South Of Hell lk-9 Page 28

  Joe took a sip of wine and stared at the flickering lights of the television.

  God, was she ready for this? Just the idea that someone else was going to be dependent on her was unsettling. Protection… she could manage that. That was her job, after all. But what about the rest? The nurturing and soul shaping and all those other things mothers were put on the earth for.

  Her eyes went to the phone, and she thought for a moment about calling her mother. Florence Frye was often awake this early. But Joe was almost afraid of what her mother would say. She had a sudden memory of when she was seven, coming into the kitchen cradling yet another bedraggled stray cat. And her mother’s words: You can’t save them all, Joe.

  She would call her mother when she and Amy got back to Echo Bay. She’d find a way to explain. Maybe her mother would come for a visit. Maybe when she met Amy…

  Joe shut her eyes. Maybe this was a mistake. But it was one she was willing to make.

  She opened her eyes, set her glass down, and went quietly to the door between the two rooms, opening it softly. The lights were off, and Joe slipped in. As she moved deeper into the room and her eyes adjusted, she slowed.

  Amy’s bed was empty.

  Joe hurried to the far side of the bed to see if Amy was sleeping on the floor. When she didn’t see her, she pushed open the bathroom door and flicked on the light. Nothing.

  She hurried back to the bedroom and hit the light switch. The blanket was crumpled, but there was no sign of a struggle. She spun to the outside door. The chain was off.

  In two steps, she was there. It was unlocked, and she threw it open. The narrow hall was deserted and quiet. In desperation, she rushed to the window at the end and frantically scanned the parking lot below. Nothing was moving.

  She ran back through Amy’s room into her own and hit the light switch. When Louis didn’t move, she shook him.

  “Louis! Wake up!”

  He bolted upright, almost hitting her in the face with his elbow.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, squinting.

  “She’s gone!” Joe said.

  “What? Who?”

  “Amy! She’s gone. He took her, Louis. That bastard took her!”

  Louis bolted from the bed and ran to the adjoining room. Joe followed him.

  “He couldn’t get in here without her unlocking the door, and she wouldn’t do that, Joe. She’s probably hiding.” He searched the closet, then got onto his knees to look under the bed.

  “No, she wouldn’t do that! I know-”

  Joe froze as her eyes found the piece of paper wedged under the lamp on the desk. She snatched it up.

  Dear Miss Joe,

  I want to go to Echo Bay with you. But I am worried that when Mr. Shockey dies there will be no one left here to look for Momma. So I have to try one more time. I didn’t ask you to help me because you need to stay here and take care of Mr. Kincaid. Please don’t worry about me. I know where I am going and I am not afraid. I will be back sometime tomorrow.

  Amy

  Joe pushed her hair from her face, the flood of relief that Amy wasn’t in Brandt’s hands quickly giving way to dread. Her eyes went to the empty chair in the corner. Amy had taken her backpack.

  Louis noticed Joe’s pale face and the paper in her hand. “What is it?” he asked.

  “She’s gone to the farm,” Joe said.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  She wasn’t afraid to ride in the big trucks now. At one in the morning, the freeway near Ann Arbor, the one less than five hundred feet from the hotel door, rumbled with a caravan of them.

  She stood in the cold darkness for less than five minutes before a big, muddy red semi squealed to a stop. The driver was dirty, and the cab smelled like cigarettes, but she climbed up into the seat anyway. Because she wasn’t afraid of him, either.

  Where you going, little girl?

  I’m not a little girl. I’m sixteen. And I’m going to see my mother.

  For the next hour, as they drove west, the man talked of his son and his fishing boat and the thousands of miles he’d spent behind the wheel of this old truck. She’d listened politely, fighting sleep and hoping Miss Joe wouldn’t be mad at her in the morning.

  The man must’ve felt sorry for her, because he offered to drive off the freeway and drop her closer to the farm. She was going to tell him no, but it was so cold and dark. So she changed her mind and told him she would appreciate that.

  Where is this farm, Missy?

  Just south of Hell. But if you miss the road leading in, you end up down in Bliss.

  The semi was too big to make it down the rutted gravel and dirt of Lethe Creek Road. And when the man pulled to a stop in front of the closed Texaco station, he said he wasn’t sure he should leave her out here alone.

  You sure you’re okay, Missy?

  Yes, sir, I got kin here.

  She slipped out of the truck and closed the door, clutching her backpack to her chest. With a rattle of gears and a churn of mud, the truck pulled away. She stood in the darkness under the old Texaco sign, but she wasn’t afraid. There were no strange voices in her head anymore, no flashing memories of green corn, no screaming horses.

  There was just her.

  As she hurried down the dark road, it started to drizzle. The dark outline of the barn came to her, then the house beyond. She went through the fence and stopped under the old oak tree in the front yard. It was so quiet the pop-pop-pop of the drops falling on the leaves overhead was the only sound she could hear.

  She stood as still as possible and closed her eyes, waiting for that tingling she sometimes got when she felt her mother’s presence near.

  But there was nothing.

  She crept up to the house. The kitchen door was ajar, the lock hanging on splintered wood.

  She stood there and stared at it.

  Had someone come here looking for her father? No, he was not her father anymore. Mr. Shockey was her father, and… that other man had hurt him.

  She pushed inside the broken door, stopping again in the kitchen. There was just enough light to make out the gray shapes of the counters and a cooler on the floor. The air was heavy and spoiled, stale with the smell of him.

  She set her backpack down and once again closed her eyes and stood very still.

  Are you here, Momma?

  Silence. She felt nothing but the cold swirl of air.

  What was wrong? Why couldn’t she feel anything? Why wasn’t something coming to her like it did in Dr. Sher’s office?

  Amy moved to the cupboard and opened the door, letting out the dank smell of rusted pipes. She brushed aside the cobwebs and climbed inside. It felt different, smaller, like she didn’t fit anymore. But she huddled up, pulled the door closed, and stared out through the jagged cracks in the wood slats.

  She saw nothing but the torn linoleum.

  Amy closed her eyes and leaned her head on her knees. She didn’t want to cry, but she couldn’t help it. The tears just came, hot and hard.

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  With a small cry, she crawled from the cupboard. She stood for a moment in the kitchen, wiping her face and taking small breaths to calm herself. She knew she needed to be calm for this to work. Dr. Sher always told her to stay calm.

  That’s when she saw it… there on the floor.

  Toby.

  She scrambled to the corner and snatched up the stuffed rabbit. She held it to her nose, inhaling its sweet-musty scent.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  The parlor. That is where she would be!

  But when she got there, she felt nothing. And the roll of music was missing from the piano. She shut her eyes tight and tried to think of the song. If she sang it, her mother would hear it. But nothing came. Not one word. The song was gone, too.

  Clutching the rabbit, Amy opened her eyes.

  There was no one here anymore.

  She slowly retraced her steps back to the kitchen, picked up her backpack, and stuffed Toby inside.
She left the kitchen and stood on the porch for a moment, looking out over the farm. The barn and the other buildings were just black outlines in gray mist, and beyond was nothing but the empty fields fading into the darkness.

  No lights, no movement, no sounds. No signs that anyone had ever lived here. And for a moment, she had the weird thought that maybe even she hadn’t really lived here.

  She had to go back to Miss Joe. She’d be so worried.

  But the rain was coming down harder now. And she was cold and tired.

  She would wait until it was light, and then she would walk back to the Texaco station. It would be open in the morning, and someone would let her call the hotel, and Miss Joe would come and get her.

  Amy glanced back at the kitchen. She didn’t want to go back in there. She looked at the barn. She would wait there.

  Hoisting the backpack over her shoulder, she jumped off the porch and ran across the yard to the barn. The heavy sliding doors on the bottom level stood open just enough for her to squeeze through.

  It was warmer inside but dark.

  She picked her way across the dirt floor, trying to make out the shape of the old stalls in the gloom. There was hay, she remembered, and she could sleep there until morning.

  She was halfway across the barn when she felt it.

  Like the brush of a warm breeze on her cheek. But she knew there was no wind in the barn. It came again, the gentlest of caresses.

  “Momma?” she whispered.

  No, child.

  She stood very still and closed her eyes, her heart hammering, waiting for the feeling. But the only feeling that came was a small constricting of her throat.

  There was just her.

  And the voice she heard now was her own.

  It’s not safe here, John. Come with me.

  Amy opened her eyes. The darkness pressed close around her, but she wasn’t afraid. She walked slowly but surely across the barn, moving easily among the rusted tools and rotting bales, into the farthest corner of the barn.

  An instinct told her to reach out, and when she did, her hand touched wood. A ladder. She had known it would be there!

  The backpack secured on her back now, she began to climb. She couldn’t see anything above, but still, there was no fear for herself now. Just for…

  It’s too late. We have to get out another way.

  She emerged into a new darkness, but she could feel the boards of a floor, and she pulled herself up. The old hay was scratchy beneath her hands. She knew she was up on the old barn’s second floor now, and a stab of recognition came to her. This was where she had found the kitten! But a different memory was crowding that one out with its urgency.

  This way, John!

  The old boards groaned as she made her way across the rotted planks, but she kept moving until…

  She stopped, knelt down, and brushed the straw away. Her fingers found the cold metal ring of the trapdoor. She pulled, but it wouldn’t move.

  Horses… she could hear horses outside!

  She pulled in a deep breath and yanked on the trapdoor. It cracked and gave way, falling back on the hay with a thud.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  Without a second thought, Amy launched herself into the black hole. She landed with a hard jolt in a pile of hay. She was stunned for a second, but then the feel of the rain on her face brought her back. Outside… she was outside.

  She was on her feet at once and moving through the darkness, away from the barn, through a thicket of high weeds.

  Faster, John, you have to walk faster! Just a little ways more, and you can rest. Here! Here! Let me help you… you can hide here -

  Amy stopped suddenly.

  The voice was gone.

  In front of her was a high thicket of thorny brambles.

  Chapter Forty

  Dawn. Coming to him as a sliver of gray in the corner of his eye. He had survived another night. Two now… two nights and two days in this stinking hole.

  Owen Brandt ran a dirty hand under his nose and pushed himself to his feet. He wiped his frozen hands on his pants and made his way through the darkness to the steps. Memory spurred him in the right direction. That’s how it was now, depending only on his senses and what he could remember to survive when the darkness closed in.

  His hands had told him this place had stone walls and wooden rafters. His feet had told him it was nine feet wide, because he had walked it back and forth in the dark. But he didn’t know how deep it was, because he wouldn’t go back any further than he could see. But sometimes, if the sun was bright enough to bleed around the edges of the old wood door and down the stone steps, then he could make out the dirt pile back there. He was sure the ceiling had caved in, but he wasn’t about to go back there and risk getting himself buried alive.

  He staggered to the steps, his head thick from lack of sleep. He’d been too cold and hungry to sleep.

  The rotten corn and potatoes left in the cellar had been too hard to eat. Finally, driven by hunger, he had ventured out and crouched in the thorn bushes, watching for cops. He watched for hours, finally figuring out that they came by to check the farmhouse twice a day, in the morning and again toward dusk. The cop would get out and do only a quick walk around the farmhouse and leave, like he was too cold to bother to stay.

  Last night, after the cop left, he had sprinted across the field to the house, where he had gathered up what was left of the food Margi had bought — half a package of baloney and some potato chips. And the whiskey. That was best of all, the hot sting of rye on his throat as he sat here, shivering.

  But the whiskey was gone now. The food was gone now. It was a different hunger that had brought him out of the hole a second time.

  He had emerged into the cold, moonless night and walked the farm. Thirteen times — he’d counted — thirteen times he had walked the fields in the syrupy darkness. Listening for her voice, seeing shadows that drifted away from him as he grew close. Always conscious of the feel of the dirt under his boots, because he didn’t want to step on her.

  He hadn’t found her.

  Brandt stood, shivering at the bottom of the stone steps, looking up into the thin gray light leaking around the door.

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to get out.

  He staggered up the stone steps and pushed open the old wooden door. The creak of the hinge sounded like a shriek, and he held his breath. But he didn’t hear anyone, no voices, no cop talk. He pushed aside the thorn bushes and climbed out.

  A gray mist hovered over the straw-strewn cornfield. In the distance, the house seemed to float, and the barn seemed to shiver, like neither of them was real but just imaginary fixtures in an imaginary life.

  Something moved. Or was his mind so gone now that he was seeing things? He started to withdraw into the hole, but then he froze.

  There it was again.

  Through the tangle of thorn bushes, he saw something waver, like it had just risen from the ground. A flutter of dark hair and slender build told him it was a woman.

  Brandt squinted.

  Jean.

  And she was coming closer.

  His hand went to the knife in his waistband. His throat tightened with the pounding of his pulse as her form took shape in the mist.

  No… it wasn’t Jean.

  It was the damn girl.

  But this didn’t make sense. Why would the girl be here?

  Then it came to him. She had come back to meet her whore mother. The girl coming back here now to this place — just like he had! — it had been like some weird gift, like it happened this way for a reason.

  He had been right all along. Jean was here somewhere.

  He retreated into the root cellar, not wanting the girl to see him. He had to think about this, had to figure out what to do. He crouched on the stone steps behind the half-open door, watching, waiting.

  Pink. Something pink. The pink of her jacket moving across the gap in the boards.

  Come closer, girl. A little closer.<
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  He heard the snap of a twig as she walked along the edge of the cornfield. So close now he could almost smell her.

  He held his breath.

  Silence.

  Had she stopped? Why wasn’t she coming inside? She was just standing there, frozen. Her weird eyes were colored with the same look she used to get when she was little, like when the tornados were coming.

  She knew he was in here.

  And she was going to run.

  Damn the cops and anyone else out there.

  Brandt pushed open the door. At the sound, the girl’s head snapped up, her eyes — those weird fucking eyes — pinned on him.

  Suddenly, she bolted toward the cornfield.

  He was slowed by the thorn bushes but he caught up with her at the edge of the field and threw an arm around her neck, knocking her to the dirt.

  “No!” she cried.

  He started to drag her back to the root cellar. She was light, no heavier than a bundle of sticks, but she was kicking hard, her hands clawing at his arms.

  A pain seered through his hand.

  Fuck!

  She had bitten him. He dropped his hand and clenched his teeth to keep himself from yelping. Blood. The bitch had drawn blood.

  “God damn you,” he hissed.

  He smacked her. She cried and covered her head, crumpling to the weeds in a whimpering heap. He dropped a knee into the girl’s chest and pulled his knife from his waistband.

  He wanted to slice her up right here but he couldn’t do that — not yet. He leaned close, holding the knife inches from her face.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  She didn’t open her eyes, just held her cheek, crying.

  “Where is she?” Brandt said. “Where’s your momma?”

  She opened her eyes. “Momma?” she whispered.

  Brandt grabbed a fistful of her hair, pushing the broken blade into her cheek. “Tell me now, or you die,” he said.

  Tears streaked the girl’s face, and she was gulping in air like she was drowning. She sounded like she was having one of those damn breathing attacks.