Before She Was Found

by Heather Gudenkauf

  Kevin looks down at him, startled. “Jesus, you scared me. What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Jordyn,” Thomas says, his voice cracking. “Is Jordyn here?”

  “She’s in the back,” Kevin says, hitching a thumb toward the kitchen. “Why?”

  “Jordyn,” Thomas calls, brushing past Kevin. “Get out here.”

  “Jeez, what?” Jordyn rounds the corner in exasperation and halts at the sight of her grandfather’s angry face. She’s dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, flip-flops and a T-shirt as if she’s just rolled out of bed. “What did I do now?”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Thomas says, hands on hips.

  Jordyn looks him directly in the eye and lifts and drops her shoulders and as if daring him to contradict her says, “I have no idea.”

  Thomas wants to shake the defiance from her face. He wishes that Tess were here. She’d know what to do and say. She would go to their granddaughter, pull her into a hug and Jordyn would apologize for making them worry. But Tess isn’t here and Kevin has returned to scrubbing the bar, earbuds placed firmly back in place. It’s just the two of them.

  “The police are looking for you,” Thomas says. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Cora’s house?”

  “The police?” Jordyn asks, the confidence draining from her voice.

  “Yes, the police. They’re on their way over here right now. What’s going on, Jordyn?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!” Jordyn exclaims, looking panicked, eyes brimming with tears. Thomas almost believes her.

  There’s a tap on the door and both Thomas and Jordyn look over to find Officer Bree Wilson looking in at them. Curious, Kevin pulls his earbuds away from his ears. A freckle-faced redhead, Bree comes into the bar every so often with a booming laugh and a fondness for Bushmills Irish Buck. Thomas beckons her in and the door squeaks open as she enters.

  “Morning,” Officer Wilson says. “Glad to see you home safe and sound, Jordyn.” To Thomas she says, “We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Tom, and I think that Jordyn might be able to help us out.”

  Thomas’s relationship with the Pitch Police Department is made up of equal parts irritation and respect. Though the local cops tend to be hypervigilant in pulling his patrons over and running them through sobriety tests, Thomas had to admit that every time he called and asked for assistance with the occasional bar fight, they came right over. “We’ll do whatever we can to help. What’s going on?”

  “We’re just at the beginning of the investigation so I don’t have much to tell you, but there appears to have been some kind of incident early this morning and there were some injuries.”

  “Injuries?” Jordyn asks, gnawing on her thumbnail.

  “I’m afraid so,” Officer Wilson says.

  “Cora?” Jordyn asks. “How bad?”

  “Do you know something, Jordyn?” Officer Wilson asks. “If you do it’s very important you tell me right now. One girl was beaten and the other one is in shock. Someone attacked them, Jordyn, and we need to find out what happened.”

  Jordyn shakes her head and inches back toward her grandfather. “I don’t know anything.”

  “But you’re okay? Not hurt?” the officer asks and Jordyn nods. “You were with Violet Crow and Cora Landry last night?”

  “Yes,” Jordyn says in a hushed voice. “Are they going to die?” Thomas finds this question jarring, odd for a twelve-year-old, and he wants to shush her. Instead he puts a hand on her shoulder and Jordyn gives him a dirty look.

  Officer Wilson rubs her fingers across her lips as if she might find the right words there. “They’re in good hands,” she finally says. “But we need your help now, Jordyn. Can you answer a few questions for me?”

  When Jordyn doesn’t answer, Thomas responds. “Of course she’ll answer your questions, won’t you, Jordyn?”

  Officer Wilson walks slowly toward Jordyn much like someone approaching an injured animal. “Take a seat, Jordyn,” Officer Wilson says and they situate themselves on round stools in front of the bar. “What time did you last see Cora and Violet?” Her voice is gentle, warm.

  “I don’t know. It was late,” Jordyn says.

  “Late last night?” she asks in a soothing voice.

  “Yeah, I wanted to come home.”

  “You left? Can you remember what time?”

  “I don’t know, late. After midnight,” Jordyn says, her eyes fixed to the floor.

  “You walked home all the way from Cora’s house?” Thomas asks his granddaughter. “That’s almost two miles away. Why?” His voice is sharp. Lately, Jordyn has been a mystery to him, with more sass than he’s equipped to handle.

  “I just wanted to come home.” Jordyn’s eyes fill with tears. She lays her forehead on the bar top. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “She came over about thirty minutes ago,” Kevin pipes up from behind the bar. “Said you were out of milk and cereal at the house and was going to eat breakfast here.”

  Officer Wilson pauses, waiting for Jordyn’s crying to stop. When it doesn’t she sighs and gets to her feet. “Why don’t you and your grandpa come to the station and we’ll talk more, Jordyn. We could really use your help. There’s a bad person out there who hurt your friends. Anything you can tell us might help us catch him. Okay?” Jordyn peeks up and sniffles and nods.

  “Go wash your face, Jordyn,” Thomas says, “then we’ll go down to the station. Okay?”

  “But I don’t know anything.” Jordyn wipes her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell the truth,” Thomas tells her. “The police will decide whether or not it’s important.”

  The three adults watch as Jordyn slouches off to the bathroom. “Jesus,” Kevin says when she’s out of earshot. “What happened to those kids?”

  “I’m not sure,” Officer Wilson says, “but there was a hell of a lot of blood. When we got there the Landry girl was being loaded into an ambulance. She looked really, really bad. The other girl emerged a few minutes later covered in blood. They put her in a police car and took her to the hospital, too.”

  “Jim Landry runs the Appliance Barn, doesn’t he?” Kevin asks.

  “Yeah, the mom works at the elementary school. Nice people,” Thomas says. “This happened at their house?”

  “No, down by the old depot,” Officer Wilson says.

  “The depot?” Thomas asks in surprise. “What were they doing by the railroad tracks so late at night?”

  “A lady walking her dog found the Landry girl and called for help.” Officer Wilson shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Jordyn comes out of the bathroom. Her face is splotchy, eyes red.

  “I’ll meet you and Jordyn at the station in an hour,” Officer Wilson says and Jordyn’s eyes fill again with tears.

  “I don’t want to—” she begins but Officer Wilson stops her.

  “This isn’t a request, Jordyn. Someone messed those girls up pretty bad,” she says and moves toward the exit. “See you soon.”

  “Come on, Jordyn,” Thomas says. “You need to get dressed and then we’ll head over to the station. You got things covered here, Kevin?”

  Kevin assures them that he’s got things under control and Thomas and Jordyn walk next door in silence. Once inside Jordyn runs up the stairs to her bedroom. The smell of freshly brewed coffee beckons, and Thomas, aching for the rush of caffeine, lifts the carafe too quickly, sending searing liquid down the front of his shirt. Cursing, he quickly sheds the soaked shirt, makes his way to their small laundry room and tosses it in the basket overflowing with dirty clothes. Ever since Tess has been in the hospital the daily chores of laundry, dusting and sweeping have gotten away from him.

  Thomas pulls a wrinkled but clean plaid shirt from the dryer. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to press his
own clothes—he did—but Tess always said she didn’t mind and he had gotten spoiled that way. Thomas looks at his watch. There was no time for ironing right now; Officer Wilson was expecting them soon. He pulls on the rumpled shirt and tries to smooth out the creases with his fingers.

  A pair of Jordyn’s tennis shoes and her jacket are lying in a jumble next to the stacked washer and dryer. No matter how many times Thomas reminds Jordyn to pick up after herself it just doesn’t seem to stick. He has resorted to piling all of Jordyn’s scattered belongings into a laundry basket and dumping them onto her bed, thinking they will be impossible for Jordyn to ignore.

  No such luck. With a sigh he reaches down and retrieves the jacket, a light blue fleece that cost about fifty dollars more than it should have. To think that even in the dinky town of Pitch labels matter. Thomas finds it ridiculous, but Tess says that it’s important for Jordyn to fit in, especially with not having her mom and dad around.

  Thomas drops the jacket and tennis shoes into a laundry basket filled with more of Jordyn’s wayward possessions when a dark stain on the sleeve of the fleece catches his eye. He fishes it from the pile and examines the three-inch splotch on the cuff. His first thought is that chocolate is a bear to get out of fabric but this stain is more red than brown. He lifts it to his nose and instead of a sweet sugary scent his nose is met with the smell of copper.

  He scratches at it experimentally and a rusty patina is left behind on his fingertip. Blood. Thomas searches for any other drops of blood on the jacket but it only seems to be in that one spot, just below where the palm of the hand meets the wrist. Jordyn didn’t say anything about getting hurt, didn’t complain of a recent injury. There wasn’t a lot of blood. Barely enough to mention. But still. He thinks of Cora Landry lying in a hospital bed with her terrible injuries.

  Thomas turns away from the basket filled with Jordyn’s shoes, a hairbrush, a pair of socks, a soccer ball and an array of books and magazines and carries the jacket to the sink and turns on the cold water. He reaches into the cupboard for a stain stick and plastic jug of ammonia. It would be a shame, he thinks, scrubbing vigorously at the stubborn spot, if the jacket ended up being ruined.

  Dr. Madeline Gideon

  September 14, 2018

  I got the call about Cora Landry last April. I had rushed into my office to check my messages and to catch up on some paperwork before my next appointment. I had four voice mails. One from the parent of a patient hoping to reschedule their session, two from pharmaceutical reps and one from a fellow doctor at the hospital—Leo Soto, an ER doc with a smooth, timbered voice and a soothing bedside manner. He wanted me to stop down if I had time. A young girl had been brought in by ambulance early that morning with stab wounds. She was heading into surgery soon to repair the wounds from an attack. Extensive reconstructive work to her face was expected.

  Due to the violent attack, Dr. Soto anticipated a need for psychological support for the girl and her family. I remember looking at my watch. I was buried beneath paperwork and my next appointment was due to arrive shortly. It sounded like an interesting case.

  After getting the call from Dr. Soto, I made my way through the hospital’s maze of corridors and skywalks that admitted over twenty thousand patients per year and had more than thirty thousand ER visits. I was only one of about seven hundred physicians employed by the hospital but I loved the bustle, brainpower and the diversity the hospital had to offer. Plus, as a divorcee with no children it housed the only family I have left in the world. To get from the psychiatric tower to the emergency department I took an elevator down three floors and walked what felt like a mile.

  “Thank you for coming down, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said, greeting me. He was tall and slender. A dark-skinned man, with neatly trimmed silver hair and a matching mustache. At six-feet tall he and I, in my one-inch heels, were the same height. “I’ll take you to see Cora and her parents,” he said. “Cora is heavily sedated right now but if you can just say a few words to the mother and father about the resources available to them, I know it will be helpful.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. Once assessed, each patient in the emergency room has a private room that shields them from the craziness of the ER. Behind the sliding Plexiglas door was a preteen girl lying in the hospital bed. Her facial wounds were hidden beneath swaths of gauze, but even so, I could see that significant damage had been done.

  “We didn’t dare try to stitch her up,” Dr. Soto told me. “If there ever is a case for a plastic surgeon, this is it. All we are doing at this point is treating her collapsed lung and giving her antibiotics. My biggest concern is saving her left eye. They’ll be taking her to surgery momentarily. Frankly, I’m very worried about the parents. The mother is understandably distraught but the father is incredibly angry.” Dr. Soto paused as if hesitating to speak further.

  “Anger is understandable,” I said, feeling like a voyeur. Through the glass door, the mother sat next to the bedside holding her daughter’s hand, weeping. The father stood with his back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. Not a tall man, he was broad-chested, powerfully built and looked ready to leap from his skin.

  “Do they know who did this to her yet?” I asked and Dr. Soto shook his head. “Are the parents suspects?” I hated to ask, but had to. I’d seen too many children hurt in too many ways to count by the people who are supposed to love them most in the world. Dr. Soto didn’t know. Didn’t know much more than the little girl had been viciously attacked.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go find out if and how I can help.”

  Case #92-10945

  Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry

  Oct. 31, 2017

  In social studies class Mr. Dover assigned us a really cool project. At first I thought he was going to tell us we were going to have to write the same old Halloween essay like we do every year. Instead of writing about our favorite candy or the best costume ever, Mr. Dover is having us work with partners on a research project.

  He came into the classroom yesterday dressed as some guy from the olden times. He had on a white shirt and vest, these short pants, long socks and shoes with buckles on them. He even had on one of those hats they wore back during Colonial times. Mr. Dover carried a lantern and a silver cup. By now we all knew that he wasn’t going to just tell us what he was up to, so after we stopped laughing Andrew shouted, “Hey, it’s George Washington.” And Gabe said, “No, it’s Alexander Hamilton!” and then started rapping a song from the musical.

  Jordyn laughed real loud like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She and Gabe were going out last year but he must have figured out what Jordyn is really like because now Gabe pretty much ignores her. Gabe is one of those guys who can get away with acting like a show-off. All the kids think he’s cool because he plays baseball and can play three different instruments and sing. He also always wears one of those old-fashioned hats with the brim around it, which manages to look cool on him. If anyone else wore it they’d just look stupid. Plus, he’s cute. The teachers like him because he knows when to stop.

  And Gabe did stop singing as soon as Mr. Dover raised his eyebrows at him. “Right century,” Mr. Dover said once it was quiet. “Let me give you another hint.” He set the lantern on top of his desk, put one leg up on a chair and in a deep voice said, “Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of...” and we all shouted, “Paul Revere!”

  Mr. Dover talked about how that poem was written nearly one hundred years after the actual ride and the ride wasn’t all that big of a deal. Mr. Dover likes to talk so it took him about half the class period to get to the point. We talked about all the fake news that went on throughout the last presidential election and that it was important to know what was true and what wasn’t.

  Two minutes before the bell rang he gave us the assignment. We have to do a group research project about an urban legend—what
’s real about it and what’s made up. Then we have to get up in front of the class and give a presentation about what we learned.

  I wanted to throw up when I heard the details of the assignment. I don’t mind working in a group but there is nothing I hate more than getting up in front of the class and having to talk. I loathe it. My face turns bright red and my voice shakes. It makes me sick just thinking about it.

  In middle school, there are three ways we get put into groups: the teacher picks, you number off or first-come-first-serve where we get to pick our own partners. I hoped Mr. Dover would pick for us—it was less stressful that way—but just before the bell rang he said in this old-fashioned voice: “Chooseth thy partn’r, mine own scholars.”

  Luckily I caught on to what he was saying and right away turned to Violet and asked her if she wanted to be my partner and she said yes! When Mr. Dover assigns projects it isn’t just some one-or two-day thing; they usually last weeks, so it will be good to not have to worry about picking partners for a while.

  I looked over at Jordyn and she was whispering in Deanna’s ear and they were staring at us. I know they’re talking about me and Violet but for once I don’t care. Violet’s my partner and I think she’s going to be really nice. Usually I do whatever I can not to get on Jordyn’s radar. She somehow always makes me feel like an idiot. I’ll have to make sure to tell Violet to stay away from her. You just can’t trust her.

  When we were in fourth grade Jordyn invited all the girls in the class to her birthday overnight except for me. My mom went insane and called Jordyn’s grandma, who said it must have been a mistake and drove over to our house and made Jordyn deliver the invitation in person. It was MORTIFYING! Jordyn looked like she wanted to vomit and I wanted to disappear. I was sick the day of the party and couldn’t go, anyway, which was just fine with me and with Jordyn, too, I’m sure.