Before She Was Found

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “What’s that mean?” I ask, knowing it’s nothing good.

  “Never mind,” Officer Grady says to me. To Wilson he says, “Wait outside.” With a shake of her head Wilson steps from the room and positions herself in the hallway so she can still look inside. Officer Grady briefly releases Violet with one hand and gives the door a push. I can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction as it closes in her face.

  “Okay, Violet,” Officer Grady says. “Easy now. I hear you. Someone who said he was Joseph Wither was there. I believe you. I know you’re scared.”

  Violet tries to pull away from Grady again but realizes it’s futile and slowly she settles down, her tantrum eases and her breathing slows until she is limp in his arms. Once he relaxes his grip I pull her close to me. “It’s okay,” I soothe.

  To Officer Grady I say, “I know you need to talk to her, but you can see how upset she is. She isn’t going to be any help like this. Please let us go home. She can rest and then you can talk to her, I promise. Please,” I beg, my voice trembling.

  “All right,” Officer Grady finally says. I know it kills him to let us go home. He wants to get whatever information he can from Violet. Only she and Cora know what really happened by the train tracks and Violet is the only one in any condition to tell him. “Take Violet home, let her get some sleep. But I do have to talk to her soon. Tonight if possible, tomorrow morning at the latest. Got it?” I nod as I stroke Violet’s hair and she cries noiselessly into my chest. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  The last thing I want to do is get back into a police car, but my car is back at the house so we don’t have another choice. “Thanks,” I say. Officer Grady opens the conference room door and we slowly file out. Officer Wilson has given up her spot by the door and is back at the front desk.

  “I’m taking Ms. Crow and the kids back to their place. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” Officer Grady says and Wilson gives a casual wave of her hand to let him know she’s heard him but keeps her eyes on the stack of paperwork in front of her.

  Once outside, Officer Grady turns to Max. “Stay away from that Phelps boy, understand? He’s nothing but trouble.”

  “I will, no problem,” Max agrees. I hope that Officer Grady’s warning is enough. I’ve tried telling Max that for months. Maybe the way Clint was teasing Violet in the conference room has finally revealed his true colors to Max.

  To me, Officer Grady says, “Listen, I understand we’re dealing with kids here and I’m trying to be sensitive to what Violet has been through, but I’m running an investigation. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I’m trying,” I say, trying to keep the irritation I feel from creeping into my words. “But I have to take care of my children. They’re my top priority.”

  Grady opens the back door of the police car and Cora and Max climb inside. I’m about to join them when he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, and Cora Landry and the safety of everyone in this community is my priority. I’m going to have to ask the hard questions and the sooner I can do that, the faster we’ll catch this guy,” he says. “And I can’t ask Violet these questions unless I have your permission and support.”

  I nod. I know he’s just doing his job. Maybe it’s the small size of the department or that they don’t have a lot of violent crimes to investigate, but so far I’m not impressed.

  “I’ll talk to Violet,” I say wearily. “I know she wants to help Cora, too. She just needs some rest.”

  “Thank you,” Grady says and I get inside the vehicle. Violet and Max are sitting low in their seats, keeping their heads down—Violet, trying to hide her tears, and Max, trying to make himself invisible to anyone passing by who might know him. I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun’s weak warmth—so different from the persistent, unrelenting sunshine back in New Mexico—and for the first time since our car broke down leaving us stranded outside of town, I regret coming to Pitch.

  Case #92-10945

  Conversation dated November 17, 2017,

  via DarkestDoor.com

  JW44:

  I just found your post, Corareef12. I know all about Joseph Wither. People will say he’s just a legend but he’s real. He’s not what they say, though. He’s just lonely. He’s looking for people to be his friend, to travel with him.

  4leafclover:

  Don’t listen to him, Corareef12. He’s full of shit.

  JW44:

  4leafclover, I wasn’t talking to you.

  Corareef12:

  It’s okay, 4leafclover. I want to know.

  4leafclover:

  This is NOT okay!

  JW44:

  Yeah, 4leafclover, she wants to know. Small minds can move along now...

  4leafclover:

  Fine, it’s your funeral. I’m out of here.

  JW44:

  Good! Corareef12, what do you want to know?

  Corareef12:

  I don’t get it...why would he kill them if he wants them to be his friend?

  JW44:

  He kills the ones he doesn’t want, takes the others with him. They don’t die—they live forever. They become his shadows.

  Corareef12:

  But that’s impossible.

  JW44:

  Is it?

  Corareef12:

  Yes! How would you know, anyway?

  JW44:

  Because I’m Wither.

  Text Message Exchange

  Between Clint Phelps Abby Ridgewood and Ryan Maren

  Monday, April 16, 2018

  Clint:

  Wither Lives! Just ask Max

  Abby:

  ?????

  Ryan:

  What happened?

  Clint:

  Kid got stabbed at the train yard. Wither Lives!

  Abby:

  UR full of it

  Clint:

  His sister was there. Said it was Wither. Ha ha

  Ryan:

  No way! Who was the girl?

  Abby:

  Is she okay? Did she die?

  Clint:

  Not yet

  Dr. Madeline Gideon

  September 14, 2018

  I interviewed Mara Landry in one of the family rooms located on the third floor of the children’s hospital. I wanted to talk with Mara privately before I met with Cora but understandably she didn’t want to be too far away from her daughter.

  She settled onto a love seat covered in a striped, industrial-strength fabric made to stand up to the wear and tear of hundreds of worried and grief-stricken parents and visitors. I pulled a chair up and sat down next to her, positioning myself so I could see if anyone was lingering near the door to ensure privacy for our conversation.

  Mara looked somewhat rested compared to when I saw her the evening before. Knowing that Cora’s injuries weren’t life-threatening certainly must have eased her mind. Her blond hair was brushed and tucked smoothly behind her ears and her face was expertly made up. Someone must have brought her a change of clothes. Gone were the paint-splattered yoga pants and sweatshirt. Instead she wore tailored jeans, ballet flats and a long-sleeve black T-shirt.

  During the fifteen minutes that we visited, Mara painted a picture of a happy twelve-year-old who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I took note that Mara didn’t mention any of the anxiety that was noted in Cora’s medical records.

  “Where are the police in their investigation? Have they given you any more information?” I asked.

  “Just bits and pieces,” Mara said. “It’s very frustrating. The officer did say that they didn’t think robbery was the motive. I mean, obviously. Who would rob a twelve-year-old? But then he said that the ER nurses found two hundred dollars in Cora’s pocket. Why in the world would she have that kind of money with her?”

  “What di
d Cora say?” I asked.

  “She said she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.” Mara shook her head. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why were the girls at the train yard?” I asked. “Did you find out what they were doing there?” I asked this question not just out of curiosity, but because it would give me some insight into Cora and her personality. Was she a risk taker? A follower?

  Mara immediately bristled. “I don’t know why they were there, but I’m sure it was Jordyn’s or Violet’s idea,” she said, pressing her lips tightly together in disapproval. “Cora has never really had a best friend before. The closest thing to it moved away last year. Cora had a very difficult time in school last year. One of her classmates ended up being very nasty. The girl treated Cora horribly, but Cora kept putting up with it until I finally called the school and the girl’s parents.”

  Mara sighed. “Maybe I should have let the girls handle it on their own, but I just couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. She’s had a bit of a hard time finding a new group of friends. You know how it is in rural towns.”

  Mara waited for me to agree with her, that yes, I understood the intricate, social rituals unique to towns with populations that hovered below a thousand people. I knew better than to respond. If I agreed with her, then I was passing judgment on the community she calls home. If I disagreed, then I was not validating her experiences.

  “Tell me about Cora’s friends,” I said instead. “The ones who spent the night at your house.”

  “Well, Cora has known Jordyn since kindergarten but they never really played together when they were little. Jordyn’s grandparents run one of the local bars in town. I think my husband went to high school with one of their sons.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I’m wrong about that. Anyway, Cora and Jordyn didn’t hang out until this year. They never had much in common. Cora is reserved, more shy. Jordyn is loud—” Mara frowned “—has to be the center of attention.”

  “And the other girl?” I asked. “Violet?”

  Mara’s hand moved to her ear and she yanked on it nervously. “Violet’s new. Her mom works at the gas station, but Cora and Violet have become very good friends. Violet comes over just about every day after school now. Her mom seems kind of rough but Violet’s no trouble at all. She’s a sweet girl.”

  “So, you’d say that Cora has had a good school year in relation to peers?” I asked.

  “I’d say so,” Mara agreed. “I mean, she is almost a teenager and God knows they are a mystery. But Cora hasn’t mentioned any troubles and I’m sure I would have noticed.”

  “Would you like for me to meet Cora now?” I asked. “Does she know I’ve come to see her?”

  “I told her that another doctor was going to stop in.” Mara stood and folded her arms across her chest as if chilly. “I thought that maybe you could explain what it is you do.”

  “Of course,” I said and followed Mara from the family room, past the nurses’ desk and across the hall to Cora’s room. Mara pushed open the door to reveal a darkened room, lights off, shades closed. The only light came from a muted television set that hung from the wall. A teenage girl sat in the corner.

  In the bed was a diminutive, still shape. “Cora, honey,” Mara said, leaning over her. “Are you awake?”

  If Cora gave a response, I didn’t hear it.

  “The doctor I told you about is here. I’m going to let some light in here so the two of you can talk, okay?” Mara went to the window and adjusted the shades so that the morning sun filtered through the slats, giving the room a hazy glow.

  The left side of Cora’s head was shaved and dozens of stitches punctuated her skull. A heavy bandage covered her left eye and cheek and the skin that was exposed was eggplant purple. Stitches crisscrossed her swollen lips and her left arm was encased in a purple fiberglass cast. It was impossible to know what Cora looked like before the attack. Her features were so distorted that I wondered how the police were able to identify who she was. Perhaps it was the other girl at the scene who gave the emergency workers Cora’s name.

  “Hello there, Cora.” I approached her bedside slowly so as not to startle her. The last thing Cora needed was another stranger converging on her. I came to her right side and positioned myself so that she could see me. “I’m Dr. Gideon.” Cora’s eye, sky blue but dulled by painkillers, blinked languidly up at me.

  “I know you’ve met a lot of doctors since you’ve been here but I’m a different kind of doctor. I’m not here to look at your arm or your other injuries. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of people poking at you, am I right?” Cora gave me a shy nod. “I’m the kind of doctor who listens.”

  “A shrink,” the girl sitting in the corner said.

  “That’s right.” I smiled.

  “Kendall, that’s not polite,” Mara scolded. “This is Cora’s sister, she’s fifteen,” she said as if that explained it all.

  I wondered where Mr. Landry was. Had he stepped out for a bit? It was a Tuesday; perhaps he wasn’t able to get away from work. I made a mental note to look through the paperwork to find out what Jim Landry did for a living.

  “Hello, Kendall, it’s nice to meet you,” I said before turning back to Cora. “Sometimes,” I began, “after people get hurt they have a lot of different kinds of feelings. Scared, mad, confused. Are you feeling any of those things right now?” Cora remained still. “I imagine you may not feel a lot like talking, but I want you to know that when you are ready, I will be here to listen.

  “In the meantime, I brought you a little present.” I reached into my oversize bag and pulled out an array of notebooks and a set of gel pens. “Sometimes the kids I work with find it easier to write or draw about how they are feeling. Do you see a notebook here that you like?”

  Using her uninjured eye, Cora scanned the notebooks that I fanned out on the edge of her bed. I always offered a variety of notebooks for patients to choose from: one that looked like the cover was painted with pale pastel watercolors, a zebra-print, one with a picture of a polar bear and her cub on the front, and one with a plain blue cover. Kendall stood and joined me at the bedside.

  “Oh, look, Cora,” she said as if talking to a much younger child. “There’s one with polar bears. You’d like that one, I bet.”

  “What do you think, Cora?” I asked. “Is that the one you’d like?” Still no response. This wasn’t unusual. Children who experienced violent events were often unwilling, even unable, to express themselves at least initially. “How about this? I’ll leave all of them right here along with the pens and when you’re ready you can choose the one you’d like. You can write down whatever you’d like in the notebook and if you want, we can talk about it when I see you next. What do you think?” Cora nodded.

  “Do you get to read what she writes down?” Kendall asked as if challenging me.

  “Nope, it will be Cora’s private journal. No one is going to read what she’s written. I promise and I know that you will honor Cora’s privacy.” I looked to Mara and Kendall, who both bobbed their heads in agreement.

  “Cora, the only way someone will read your journal is if you want them to.” I made a mental note to ensure that my next meeting with Cora included just the two of us. Older siblings often tried to speak for the younger brother or sister but if I was going to get a sense of what Cora was really feeling I was going to have to get her to speak for herself.

  “Do you have anything you’d like me to know right now, Cora? Anything you’d like to tell me?” Though someone tried to clean her up, the smell of iodine and blood permeated what remained of Cora’s hair. Her breath was stale and coppery.

  Cora’s unmarred eye blurred with tears. “I didn’t die,” she whispered, revealing the gaps in her teeth where her attacker had knocked them out. “I’m still here.”

  Case #92-10945

  Conversation dated November 18, 2017,

  via Dar
kestDoor.com

  Corareef12:

  JW44, I have a few more questions. Where did you go after you left Pitch?

  Corareef12:

  If you are really Joseph Wither, how can you still be alive? Wouldn’t you be really old?

  4leafclover:

  I don’t think he’s coming back and that’s a good thing. You really need to be careful in these chat rooms. You just never know who you are talking to.

  Thomas Petit

  Tuesday, April 17, 2018

  Now, Thomas stands outside Jordyn’s bedroom door and listens. The boys, when they were upset, would storm out of the house and disappear for two or three hours but would always come home when their stomachs began to growl.

  A part of him wants to barge in and yank Jordyn right out of bed and another part of him wants to just let her sleep. Jordyn didn’t come down for dinner last night even though she hadn’t eaten any lunch. Thomas tried to imagine what Tess would do in this situation. Probably bring her something to eat, but Thomas thought that if Jordyn got hungry enough she would come out on her own.

  Jordyn didn’t come out, at least not that Thomas knew. Before he went to bed last night, Thomas stood in this exact same spot and listened. Through the heavy oak door, he was sure he heard his granddaughter crying, but instead of going to Jordyn and trying to comfort her, he lumbered off to his own bedroom.

  “Jordyn,” he finally calls out, not able to stand it anymore. “Jordyn, open this door right now.” No answer. “Jordyn Ann Petit, if you don’t open the door, I swear to God I will take it off its hinges.” Still no answer.

  Ridiculous, Thomas thinks to himself. Jordyn’s meteoric moods were sucking the air out of the house.

  “I’m going to get a screwdriver!” he says through the door. When there is still no reply, Thomas knows there is no turning back. The door is going.

  With newly found energy he moves down the steps at a speed he hasn’t known in years. By the time he makes it to the kitchen and reaches the door that leads to the basement where all the tools are stored his heart is racing. He leans against the door frame as he collects snatches of air in short, sharp breaths.