Emily, Gone

by Bette Lee Crosby

  On the trip from Wynne Bluffs she’d tried to create a story of those horrors, but her thoughts of Murphy were always as she’d known him: concerned, loving, promising all he could give. When she tried to imagine him otherwise, the words felt bitter in her mouth, and they came out sounding broken. He was the one thing she couldn’t re-create, so she said very little. On the rare occasion when there was cause to mention his name, she tried to refer to him only as Russ, no last name. But old habits died hard, and on three different occasions the name Murph was out of her mouth before she had time to stop it. Each time she’d chastised herself and made a mental note to avoid use of it in the future. She’d severed the connection, left no trail. For Lara’s sake, it had to remain that way.

  On afternoons when she and Angela were together, Vicki could convince herself she was happy. She had Lara, and that was enough. But at night, when the room was dark and the only sound was that of her heartbeat, loneliness overwhelmed her.

  She couldn’t rid herself of the thoughts of Murphy.

  Hour after hour she’d lie there, remembering the times they’d slept curled together, his chest pressed to her back, his hand holding hers. When the memories became so real that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, there was no way to escape them. She tried to recall him giving her an ultimatum, but that picture wouldn’t come. Somehow the harshness of his words had been forgotten, and she could remember only the gentleness of his touch.

  When the ache of missing him became more than she could bear, she lifted Lara from her crib and brought her into the bed. The warmth of having the baby sleep beside her as she had in the early days quieted the memories for a while, but they inevitably returned. On those nights when not even the tiny heartbeat alongside her own was enough, she buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sound of sobs.

  She had come to the crossroad of life and chosen her path; now she could do nothing but live with it. The loss of the first baby, the finding of this one, and the heartache of staying away from the only man she’d ever loved were three ugly secrets she would carry to her grave.

  A TIME TO MOURN

  After Sheriff Wilson told Rachel that each passing day lessened the likelihood of finding Emily, she began to mark the days off. Every morning she’d look at the grocery store calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, stand there for several minutes, then scratch a big black X through the preceding day. Touching her finger to the current one, she’d say yet another prayer that this would be the day of Emily’s return.

  On the last day of September, she folded back the page, gave a mournful sigh, and turned to George. “It’s been forty-two days.”

  He looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading. “I know.”

  “Do you really? I’ve never once seen you look at this calendar and count the days.”

  “I’m a man who keeps his own counsel, Rachel. I do it differently. I measure the time in my heart. You may not realize it, but I miss Emily just as you do.”

  “Miss her?” Rachel said cynically. “I don’t just miss her. I fear for her, so much so that I can think of nothing else. Every waking minute I worry about if she is being fed and cared for! The fear I feel is like some strange monster swallowing up my insides. It grows bigger and fiercer every day. I go to bed frightened, wake up frightened. My breasts have turned dry and useless and my heart empty of everything but this fear.”

  With eyes narrowed and chest heaving, Rachel glared at him for a moment, then turned away and acidly asked, “Can you say the same, George?”

  He set aside the newspaper, stood, and crossed over to her. Although she stood with her back to him, he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward, his head touching hers.

  “I worry about Emily as much as you do,” he said, “but fear will not bring her home. Instead of giving in to it, I do what I can to find her. I keep pushing ahead and try to hold on to the belief that we will one day get her back.”

  Rachel broke free, then turned and looked at him curiously. “What exactly do you do?”

  “I’ve been running ads in the Atlanta Constitution and working with Sheriff Wilson. Last week we ordered twenty thousand more posters. Soon Emily’s picture will be all over Alabama, Tennessee, and Kentucky. Plus, the Main Street merchant’s group has raised another five thousand for the reward fund and—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  George scrubbed his hand across his forehead. “I thought I was sparing you.”

  “Sparing me from what?”

  “More disappointment. Another letdown.”

  As he spoke, Rachel could see something she’d missed before; it was the look of weariness that circled his eyes and gave his skin a ghostly pallor.

  He hesitated a moment, as if he were considering the fallout of a thought before he gave it voice, then turned his head so his eyes were looking directly into hers and continued. “I have no way of knowing whether these things will work or not. That’s why I’ve kept it to myself.”

  For the remainder of that week and into the next, Rachel’s hopes were buoyed, but when October gave way to November, that hope faded.

  The week before Thanksgiving, a cold front rolled down from Canada and brought with it a wind that howled through the night and well into the next day. Mama Dixon’s car refused to start that morning, so she was stranded at home, and Rachel spent the day alone.

  For most of the afternoon Rachel stood on the back porch watching the leaves of the red maple tear loose from the tree and blow away. As each leaf was carried off by the wind, she counted it as a loss, a thing to be mourned. In the tree she saw herself, a mother rooted to the spot, standing bare after the child she’d borne had been ripped away.

  In time, the sky grew dark and the rain began. It came in spurts, starting as a drizzle, then in sheets so heavy she could barely see the shadowy pines across the yard.

  George arrived home shortly after the rain started. With the house silent and no sign of life, he assumed Rachel was napping. He sat for a while, watched the evening news, then turned off the television and went to check on her. When he found she was not in the bedroom, he looked in the nursery. The room was as it had been ever since the night Emily was taken, and the rocking chair sat empty.

  “Rachel,” he called, then started through the house in search of her. From the kitchen window he saw the dreary figure standing on the back porch. With a thin gray sweater pulled tight around her shoulders, she at first seemed one with the rain, but when he opened the door and called her name, she turned.

  “It’s so sad,” she said. “The leaves of the maple are gone.”

  Hurrying across, George wrapped his arm around her waist and eased her back toward the door. “It’s too cold to be standing out here; your clothes are soaked.”

  She looked up at him, her face wet with a mix of rain and tears. “It’s this place, George,” she said. “They took Emmy because of this place. They took her on a night like this, when it was raining and dark. Standing out there I could almost see the way it happened. A man came from behind the pine trees; he crossed the yard and carried her off.”

  George took her icy-cold hand in his and said, “That’s not what happened. The sheriff is certain it was a woman. A fairly small woman. He knows by the size of the shoe print and the depth of the impression it made in the mud. And he’s reasonably sure she came from a car pulled over on the side of the road.”

  “But I saw—”

  “No, Rachel, you imagined. Now let’s get you out of these wet clothes and into something dry.”

  Later that evening, after they’d reheated part of a leftover casserole and he’d fixed her a mug of tea laced with brandy, they sat side by side on the sofa and talked.

  “It’s true this place is isolated and probably too far from town,” he said. “Two years ago we thought it was perfect, but maybe it’s time for us to make a change. We can sell this house, find a place closer to the store . . .”

  Rachel s
et her mug on the coffee table and turned to him. “Part of me wants to leave here and get away from the memory of that terrible night, but a bigger part of me knows I need to stay, because here in this house I can hold on to the memory of Emily. I can still catch the smell of her, hear the bubble of her laughter, sit in the rocking chair and imagine her in my arms. I’ll lose those things if we move away. This is our home, George, and when Emily returns, I believe this is the home she’ll return to.”

  THE HARD TRUTH

  For the first few weeks after Vicki left, Murphy believed she’d be back. Regardless of how thin the rationale was, he found reasons to cling to his belief. She’d left most of her clothes behind. She’d taken only fifty dollars. If she was never coming back, she would have taken it all, wouldn’t she?

  Assuming she was no longer drinking or doing drugs, he thought there was a possibility she’d come to her senses, had a change of heart maybe, and set off to return the baby. When that thought came to mind, deep furrows settled across his forehead and his heart beat faster. Sure, he’d been in favor of doing exactly that, but he doubted Vicki was clever enough to pull it off. Even on a good day she was filled with scatterbrained ideas; her taking the baby was proof enough.

  He thought about that night, remembering how she’d simply walked into the house and walked out with the baby. If she was foolish enough to do that, she just might be gullible enough to believe she could return the kid the same way. Then she’d be arrested; he was certain of it.

  During the day Murphy went to work, and the busyness of waiting on customers enabled him to push back those thoughts of her, but at night when he sat in front of the television and watched the flickering screen, his mind drifted. He pictured her in handcuffs, taken off to jail, unable to send word of where she was or what had happened.

  News of the kidnapping hadn’t made the newspapers there in Kentucky, so it was unlikely that news of the kidnapper being caught would either. If Vicki had been arrested, he’d have no way of knowing. After what seemed like endless nights of worrying, he decided to drive back to Georgia and sniff around. He wouldn’t risk going back to Hesterville, but he could drive through Weston, the next town over, and grab a local paper. If there was any news at all, that’s where he’d find it.

  That Saturday, Murphy left Wynne Bluffs long before the sky turned light. He stopped only once to fill the gas tank and grab a container of coffee. Driving straight through, he’d be there in the early afternoon. That would give him time to get a newspaper, maybe have lunch, keep an ear open for local gossip, and be back on the road before sunset to head for home.

  By the time Murphy arrived in Weston the plan was set in his mind, and everything was moving along just as he’d anticipated. Shortly after one he parked the car, found a copy of the Primrose Post at the drugstore, then crossed over to the luncheonette, sat at the counter, and ordered coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

  He’d hoped the place would be a bit more crowded, but other than himself the only person at the counter was a big man with a stubble of whiskers. A group of middle-aged women chattered away in a side booth, but they were too far back for him to catch the conversation. He tried to listen for specific words—baby, kidnapper, arrested—but even that was impossible.

  The man turned to him. “You new in town?”

  Taken aback, Murphy sputtered, “Wh-who, me?”

  “There’s nobody else here.” The man chuckled, then leaned toward Murph and offered his hand. “Carl Wilson.”

  “Russ . . .” Murphy caught himself. “Max Russell.”

  “So, Max, you new in town?”

  Murphy shook his head. “Just passing through.” He took a bite out of the sandwich and busied himself with chewing.

  Wilson ordered a refill for his coffee, then turned again. “Where you headed?”

  Long after he could have swallowed the food in his mouth, Murphy kept chewing. He needed to be somebody other than who he was and headed to a place other than Wynne Bluffs, where he’d be returning.

  “Florida,” he finally said, “to do some fishing.”

  “Good fishing down there. Margaret and I spent our honeymoon in a little town called Sea Breeze; that was some thirty years ago.”

  “Nice.” Murphy nodded and bit off another mouthful.

  “Yeah, it was nice,” Wilson mused. “Every morning I’d go fishing and come back with a mess of snook or pompano.”

  Murphy gave a stiff smile, then grabbed the cup and started slurping his coffee. He’d turned away intentionally, hoping Wilson would take the hint, but obviously he hadn’t.

  “You planning to stay on the Gulf or someplace farther south?”

  “No set plans,” Murphy answered, then chomped down on the sandwich.

  He hadn’t counted on talking to anybody and sure as hell didn’t want to be answering a bunch of questions. A rivulet of perspiration trickled down the side of his neck. He eyed the door. Walking out with most of the sandwich still on the plate would mean more questions. Was there something wrong with the food? Can I get you something else?

  No, it would be better to just eat the damn thing and get out of there. He hurriedly took a second bite before he’d finished chewing, but when he tried to swallow, a piece of toast got stuck in his throat. He gagged, but the blasted toast wouldn’t go up or down.

  “You okay?” Wilson asked.

  By then Murphy’s mouth was hanging open and his face was starting to turn red.

  Wilson jumped up and whacked Murphy on the back several times. The chunk of toast came flying out of his mouth and jettisoned across the counter. As Murphy stood there trying to regain his breath, Wilson signaled the waitress.

  “Fran, get this guy a glass of water, will you?”

  “Sure thing, Sheriff,” she answered.

  Murphy was still struggling to catch his breath when Fran set the glass of water in front of him. He grabbed it, tried taking a gulp, and started coughing again.

  “Easy there, Max.” Wilson took the glass from him and set it back on the counter. “You’ve got to learn to slow down, son. Take time to enjoy your meal; don’t be in such a rush.”

  Murphy could feel his shirt growing damper by the second. He’d heard the waitress call Wilson “Sheriff,” so he couldn’t just bolt and run. His stomach rolled over, and the stink of fear was rising up from his armpits.

  Wilson noticed but figured that kind of fear to be the aftermath of almost choking. “Relax, you’re fine now.” He gave Murphy’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Just take your time and finish up lunch.”

  Murphy now had no choice but to be sociable; anything else would be way too suspicious a behavior. With a pencil-thin smile he stood, pulled two singles from his pocket, and laid them on the counter. “Thanks for helping me out,” he said politely. “I think I’ll wait awhile before trying to eat anything more. That episode kind of killed my appetite.”

  “Probably a good idea.” Wilson gave a friendly nod, then added, “But when you do get around to it, slow down. Eating’s like fishing; you’ve got to relax or you won’t get the full enjoyment of it.”

  “You’re right about that,” Murphy said nervously, then he tucked the newspaper under his arm and scrambled out the door.

  “Coming here was a damn fool idea,” he mumbled as he climbed back into the car. “Stupid, that’s what it was. Flat-out stupid.”

  Being face-to-face with the sheriff had unnerved Murphy, and he now wanted to get as far away from Georgia as possible. He headed for the highway and drove north until the needle on the gas gauge was fluttering past empty. By then he was across the Tennessee border.

  At the gas station he filled the tank and bought a can of Coke. Then he pulled to the side of the lot and sat there reading through the Primrose Post. On page five he found a quarter-page ad with a picture of the baby and a notice saying the reward for information leading to the return of the child was now $15,000. Below Emily’s picture was a line of bold type reading Emily Dixon, taken from her
crib sometime during the night of August 19, 1971. Following that, a short paragraph describing Emily’s blue eyes, blonde hair, and butterfly-shaped birthmark, said the Dixon family desperately wanted their daughter back. If left in a safe place and unharmed, no questions will be asked, the ad read. At the bottom were the phone numbers to call. Listed first was Sheriff Carl Wilson and, on the next line, a number for George Dixon. The thought that he’d been an arm’s length from the sheriff sent a wave of nausea through Murphy’s stomach, and the bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.

  He sat there for a long while studying the ad, reading and rereading the statement by the Dixon family. It was now obvious that Vicki had not returned the baby, but the question was, where had she gone?

  Before leaving the gas station, Murphy tore the ad out of the newspaper, folded it, and stuck it behind the back flap of his wallet. Then he tossed the paper in the trash can and headed back to the highway.

  For several weeks he remained certain Vicki would be back, but in time that certainty gave way to probability. Once the trees became bare of leaves and the early-morning air carried a hint of frost, probability dwindled to a remote possibility.

  On Thanksgiving Day, Murphy sat alone in the apartment eating a turkey sandwich he’d bought at the delicatessen and watching the Nebraska Cornhuskers play the Oklahoma Sooners. It was a tight game, and he was rooting for the Huskers to hang on to their number one spot, but even when Rich Glover made a tackle that caused the stands at Owen Field to erupt in cheers, his thoughts were preoccupied with Vicki.

  He wanted to believe she loved him as much as he did her, but now it seemed almost impossible. She’d been gone nearly two months, and he hadn’t heard from her. No letter, no note left in the mailbox, nothing. He reasoned that even if she were in jail, she could have written.

  That’s when he came to the realization that wherever she was, she wasn’t in need of help. If she had been, she would have written. She’d have held her skinny little arm out and reached for his hand. He knew that’s how Vicki was; she took what she needed and gave little in return. He’d been willing to risk everything to keep her safe, but she couldn’t manage anything more than a scrap of paper saying she was sorry.