corner of the bed and stroke his cheery little face, hugging it to her, looking for solace, commiseration, love. Any poor pittance.
This room, the only space she’d laid eyes on for weeks, was entirely devoid of warmth, a stark white cube either flooded with the harsh bright light of the uncovered bulb or enveloped in total darkness. The top edge of each wall was covered in arcane symbols crudely painted in black, with a row of crazy text beneath them: ‘Behold the death-keeper.’ ‘The impure shall be purified in blood.’ ‘Those who question must sacrifice.’ She avoided looking at them now, but the words already ran on repeat in her brain.
Shoved against one wall was a blond wood console from a million years ago, with a built-in radio and gray bulbous television screen. It taunted her with the prospect of diversion, but didn’t work.
Her only distraction was attempting to detect the subtlest noises in that house, to identify and categorize them, so she could anticipate to some degree the arrival of food, water, or pain. Her senses were heightened from deprivation, and every smell and sound provided a coordinate, a detail, a piece of the puzzle of life down below. She’d learned to interpret the particular language of the building itself, the irregular clank of the radiators, the sudden rush of water through pipes above her head, the creak of rusty door hinges, the slam of cupboards.
She knew at all times who was home and exactly where they were located below her. She’d memorized their daily routines and their repertoire of tics and gestures. He cleared his throat out of habit and groaned when he yawned; she was clumsy, dropping the silverware, her toothbrush, the bucket she was filling in the sink. She heard his wild rages and her muffled cries when he let them out on her. This small mastery over their physical dimensions was her survival map, her only power over them. But it earned her very little.
Nothing in her stifling cell of a bedroom could help her either. In one corner, a couple of cheap plastic lawn chairs were stacked haphazardly. Julie had assessed that neither of them was heavy enough to do any damage to his skull. In the opposite corner, there was a portable toilet and sink, though she’d learned her lesson about drinking the fetid brown water that flowed from the faucet. She’d examined every inch of them, hoping for some pipe or wire she could pull off to stab into his beady eyes. Not one bolt was loose, not one hinge needed oil. He’d been so very careful.
What she missed most were light and fresh air. The space shriveled up on her day after day, the walls appearing at times to undulate before her, closing in tighter and tighter. Yet her captors had threatened her with death if she tried to break off a single fragment of the rough-sawn boards over the window. She believed them. She was fungible. He’d gotten her easily enough, hadn’t he? She was terrified to be here, but even more terrified at the thought of being discarded and replaced.
It didn’t matter what they said though, she spent hours trying to pry off bits of wood. Her nails bore the evidence, broken down to the quick. The pads of her fingertips were rubbed raw and her hands were covered with splinters, the tiny prickles edged in burning red flesh. Some days she hardly noticed it and on others she berated herself for her stupidity. She couldn’t afford to have an infection. That was no way to die. She didn’t want to make it that easy for them to kill her when he was finished with her.
Eventually, she gave up trying to claw her way out and would spend the days lying there listlessly on the bed, half-covered with the grimy blanket, staring at the cracks in the thick layers of paint, thinking about how she’d had everything before this had happened. It was funny how she hadn’t realized it until now. Her perfect family, perfect boyfriend, perfect tiny West Village apartment. Perfect, perfect, perfect. And these gruesome lowlifes – these nobodies she wouldn’t have even noticed on the street – had been able to steal it from her. Just. Like. That.
The first few days in there she’d thought they’d never get away with it. Then she’d been convinced that the police would bust in at any moment. She’d known it. As awful as it was, she just had to have faith and wait it out until her parents found her. They always took care of her. Surely they would notice that one of the three men on the construction job didn’t show up after she disappeared. They would realize that couldn’t be a coincidence, that he was her abductor.
It was killing her to know that her parents were so physically close to the key to finding her. His fingerprints must be everywhere, covering the house. Surely he had a police record and they could identify him. Or had he always worn gloves? She’d never noticed, never paid any attention when she’d gone home for the weekend to visit. Those guys worked on Saturdays until two. She would occasionally take lemonade out to them. She was sure he’d taken his gloves off then – check the glassware!
Then the most chilling possibility had occurred to her: maybe he did keep showing up. What if he was there, in those first days after she was gone, finishing the build out on her parents’ new three-season room, wondering when they would discover she was missing? Then he could peer through those freshly installed Marvin windows to see their most private pain. He must have felt so powerful, in charge, as though he were the puppet master, watching the results of his actions play out in horrible order, just as he’d planned.
But she tried not to think about her parents. She knew how they’d be suffering and she couldn’t bear that on top of everything else. They must have found her phone, must be organizing search parties and making heartfelt pleas on the news. Her mother would never let anyone rest until they found her. But what if they never did?
She closed her eyes as tight as she could. She couldn’t focus on that now, because the truth was she’d been reduced to a near-animal state, worrying more about how to wrangle food out of these beasts than anything else. So here she was, on day thirty-eight, lying on the bed wallowing in her misery, when she heard the familiar step on the stairs.
She would have recognized the rhythm of her walk even if she hadn’t been the only one around for the last week. The sad truth was, Julie was eager to see her today. Even if she was a pathetic excuse for a human being, she was at least a human being. And she wasn’t him. Better to see her than be locked up alone surrounded by these four walls for yet another twenty-four-hour stretch. Better than just having Pooh.
Julie watched the door as she counted off her usual fifteen steps up the s
tairs and six light footfalls down the carpeted hall. The door creaked open on cue and she entered carrying the tray with Julie’s meager rations for the day.
Julie knew the drill. She sat perfectly still on the bed with her hands up in the air and her legs crossed at the ankles, just as they’d instructed. She knew now that if she made one tiny mistake, veered from the ritual one iota, all sustenance would be swiftly removed and she’d have the rest of that day to reflect on her disobedience.
As the woman put today’s paltry provisions down on the floor in front of her, Julie’s salivary glands came alive. It didn’t matter what was on that plate. The first few days she’d been disgusted by the slop they fed her, but now she found it disgusting only in theory. Her body responded otherwise.
The woman twitched her finger up, the signal to begin, and Julie dove first for the paper cup. She knew she shouldn’t drink it all at once, but she couldn’t help it. The days of the automatic gallon jug had ended when she’d attempted to escape after her first week there. Now she had to earn it with absolute compliance and she usually managed to fall short.
When she’d gulped down the water, she lunged at the bowl, shoving the scraps into her mouth with her fingers. She couldn’t help it, didn’t care how it looked. Decorum was the least of her concerns. When she’d devoured the last morsel, she scraped at the microscopic bits of bread and the glistening smear of chicken fat at the bottom of the dish. She was still ravenous but at least she wouldn’t die.
The woman moved forward in that bored rote way of hers to clear away the things and go, but Julie couldn’t stand to be left alone again so quickly. She would do anything to stop her.
‘Request permission to speak,’ she said meekly, eyes downcast as per the required protocol.
The woman put her hands on her hips and stared at her stupidly.