The
Snowdon State Snoops: Invasion
Part 1
1 Out of the Blue
Paula Ryan had made many discoveries in the months she had spent in her new
home, Snoop Towers on Schaefer Street in Snowden, her new home base for her
brand-new career as a student at Snowden State University. She had
discovered a new sense of self-reliance in her new job at the Snowden Town
Library. She had discovered an amatory freedom with her unofficial fiancé
Richie Dwight in a setting without parent-imposed curfews. She had
discovered a pure joy in education now that she was away from the cliquishness
and puerility of Darius Allen High School and could enjoy learning for
learning’s sake, without worrying about being seen as déclassé for liking
learning. She had discovered kindred spirits and new friends in the Gamma
Kappa Epsilon sorority she had joined along with Darius Allen classmates and
new Chateau Snoop roommates Felicity Mabrey and
Chelsea Parker.
And she had also discovered that when her new roommate Tricia Dwight was on a
studying jag, the best place to sleep was on the living-room sofa of Snoop
Towers. The downstairs “guest bedroom” their landlord Dave Miyazaki had
built in the basement off the laundry would have been an equally comfortable
place to sleep while Trish paced the bedroom drilling interminable sets of base
pairs and chromosome locations into her memory, but a former Snoop Towers
resident, Missy Bonhart, was borrowing it that
weekend while the exterminators worked over the house she shared with her
grandmother Grace Mason, whose care was Missy’s rent but was staying with an
old Snowden friend while her worn-down old house was de-bugged. Missy was
still out at the ungodly hour at which Paula finally fell asleep on the
pulled-out sofa-bed—
A sudden noise—quiet, outside—bolted Paula immediately
upright in the improvised bed. She blinked herself fully awake—the
porch!—listened again, keeping even her breath stilled as she tried to pick
out the noises—yes, soft, stealthy—as they eased onto and across the porch—
Paula tensed, tried to settle the racing of her heart as the noises made their
way to the front door—my phone! Get my phone! Call 911! But
the phone was nowhere to be seen—can’t find a weapon—what do I—and the door
burst open—
“Hannah?” said Paula, her voice a squeak as her staring eye recognized the
tall, slender, bespectacled blonde form appearing in the Snoop Towers front
door as that of her housemate Hannah O’Hara. But the hazel eyes behind
the glasses seemed somehow not right—“Hannah, are you”—
“I’m not as think as you drunk I am!” said Hannah, a
dazed, inebriately contented smile on her face.
“Forgot you’re sleeping downstairs.” She
reeled into the living room.
“It’s past three in the morning! Where have you”—and an eye which had
been living around a gaggle of criminal-sciences majors detected a distinct mis-buttoning of her blouse—“You spent all night at DRK
House?” Where Tristan Shulbert
lived, of course.
“We were talkin’,” said Hannah in a contented slur as
she squinted her way toward a seat. “Lost track of
time.”
“I’d say you did!” Paula said with an amused smirk on her face, a smirk
which became a pointed glance at Hannah’s shirt. “Umm…Hannah…”
Hannah stared blindly—“Your top is buttoned wrong.”
Hannah blushed. “It was hot, and”—her eyes seemed to start with a
remembrance—“uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?”
“I think—I think I”—and from nowhere, another set of footsteps blustered
across the porch and through the door—
“Hannah!” Missy Bonhart called with inebriate glee
from the doorway when her milky eye located Hannah. “You left Tristan
tied to his bed!” To which Hannah clamped her hand to her head with a that’s-what-I-forgot cringe.
A Paula still getting used to life at Chateau Snoop stared. “Wait what?
You were both at DRK House with Tristan?”
Missy reeled into the room with an inebriate amusement on her full face.
“We played rock-paper-scissors for him tonight, and we both picked
scissors. Decided to call it a tie.” She
snorted out a giggle as her mind caught up to her own double-entendre.
“So Tristan got tied.”
“I’ll bet he wished he had some of those scissors,” said Paula with a mordant
grin. A girl who a year ago would have been shocked and embarrassed at a
conversation that had taken such a turn as this one was now, in her
eighteen-year-old wisdom and freedom, merely amusedly titillated. After
all, some of her own adventures with Richie that fall semester would have been
no less shocking to the high-schooler Paula had been.
“You did untie him, didn’t you Missy?” Hannah asked. Missy
stared—more footsteps—
“I did,” Ginger proclaimed as she sauntered through the door, perfectly
sober yet naughtily contented. “Eventually!”
“You were supposed to be over there with Carson McSwain!”
Hannah and Missy objected in unison—
“And there was poor Tristan Shulbert lying there tied
to his bed!” Ginger snickered. “I had to do something!”
“Like what?” Paula heard herself ask. There’s entertaining, and then
there’s just sick—
“Oh come on,” said Ginger with a theatrical wink as she steered herself toward
the stairs, “this is me you’re talking to! What do you think I
did?” Leaving three housemates staring aghast at Ginger as she started up
the stairs—“I untied him!” Another couple pattering steps—“Plus a few
other things,” she muttered as she ran the rest of the way…
************************
Between sleep cycles, so the experts tell us, the sleeper does not dream.
Neither was she dreaming in the deadest hour of the deadest watch of the
night. Absolutely still in her bed, a long day yielding to a languid
night, and now, for the last five hours, perfect sleep. She had had a
couple hours to herself that night after the usual evening routine, and not
having him in the bed that night gave her just enough space to sleep with a
comfort she hadn’t known this completely in—how many years had it been?
But nothing of such thoughts were in her head as her
mind plumbed the deepest depths of human sleep. Nothing but rest, a body
drinking in rest it surely needed—
Until a hand suddenly clamped over her mouth—only after a split-second did her
mind, still in dreamless sleep, rouse itself—
“Be good and no one gets hurt.”
************************
Saturday morning meant no classes, which left Paula a slow languid morning
before having to prepare for an afternoon working at the library. The
rest offered by the sofa bed was not ideal, but she was fairly fresh after a
brisk shower—just after Trish, who had gotten first dibs—and a change of
clothes into a comfortable old Jack Skellington tee
shirt, black denim pedal-pushers, and matching black Vans. Her short,
pageboy-cut brunette locks were clean and conditioned, her round wire-frame
glasses polished to a sparkle as she descended into the kitchen for a
ten-in-the-morning breakfast—
“Little Sister Paula, if you even think about saying ‘good morning,’ I’ll
personally give you the Rite of Correction until you could use your ass for a
stop light.” Hannah’s admonition was a whimpering grumble delivered from
the head lying under a tangle of straying blonde tresses on the kitchen table,
behind which the rest of Hannah O’Hara sat sprawled in one of the kitchen
chairs. Paula cringed for a moment at Hannah’s hung-over warning; she had
been the first pledge that semester to receive the GKE sorority’s ritual
punishment for minor infractions, and despite the compliments she had received
from all the sisterhood for the relative stoicism with which she had faced it,
the remembrance of having been tied in a naked spreadeagle
to the basement wall of what the sorority called the Temple of Correction and
paddled for the first time in her life still provoked blushes and an
uncomfortable tingle across the flesh of her backside. “At
least when I can move again.”
Paula’s native quiet solicitude saved her life. “Could I get you
anything? An aspirin, or do you take
acetaminophen or naproxen?”
A reddened hazel eye peeked up from behind splayed arms. “If you really
want to help, just chop my head off.”
Another voice broke in, its tone a pained wince. “Would you two mind
keeping it down? I’m trying to be dead here!” With glacial steps,
Missy oozed into the kitchen in the general direction of the refrigerator.
She was just as dissolute as Hannah, her wavy raven locks half covering
her face, her pajamas of fleece shorts and Snowden
State tee pulled and twisted on her robust frame. A glazed blue eye
glared at Paula. “Some people are so sober they’re disgusting!”
“You’re just jealous, Missy!” The three Snoop Towers denizens flicked
their eyes to the kitchen archway, where Tricia Dwight herself stood with a
crooked grin on her face. She too was fresh with the morning; a crisp
white blouse—long one of her favorite fashion
choices—strained over her generous bust, while new jeans accentuated the buxom
curves of her hips and backside. Shoulder-length brown hair was parted
over her right eye, pinned back behind her ears, and her sleek glasses only
slightly muted the amused glimmer in her big brown eyes. “She doesn’t
have to rape her boyfriend like you two do! By the way, did you two
drunks remember to untie him this time?”
“Oh shut up, Mrs. Mommy Jeans,” was Missy’s slurred rejoinder as she rummaged
in the fridge. “Go to your precious forensics lab and leave the rest of
us here to die!” The assembled girls heard a voice serenely humming a
tune that may or may not have been “How Great Thou Art”—“And that goes for you,
too, Krysten!” she added irritably even before the
diminutive, petite redhead emerged into the kitchen, which she did presently,
dressed carelessly in a loose pink top and light linen trousers accented with
white Vans. “Don’t you two have actual living people to annoy?”
“Yes,” came Krysten’s mincing reply, her china-blue
eyes both teasing and maternally scolding. “But Chelsea and Felicity are
off to Misery Hall for breakfast, so I have to settle for annoying you two!”
“Those two haven’t figured out yet that meal plans aren’t for using unless you’re dying of starvation or suicidal,” Trish said
with a titter. “And we’ll leave you two drunks to call AA or something!
Come on over to the lab with us, Paula; you don’t have anything to do
until the library this afternoon, so why not hang out with us there and let us
propagandize you into majoring forensic sciences? Dr. McNeil can get you
into the program, no problem.”
Trish, as usual, was spot on as regarded her prospective future sister-in-law.
Paula, rummaging in a box of Lucky Charms—forbidden
fruit when she lived at home in Wiltontown, thus her favorite food at Chateau Snoop— shrugged. “Well,
Richie’s busy until this evening, so I guess I can wallow in the depths of
human depravity and evil for a few hours!” A sly glint flickered in her
eyes—“Until Richie and I are off tonight and we can wallow in some depravity of
our own!”
“Which means I get the sofa-bed tonight, don’t I?”
said Trish with a giggle. No one would ever think it of gentle little literary
Paula Ryan, would they?
************************
State Police Detective Janet O’Malley was a stocky, direct, no-nonsense woman.
There were no frills to her presentation, even on a casual Saturday late
morning; a dark-blue, long-sleeved state police polo shirt with tail tucked
into clean but unpretentious khaki slacks decorated only with her badge,
sensible black flats on her feet. Coarse brown hair pulled into a simple
low ponytail. No makeup on the mid-thirtyish face, the brown eyes
forthright and blunt. But she was amiable in her businesslike way,
especially in the Snowden State crime lab with her best Snowden friend, Dr. Jennifer
McNeil. That woman, still energetic in her early sixties, valued
forthrightness and honesty more than she did pretension, thus found Janet
refreshing company. When that company was augmented with her two favorite juniors, Trish Dwight and Krysten
Parker, with her newest project Paula Ryan as a plus-one, “Calico” was content
in her familiar lab surroundings.
“This particular methamphetamine,” she said, pointing out the relevant lines on
the document projected on the lab’s screen, “ is from
an old friend of ours. Check out the percentages of HCl,
ephedrine, and iodine; we’ve seen this stuff before.”
“Mm-hmm. Old Bubba’s back at it again, no doubt.
I’d bet cash money he’s hiding back up in the hills south of Wiltontown cooking it up. Some people just don’t
learn.”
“I’ll get hold of my old friend,” Trish said. “Old Earl Lamm’s still up there somewhere, and if Bubba’s up there
too Earl will know about it. He hates the guy’s guts—he thinks meth cooks
are dirty slobs.” The assembled ladies laughed; Earl Lamm
was Allen County’s most notorious ‘shine distiller.
“The honest moonshiner!” Calico finally said once her
giggles faded. “Peoples’ morals are strange sometimes. Even a
serial killer”—
The message tone on Janet’s phone—the tone that came
from “business” callers—went off, interrupting the discussion. As her
eyes scanned the screen, her expression twisted from dry amusement into cool
sobriety—she quickly typed a terse reply—
“Bad news,” Calico said presciently.
Janet looked up with somber eyes. “Yeah, that.”
A long sigh—“Home invasion. Just reported.
Crawford Street, out at the edge of town here.
18921 Crawford Road.”
Trish was instantly on the nearest computer. While she wasn’t as
devilishly talented at database hacking as the recently departed-for-marriage
Alyson DeRozier, Trish had developed enough skills in
that regard to quickly dig up plenty of information about that house and
household—and her sharp breath and dropped lip told the rest that what she had
found was particularly bad. “What?” Calico’s voice was more tense
than she wanted to display—
“Oh crap,” breathed Tricia. “You have that address right, Detective?
18921?” Janet nodded tightly—Trish shook her head, despair in her
big brown eyes—“Jesus…you gotta get there. Right now!”
2 These My
Children
Tricia Dwight did not rattle easily anymore. She had survived, but only
by the hardest, Darrell Holman’s murderous spree of the previous year; she had
helped Dr. McNeil perform the post-mortem on her own friend Shandi
Duggan—even discovering the crucial evidence which turned the case—and
physically survived being abducted by Holman himself. Since then, her
shell had hardened enough that the reaction now on her face was enough to
startle her professor and adviser, not to mention the detective. Krysten hurried to look at the screen at Trish’s
fingertips, and her horrified gasp confirmed Janet and Calico’s suspicions that
something about 18921 Crawford Road was particularly ominous. “What is
it?” demanded Detective O’Malley.
Krysten looked up at them with eyes already moist.
She too had survived Holman, but the scars of her torture at his hands
could still be seen a year later. “A family.
Jeremy and Kimberly McBride. Two children, Samantha and Caleb.”
Janet checked her phone screen. “That adds up. Husband was out last
night, mother alone with the kids. Time…” Her brow furrowed.
“You’re right, girls—we need to get there. You three have just been
drafted as the response team.” Paula started—“You too, Paula. It’s
what you get for being in that detective club at the high school.” Paula
had been a founding member of the Darius Allen High School Detective Club until
her graduation last May. “Trish, you and Krys
be ready to examine for trace.” The two coeds
shared a dark glance; they hoped that their work would not involve certain
types of trace evidence…
************************
From the back seat of Detective O’Malley’s cruiser, Trish immediately spotted
Jeremy McBride as he stood trembling on his front porch, trying to speak to a
uniformed officer. The house itself was a well-lived-in frame house with
a small addition and a detached garage, in need of a few roof shingles and some driveway patch but otherwise in very livable shape. Trish had spotted him because she had
quickly rousted up his and his wife’s driver’s license photos on the state DMV
database. Jeremy was a maintenance technician at the Miller Lake electric
power station, Kimberly a rare example of a stay-at-home mother. A quick
check had also provided some basic background on the two children: Samantha,
eleven, was starting out at Snowden Middle School; Caleb, two years younger,
went to Snowden Elementary. Withal, a young family
desperately trying to hold onto a dream from an earlier generation.
A dream Trish suspected was in shattered ruins at that moment. The
man’s expression, woe barely controlled by the last limits of his self-control,
was evidence in itself that the scene inside would not be in any way pleasant.
As soon as Janet shut off her cruiser, one of the loitering uniforms moved out
crisply toward it, at the detective’s door as she emerged from it. The
look on his face as he glanced at the three young coeds
itself questioned their presence. “From Snowden State,
Dr. McNeil’s team.” Dr. McNeil’s nod confirmed Janet’s
not-completely-accurate affirmation. “They’re briefed to get reports on
the call.” The man was still uncertain—another bad sign, Trish knew.
His thoughts were clear to her—three young women, perhaps not strong enough
to hear the details. “Tricia Dwight and Krysten Parker,” Calico indicated with quick gestures, “and
a new intern. I’m sure you know the names, officer; they dealt
with the Darrell Holman case.” He nodded, but his eyes were still
dubious. “Tell us what we have so far.”
The officer cleared his throat and drew a deep breath, and Trish and Krysten both knew calamity awaited inside. “From what
we can get from Mrs. McBride, the break-in was about three this morning.
Mr. McBride was on his first night working cat-eye at the power plant,
stayed a little after his shift to talk to a supervisor. Came home and
discovered the scene; he called it in to us about an hour ago. Prior to that, he…well, tried to take care of the situation
himself. Can’t blame him that.”
Detective O’Malley’s eyes narrowed. “Fatalities?”
“None, ma’am. But it’s still…well, pretty rough. We might
need some counseling here.”
“We’ll take care of it, Jack. Give us what you know.”
He sighed again. “Like I said, ma’am, best guess on the break-in time is
about three. A man woke Mrs. McBride and forced her into the hall;
another one had woken the children and also forced them into the hall.
From there, the two men forced the three of them into the basement.
It’s half built-up, a little bit of a workshop and a TV room. Some
old furnishings and a TV set. Once they were in the TV room, the invaders
restrained the family and…” He hesitated. “You’re sure these girls
are cleared, ma’am?”
“I already told you that, Jack.” But she too had read his eyes, and knew
he himself was in no condition to tell what she already could tell was a
horrifying story. No point in making him rehash it, she decided.
“We’ll take it from here. Clear the scene so my trace people here can
get to work.”
The officer nodded, obviously relieved. “The house is clear and secure,
ma’am. Rescue squad took the mother and kids to Center
City General. It’s all yours.” He gestured to the other troopers on
the porch; one put her head inside, and another pair of uniforms emerged and
headed for their cruisers, leaving only one out front to supervise the
taped-off crime scene.
“You and me to the hospital,” said Detective O’Malley to Dr. McNeil.
“We’ll conduct the interviews and get the medical reports.”
Calico nodded curtly. “I’ll get Ginger and Missy over here”—
Trish cringed. “Umm, Missy isn’t doing anyone much good right now. Overindulged last night. Is Mrs. DeRozier
still on your Rolodex, Doc? She could probably use a break from her
extended honeymoon!”
Dr. McNeil cast Trish a quick smile. “Good call. We could use a
certified evidence tech running the scene. I think I‘ll bring in your
sister Meg, too. She’s getting good, and with Ginger here she might see
things here on-site that could help with a profile.” A firm nod, and
after a few words to Mr. McBride which brought him into the car, the detective
and the professor were back into the cruiser, leaving the three Snoop Towers
girls to their work.
“What are we looking for?” said Paula timorously. It was her first crime
scene, and from what she had already heard, a very bad one.
“You heard the doc,” said Trish. “Trace. Document blood, hair, fibers, anything
obvious. She’ll want us to document the scene with video and
pictures, and genius that I am, I was in such a hurry that”—
“That you left me to save the day!” said Krysten,
producing two cameras out of her voluminous bag. “l
get video, you take the stills. Just stay with us, Paula, and if you see
anything out of place, let us know.”
Their steps were cautious even outside as they approached the house. “Too
many footprints to see anything,” said Trish. “Let’s try the front door.”
Up to the porch, and she stared hard at the opened front door. “Nothing. No forced entry here. Either they had
a key or”—
“Or they used a different door,” said Paula uncertainly. “Maybe in the back.”
Trish tossed Krysten a surprised glance, then smiled at Paula. “Not bad! Even at three in
the morning, there was a chance that someone could see them from the road if
they went in the front. Okay, so let’s try the back.” Trish led the
way, careful steps to avoid any footprints which might have been left.
But a narrow concrete-paved walkway led around the house to the kitchen
door, and with no other footmarks visible to the three girls, the invaders’
path seemed obvious. A small wooden porch awaited them in the back,
painted in faux redwood stain. And behind the closed screen door—“Score
one for Paula,” and Trish pointed out the scratched and gouged lock plate on
the door frame, from which the door itself stood jarred open. “Entry
point,” said Trish as she snapped pictures of the frame and door. “Be
careful, we don’t want to disturb trace.” But the kitchen itself seemed
to offer no obvious evidence; everything was in a sort of lived-in order, from
the scattering of dishes still awaiting washing in the sink to the boxes of
kids’ cereal lined up on the counter beside the small pantry—
“Missing knives in the knife rack.” Krysten’s
voice was a whisper, as if the house was still asleep and she did not want to
wake them.
Trish spared a glance. “Maybe they just lost them. Those are pretty
cheap knives. Dollar-store class, I’d say. But keep an eye out
anyway.” The kitchen opened on a small central hallway; across the hall
was a living room walled up with painted drywall and carpeted inexpensively, at
the far end a door which hung ajar, a staircase to the second floor just inside
the front door. Trish, leading the way, glanced into the living room. “Cable
box but no TV,” she said, pointing out the faux-wood entertainment center. Near the door was a small side table on which
sat two remotes. “Sceptre remote. Cheap.
They didn’t have anything top-end here, did they? The whole house
is furnished in Early American Particleboard!” Despite the quip, both her
friends could sense the tension in Trish’s voice, and both knew enough of
Trish’s family history to know that she was very familiar with the inexpensive
style Trish had labeled Early American Particleboard.
“Nothing looks disturbed here,” said Krysten, still
half-whispering. “We can come back to it. Let’s try the upstairs.
That was where the family was.” Trish ceded the lead to her
redheaded friend, who picked her way up the stairs along a wall, the better to
not disturb any footprints on the bare wood treads. The trio emerged into
a hallway much like the lower one, two rooms giving off each side of the hall.
The doors were all open. “Parents’ room here on the right, and that
on the other side…some kind of play room,” said Krysten,
her voice even lower. Paula sensed that the lowering of Krysten’s voice correlated with a rise in the tension in
her face and shoulders. “The kids’ rooms down the hall.” The two
far doors had small decorative placards wrought in carved wood; the one with
the baseball glove labeled “Caleb’s Room,” the one
carved into ballet slippers “Samantha’s Room.”
“One woke the mother, the other one woke the children,” said Paula, drawing
glances from her two more experienced friends. “One of them had to go
past the parents’ room. Isn’t that taking a risk?”
“What better way to control the mother than through the kids?” said Krysten, her eye still on the eyepiece of the video camera. “Threaten the kids to make the mother
cooperate.”
Trish nodded, edging down the wall of the hallway to reach the far end in order
to avoid any unnoticed but potentially valuable footprints. “One man to control a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old.
He has to get them one at a time, so which one first? The older girl or the younger boy?” She peered inside
Caleb’s room; Paula, following Trish’s lead on the opposite wall, did the same
into Samantha’s room. “The boy is younger, but boys are more prone to
acting out. Let’s face it, girls, we’re taught to be good and obey.
We’re not all that liberated, are we?”
“Samantha’s bed is partly made,” said Paula. “Would the man take the time
to let her do that if he still had to control the boy?”
Trish gave Paula another impressed smile. “Probably
not. I don’t see anything to prove it one way or the other, but it
makes sense. When they interview the family, we’ll get the details.
So…from here to the basement.”
None wanted to make the trip, but the job demanded it. They descended
carefully, the same way they had ascended, down into the first-floor hallway
and to the basement door at its end. Trish, still in the lead, opened and
led the way down. A landing inside the door took a left turn, descending
into the middle of the basement. At the foot of the stairs, an open
doorway to the left revealed a small concrete-floored workshop; the one on the
right opened into the TV room mentioned by the officer. No light was on
inside; the only light was from sunlight filtering through thin curtains set
over small windows near the low tiled ceiling of the room. Trish saw,
from her vantage point in the doorway, the same inexpensive carpet as in the
living room. An old stuffed chair a few feet into the
room, a cheap self-assembled futon on the opposite wall askew behind a cheap
coffee table. A TV stand with no TV, merely abandoned cables.
The remote, on a small table beside the stuffed chair, was another
off-brand. Trish did not have to say what Paula and Krysten
both knew she was thinking—Early American Particleboard. No ceiling light
was set, but a stand lamp stood beside the futon, and
a smaller one on the table by the chair. Trish cast a glance around the
room, her gaze settling finally on the far wall—
“Oh holy Christ!” Her squeaked interjection brought Paula and Krysten over her shoulder, following Trish’s stricken gaze—
To a small pile of children’s clothing lying abandoned
on the floor. Two gasps behind her told Trish that Krysten
and Paula had just seen what she had—and understood its meaning.
“Pajamas!” gasped from Paula’s lips—
None could speak for long moments; none could even see
the rest of the night’s evidence lying pooled around the room. A
horrified trance drew Trish a few steps into the room, followed by Krysten and Paula. With an effort, Trish raised the
camera to take stills of the woeful little pile of evidence—“Tricia,” said
Paula in a still whisper, “look around. Rope on the floor.”
Trish shook away the horror gathering in her imagination, spying the three
piles of rope. One was draped on the futon, one at the far end of the
coffee table, and one at the foot of the stuffed chair atop an abandoned
nightgown. Near them, abandoned strips of gray duct tape.
“Restrained,” Trish muttered, her voice a strained squeak. “And the
children were moved after their clothes were…” She found she could not
speak further. Her hands trembled as she took a fast set of snaps of the
clothes and the ropes and the tape. Beside her, Krysten
recorded to scene on video.
Paula, with nothing to do but gaze at the evidence, was the first to
see—“Blood. Blood on the coffee table.”
Trish and Krysten started, turned stricken eyes
toward the spot pointed out by Paula’s hand. “Just a
little. A few drops. But from what?”
Trish eyeballed the distance from the end of the table to the spot where the
small smear of blood lay dry. About the length of a
child’s torso. But which one? She
cast her eyes around the dim room. “We need light.” She fully
entered the room—“More spots. Headed…” She followed the small trail
of blood spots—“Here,” she said, her voice strangled. “The
boy’s clothes.” She squatted over the pile. Two piles lay at
her feet, mingled at their edges as if disturbed by feet, but distinct at the
range Trish gazed upon it. One pajama set was
pink and powder blue, decorated with hearts and butterflies; the other,
smaller, a dark blue set decorated with Power Rangers. Trish peered
closely, unwilling to disturb the pile and dislodge evidence, then—“There.
The collar of the boy’s top. Blood on the collar,
dripped down the front.” She examined the drops as closely as the
dim light allowed. “Nosebleed. Either stress, or he was hit. It was the boy on the coffee
table. From here, they brought him to the table there, and”—
Krysten squeaked, and Trish saw that her friend
stooped above the end of the table, her blue eyes wide with horror. “Trish…over here…the floor…more blood.” Trish followed
Krysten’s gaze, and indeed saw a small puddle of
blood drops on the floor just at the end of the table. Paula, quivering,
had edged into the room, and with a tissue over her
hand switched on the futon lamp—which revealed two small depressions in the old
carpet between the small puddle. Trish felt her heart squeeze and tumble,
felt her stomach sicken. Her ugly surmise was confirmed by another pair
of indentations, larger and deeper, straddling the smaller ones—and she fought
back a sudden heave of her stomach—
“Holy fucking Christ.” The voice at the doorway, distinctly sharp and
ironic even with its tone muted in horror, was unequivocally Ginger’s.
Tricia—Paula and Krysten too—glanced back to
the door to see Ginger in the doorway, flanked behind her shoulders by a tall,
slender brunette and a taller, statuesque, bespectacled blonde. Megan
Dwight and Alyson DeRozier, nee Carson. All
three stared soul-struck at the scene they surveyed. “It’s a fucking
torture chamber.” None could disagree…
3 Shards
Alyson Carson DeRozier was as horror-struck as her
friends on the scene, but as the senior person on the scene, and certified in
evidence-handling, she nevertheless took charge. Tricia and Krysten would continue to document the scene with stills
and video. Megan and Ginger, both training in criminal profiling, would
head down to Center City General to help with victimology. As for Paula, as someone still a
civilian, it was time for her to go back home to Snoop Towers; Megan and Ginger
would drop her off on the way to Center City.
Young Mrs. DeRozier herself would gather as
much trace as she could.
Paula was as shaken as ever she had felt as Megan and Ginger drove her back to
Chateau Snoop. Not even the shattering morning almost a year ago when she
had learned of her friend Kellie Kirk’s suicide had struck her with the force
of the scene in the McBride basement. She forced herself to not cry in
front of the other two; it would wait until she was dressing for work at the
library. Even that plan was delayed when the traveling
party discovered Felicity Mabrey and Chelsea Parker
at the house when they arrived. Megan had been in contact with Dr. McNeil
on the way to the house, and the news that counseling-major
Felicity was available was welcomed by the professor. On a weekend
noontime, there was no counselor on staff at the
hospital, and she had made clear to Megan and Alyson that one was very badly
needed. Felicity, upon hearing a precis of the
events on Crawford Road, volunteered to speak to the victims; Chelsea tagged
along as moral support.
Even alone, Paula found herself too shaken to cry. It was a scene she had
hardly imagined could be real; it seemed like something out of one of Ginger’s Criminal
Minds episodes. The idea that someone could attack children in the
ways the forlorn evidence in that basement had hinted was beyond her power to
comprehend—until she thought back to her lost friend Kellie. What had
been visited upon Caleb and Samantha McBride had also been visited upon her
friend; what had been the cataclysm of one monstrous night for the two McBride
children and their mother at the hands of strangers had been a years-long
secret torture for Kellie at the hands of the man she had known as her father.
Only then did Paula cry, as much for Kellie as for Caleb and Samantha.
It was a mourning she carried to the library at the end of a ten-block
walk to the big new library building on Main Street, and one the assistant
librarian, a pale middle-aged woman with dyed-blonde hair done up like a 1980s
housewife and clothes like a 1990s soccer mom, could not help but notice and
inquire after; Paula could do nothing but shake her head and wander toward a
pile of un-shelved books. The soccer-mom librarian followed her.
“Something happened, Paula, I can tell. Is it something at home?
You can tell me.”
The eyes Paula turned toward her sowed consternation on her face. “No,
Mrs. Livermore. Not from home. And I can’t tell you.
It’s…well, police business. Tricia—my roommate, you know—they got a
call from Detective O’Malley and…” She blinked hard, sill trying to erase
the scene in the McBride basement from her memory. “It was just bad.”
“A murder? Like last year, Darrell Holman and
those poor girls he”—
Paula shook her head. “No, Mrs. Livermore. Worse.”
“Worse than murder? What’s worse than that?” The woe in
Paula’s eyes began to stir understanding in the librarian’s eyes…
************************
Even before the very first day, far back in middle school, that Felicity Mabrey deliberately tousled her raven-black hair into a
carefully messy-looking coif, spiced it up with a red flower stuck over her
right ear, and donned the piratey black and white
stripes that had been her prime fashion choice ever since, she had been known
for her imagination. In social studies, she was far better at picturing
the lives of the people she studied than she was at memorizing trite places and
dates; in math, her success was much more from intuitively understanding the
language of numbers than from memorizing formulae and equations from rote drill
and practice; her talent for understanding the characters and times in the
stories she read had made her the darling of her English teachers.
Imagination had grown in her teens into a talent for empathy; she was
famous among the troubled at Darius Allen High for her intuitive understanding
of others’ troubles, and therefore had become her class’s “advice columnist,”
even to the point of having her own column in the school’s newspaper, the
Darius Allen High Vista.
Now, that imagination betrayed her by its persistence. All she had needed
was the handful of words which had stuck in her head during the drive from
Snowden to the Center City hospital; McBride. Home invasion. Rape.
Ginger, the young woman with whom Felicity shared a bedroom, had been
unusually reticent as she described the scene she had witnessed in the McBride
basement, but all Felicity’s imagination had required to run onto its own
tangent were those few words.
McBride. Samantha McBride. It was a name which carried a face.
A soft oval, a smattering of freckles over a small pointed nose, shy brown
eyes whose color matched that of the hair the child
kept back in a topknot ponytail decorated with a simple, plebeian ribbon.
Eyes which seemed to keep to themselves as she warmed up at the barre of the dance academy, seemingly ashamed of her
second-hand leotard among a ten-to-twelve class seemingly filled with
classmates decked out in the latest, finest, most exquisite outfits,
always-pristine slippers, stylish hair clips, fancifully primped hair
extensions. And nearby, always, Felicity’s own youngest
sister Charity. A certain odd simpatico had developed between the
eleven-year-old Samantha and her classmate Charity; neither went in for finery
rampant among the darlings of their upper-middle-class mothers. Even
though in Jerkface’s case the simplicity of her plain
leotard and unpretentious pigtails had come from a nature which disdained
girlish extravagance rather than the austerity which was the only means by
which the McBrides could afford to allow Samantha her
dream of dance studies, the two tended to stick close to each other.
Seeing Samantha in her sense memory entailed seeing Jerkface
too, the two plain Janes stretching out long legs at
the barre before the class began. More bits and
pieces arranged themselves about the trim little brunette girl—Samantha.
There were two other Samanthas in the class,
one answering to Sam, the other to Sammi—but Samantha
McBride insisted on her full name. She accepted no diminutions, no
nicknames; her name was Samantha, and she insisted in being called that name.
It was, Felicity mused, perhaps one tiny bit of
pride Samantha could muster about herself. What must she be feeling now?
And the thought of Samantha brought up the other, Caleb. The ash-blond,
brown-eyed crew-cut head, the small trim form draped fidgeting over one of the
chairs surrounding the polished-wood floor, a little boy bored in his sister’s
world. The girls practicing on the floor were of no interest to him, the
book Mrs. McBride invariably brought to distract him dulled quickly, and so he
would end up wriggling on and around his chair, his sneaker-clad feet bouncing
beneath him, his eyes flicking all around him until the blessed surcease of the
end of dance class. Sometimes, in the spring, he had a baseball glove,
and he would toss himself imaginary pop flies while his sister practiced with
her class. As soon as the class ended, he scampered out the door well
ahead of both mother and sister, celebrating a blessed release from his
enforced quietude. The sporting little brother—and he had endured
something last night far worse than anything he had ever faced. How can
that little boy endure that? What must he be feeling after—
“We’re here, Liss.” Chelsea, sitting beside her
in the back seat of Megan’s car, nudged Felicity’s elbow, and Felicity started
as the white-concrete edifice of Center City General
Hospital loomed above her. She tried to shake off the thoughts consuming
her as Megan Dwight slipped her well-used Hyundai into the parking spot nearest
the emergency-department entrance. The ponytailed figure of Detective
O’Malley herself greeted them as the small group approached the wide glass
doors, but the imminence of the case only served to deepen the oppression of
Felicity’s imaginative spirit.
“Meg, Ginger, Felicity. Hello, Chelsea.” There was no casualness in
the detective’s greeting. “Dr. McNeil is conferring with the doctors.
The boy is in surgery, and she talked them into letting her help;
evidence, you know. Mr. McBride is with his wife; they have her sedated.
Heavily sedated. I tried to
interview her, but she’s not really coherent. The girl, Samantha…they
need to do a kit, but she’s too upset. That’s where we need you,
Felicity; you know her, so she might respond to you. Megan, you and
Ginger can help me with Mr. McBride. Victimology
might give us some clues for a profile. When the boy is in recovery, you
can talk to him, Felicity; there wasn’t enough damage to put him in serious
danger, so it shouldn’t be long. Let’s get to it, ladies.”
Phantasms infected Felicity’s imagination as she followed Detective
O’Malley inside…
************************
Re-shelving books had been no comfort to Paula. Usually the quiet task
soothed any irritations arising from the average day—but today was nothing even
vaguely resembling average. Mrs. Livermore could see plainly that Paula’s
regular activities were leaving her still unstrung, so she readily acquiesced
in Paula’s request that she be allowed to do a little research. Research
on local home invasions, she knew. Paula was a good researcher, Mrs.
Livermore knew, and would find out whatever was available in the public
records.
Paula herself wished that Tricia or the young Mrs. DeRozier
were there to help her. Paula had already witnessed Trish’s skill at
calling up the records of the McBride family, and had heard stories of Alyson DeRozier’s prowess at hacking; that the young bride was a
taller, even more statuesque version of Criminal Minds’ Penelope Garcia
was quite a joke to Tricia and the older Snoop Towers residents. They
would be able to do more than simply troll the electronic back issues of the Center City Intelligencer, which was all Paula was
capable of. But limited as her skills were,
Paula was determined to ply them as usefully as possible.
She had three parameters she could use for her search; home invasion, two men,
children. The first search of the Intelligencer web site was a
failure; no matches. She reduced the search terms; home invasion and two
men. Now, she was rewarded with three hits; a home in Mapleton, in
Shawnee County near Cold Water Lake, a year ago; a home in Sunny Hill, in the
eastern part of Allen County, six years ago; and a home in Snowden itself ten
years ago. The Mapleton case had little in common with the nascent
McBride case but the number of assailants; an elderly couple was menaced in
their own home by two young men ransacking their house for money. No
actual violence, sexual or not; no restraint. Of course, she told
herself; it was a robbery plain and simple. She had read Capote’s famous In
Cold Blood and understood perfectly well that even simple robberies could
go horribly wrong, but that had not happened to the old couple in Mapleton.
One case to not concern herself about.
The Sunny Hill case was more recent. A Dr. Robert Taylor, his wife Laura,
daughters Corey and Candi, the house broken into and
robbed by—and Paula realized she knew the case. Tricia was never taciturn
about anything, especially old Snoop cases, and this was a case with which
Trish had regaled her more than once. Trish had named it “the
deadly-dossier case”; her sister Megan and friend Alyson Carson had stumbled
upon the old file her dad had kept about mine-safety violations at his old job,
and the owner of the mine—who, it had turned out, had had Trish’s dad murdered
for it—had struck out at the entire Dwight family, abducting them to their old
house trailer to burn them all alive. And Paula remembered exactly what
had decoyed them to the trailer—calls by the Taylors to the Dwights
about new information in the case, calls forced upon them by the home invaders.
Their repayment was to have had their own home burned with them inside,
but prompt action by other of the Snoops—and Professor Bentley from the
criminal-sciences department—stopped them. Paula found herself looking
askance at the article; most of this thing is outright bogus! She thought
back to Trish’s recounting of the case; there were many friends of Jim Alton,
the murderous owner, and many of his employees who were not ready to hear the truth
about the case. So the reporter fudged a number of details and suppressed
the real reason for the invasion. For a moment she was tempted to revisit
the Mapleton article, but decided to press on and save further Mapleton
inquiries for later.
One case left. Snowden, ten years ago. Dr. Fred Howland’s home on Baxter Road on the outskirts of Snowden.
Home invaders burglarized the home, but the occupants—Dr. Howland, at
work at his animal hospital; Mrs. Carolyn Howland his wife; daughter Bethany;
and son Christopher—were not home when the two invaders ransacked the house in
a daylight burglary. She re-read the article—home invaders burglarized a
house with the occupants away. The literary scholar in Paula rebelled at
the odd contradiction in the terms of the article; “burglary” by its
traditional use involved empty houses, “home invasion” implied an occupied
home. Why use the two terms together in the one article?—
And inspiration struck. Among the many topics
freely noised about Snoop Towers, old romances and other amatory adventures
were popular fare; and Paula had heard one of her Chateau Snoop roomies—Maggie
O’Hara—speak often about dating Chris Howland through high school. A year
behind Trish and Maggie’s class, he had to everyone’s surprise gotten a hockey
scholarship to Princeton University after a stint in major junior hockey,
finagled by a Snowden family who had connections in that area. But
Bethany, she knew from her parents’ dealing with the Hillside Animal Hospital
that Bethany was still a student at Snowden State. Maybe she could fill
in the details of a case which seemed to be left incomplete—or worse,
misstated—by the article.
The thought that a path of action lay open to her energized
Paula enough to face the rest of her shift in the library. Surely
Maggie, as Chris Howland’s ex, would be able to fill in details about the case,
and of course the rest of the family was available to add truthful details.
She wasn’t yet smiling as she left for home at closing time, but she had
rallied from the despair of the morning…
************************
Felicity had held herself together from start to finish. She had entered
the emergency room with a gentle, sympathetic, encouraging smile for the
shattered girl curled up on the hospital bed; she had sweetly coaxed the girl
into facing the ordeal of the kit, holding her hand the entire time while the
traumatized child slowly loosened her tongue to speak of the night. When
it was all finished, with the sun setting past the mountain ridge and her
still-distraught father entering the room, Felicity had left a finally dry-eyed
Samantha with a sisterly hug, and walked out of the hospital to the waiting
car—
And no sooner had she fallen into her seat in the back than she crumpled
against the back of the passenger seat, a faint squeak heralding a earthquake
of sobs into arms folded against the seat back. Beside her, Chelsea could
do nothing but caress Felicity’s shuddering back while she sobbed out the
anguish of the day, rubbing solace between her friend’s quaking shoulder blades
with soft fingertips. In front, Megan and Ginger looked on while Felicity
wrung out the horrors she had supped full of in the company of Samantha.
Forthwith, her shoulders gradually stopped shuddering, the gasping sobs
trailed off breathily, and with a shaky gulp she raised a wet face to her
friends. Before she could speak, she shook her head, still overwhelmed by
what Samantha had told her. Chelsea moved to speak to Felicity, encourage
her to talk—but Ginger shook her head at her. No, was the message in her
black eyes. Give her space. Let her say what she can in her own
time and way. Felicity blinked hard, more tears springing into gray eyes
already saturated with horror—
“They…they made her—made her mom watch. Made her watch while they…they made them…made them…” and the horror drowned her
again, her face falling into her hands as the earthquake again shook Felicity’s
shoulders…
************************
Alyson had finally been relieved by Detective O’Malley returning to the scene
at the McBride house, reinforced with more evidence technicians. She had
already gathered blood samples from the spots on the floor and coffee table and
futon, swabbed up hair samples, and organized the photos and video Trish and Krysten had taken. She had identified the cuts on the
ropes as coming from a kitchen knife from the house—clearly done by a horrified
Mr. McBride upon discovering his ravaged family—and gotten swabs from the
abandoned duct tape. And catalogued the impressions and indentations in
the carpet, which along with a shift in the chair’s position betrayed by more
indentations in the carpet, made clear that… “They arranged the scene,”
she had told the detective. “Turned the chair and the futon so Mrs. McBride
was looking straight at…what they did. They forced her to watch.”
Words which clung to her memory as she drove back to the estate on the
low summit of Turkey Knob on the northern fringe of Center
City, the ancestral home of the DeRoziers.
Alyson and Channing had planned on renting their own place after the wedding
that summer, but Channing’s parents had insisted that they set up housekeeping
in the small, otherwise unoccupied guest house near the tree line surrounding
the DeRozier estate. Only on occupying the
house did the family realize that the long-empty place was in bad need of
maintenance, which led to the young couple being relocated into their own
little suite of rooms in the main house. No doubt, Alyson had theorized,
to keep Channing under Mrs. DeRozier’s thumb until he
got over his temporary insanity (as the elder Mrs. DeRozier
saw it) of being married to the déclassé gold-digger Alyson Carson.
Alyson did her best to steer clear of her mother-in-law—
But the face which greeted her in the front hall of
the expansive house was one she did not at all steer clear of. Marnie, Channing’s elder sister, also lived in the house
despite having just finished her law degree and entered employment with a local
law firm. Marnie had been blackballed from the
Sigma Chi sorority in which her mother had been enrolled, further blackening
the family escutcheon by joining their rival Gamma Kappa Epsilon sorority,
which sisterhood Alyson herself had joined. It had made the two young
women sisters of a sort, and Alyson always enjoyed Marnie’s
intelligent, modest company. “It was a bad one, I see,” the young,
elegant brunette said gently to Alyson as she opened the front door.
“Want to talk about it?” Alyson shook her head and edged past her
sister-in-law, in search of her husband…
************************
“It was good last night.”
The other nodded. “Yeah, good. Real good.”
“I want to do it again. It’s comin’ up
inside me. I want to do it again.”
“Yeah, me too.”
4 My More
Having
Richie Dwight was very good at reading his girlfriend Paula’s moods, and the
news from his sister Trish that she and the rest of the Snoop Towers Snoops had
been investigating a particularly nasty home invasion, only made the more clear
to him that Paula needed moral support that night more than romance.
And most of the rest of Snoop Towers also needed that support.
Drinking-age laws notwithstanding, Trish and Krysten,
with the full assent of Ginger, had decided that the denizens of Chateau Snoop
needed a bit of the grape to settle their nerves. Or at least they did,
and the rest could come along for the ride, Paula included. After a few
hours cataloguing the trace samples for the local and state police and working
up the DNA fingerprint for the two men on the university’s old but serviceable
RFLP equipment, Trish easily convinced Ginger to put her freshly-legal ID to
use at the Beer ‘N Wine Barn at the far end of Schaefer Street for a clutch of
large bottles of Arbor Mist sangria. Sweet wine
seemed to her to be the best choice for three traumatized freshmen who legally
weren’t quite allowed to drink but needed it.
Trish, seated beside her fiancé Bobby Martin on the
Chateau Snoop sofa, his arm around her shoulders, stared down into the dark red
filling her wineglass, crusted with a few crystals of the extra sugar with
which she had charged her drink. “You know what kills me?” The
other girls, reinforced with Richie, gazed somberly
at the most devoted investigator of the group. “We have them right in
that DNA. Everything about them is there—hair color,
eye color, ethnicity, everything. If they’re
right about telomerase strings, we even have their approximate age. And I
can’t get at it! They’re right there, so completely I could pick them out
of a lineup, and I can’t get at them! Just…to
know the right codings on the right chromosomes for
all the identifiable things, and we could practically
put out wanted posters, but…”
Bobby squeezed his fiancée’s shoulders. “Yeah, we know.” It was
Trish’s regular jeremiad; if only the genetic codings
for physical traits could be mapped out, unidentified suspects could be
accurately described using nothing but DNA. It was her young professional
obsession, and she tracked every development in the study of DNA and human traits,
even getting herself invited by Dr. McNeil to a number of genetic conferences.
“But it seems to me that for now your business is to figure out who these
two guys are with what you have.”
From her seat on the overstuffed chair beside the sofa, Krysten
smirked. “Which pretty much doesn’t amount to anything
unless the DNA fingerprint comes up with a match in the databases.
And by the time we find that out, who knows where they’ll be? All
we’re really able to do right now is catalogue all the trace evidence for the
police, and just wait. It’s all we have.” Nods from Missy and
Ginger affirmed miserable agreement.
“You’re saying all we have is one family ripped apart by a couple monsters,”
said Felicity, cross-legged on the floor across from the sofa, her wine glass
already empty. Beside her, Chelsea, still caressing her friend’s shoulder
encouragingly, eyed the wine bottles and considered pouring more for her.
Paula sat cradled in Richie’s lap where he lounged against the edge of the
weighty old used-furniture-store-refugee coffee table in front of the sofa.
His big soft embrace had rallied her, and between his embrace, the wine,
and the information she had found in the library that day, she nerved herself
to speak what had stirred her thoughts ever since the library shift. “Maybe not. There might be more.” Every Snoop
eyes turned toward her, and her native shyness trembled a little at the
attention. Richie didn’t know what Paula had to contribute to the
discussion, but he could tell she needed his moral support—he squeezed her a
little bit more—“I…was doing a little research at the library. Mrs.
Livermore saw I was upset, and so she let me do a little research when I asked,
and”—she gulped at the get-on-with-it glimmer in Trish’s bespectacled brown
eyes, and refocused—“well, anyway…there was an article in the paper about ten
years ago about another home invasion here in Snowden. Dr.
Howland’s house. It was confusing, because the article called it a
home invasion but said that no one was home at the time. And when I
looked up the article about James Alton’s men who attacked your friend’s
family, Tricia, I saw that the article”—
“Yeah, they faked a lot of it,” said Trish. “Jim Alton had a lot of
weight in the county, and they didn’t want to make it sound like he was…well,
what he was actually doing. They don’t treat him so nicely since
everything came out at his trial.”
“And you’re thinking Maggie knows something about the Howlands,”
said Krysten, returning to Paula’s point.
“There’s not much to it. It was the summer before you moved to
Snowden, Trish, going into sixth grade. The whole thing upset them, of
course—they went away for a few weeks, as I remember—but when they came back
they never really talked about it. He might never have said anything to
Maggie about it.”
Trish murmured. “And ten years ago. That’s a long time.”
Missy reached for the wine, then stopped, seeming to
wince at the thought of another hangover. “But still…you know, that was about when Bethany started…” She hesitated,
seeing all eyes on her. “She was always quiet, kind of a bookworm,
but…now that I think about it, she really started withdrawing from people, I guess you’d say. We know how that turned out.”
The older Snoops certainly did; their classmate Bethany Howland, by the
end of their school years, had become a hard-shelled introvert, with no social
life they could recall. No close friends. Absolutely
no romances. Hair dyed a deep reddish-black hue and a heavy frame
dressed in absolutely nothing stylish or creative. An
impenetrable barrier between her and the rest of the world beyond her family.
A Snowden State major in historical research, a major perfect for a
social recluse. Bethany Howland had tuned out the world.
“Lots of people change about that age, though,” said Felicity, reaching for
more wine for herself. “Puberty does that to a lot of people.”
Krysten had been struck by Missy’s recollection.
She stared into her sangria, her brow knitted. “Mrs. Howland was my
Girl Scout leader. She still runs the troop. I remember after the
burglary she started doing a lot of things about safety. Stranger awareness, things like that.”
Ginger shrugged. “That doesn’t tell much. She’d do that even if it
was just a regular burglary. The same with Bethany; a burglary right at
that age—what, eleven, twelve?—might have really affected her. And ten years ago. We’d have to just come right out
and ask her.”
“Well, it’s worth a try,” said Trish. “We really don’t have any other
evidence to go on, do we?”
************************
He had hardly had to travel. The house was a brisk walk away, bordering
the edge of Independence Park. His research told him the place would be
almost perfect; quiet and detached, and the right kind of people inside.
In fact, from his quiet place across the street from the 60’s-vintage rancher, he watched one of them enter.
His face was younger than the age on the ID photo the research had dug up from
the Allen County Community College server, a slim frame accentuating the
smooth, large-eyed face. Nothing robust about him,
light and lean. And inside, the other…yes, he decided, a smile on
his face. He’ll like this one. He’ll like this one a lot. And
we can even get an earlier start, have hours to play. The door closed on
the slim young man; as soon as it did, he walked away, already making plans…
************************
Richie had finally taken Paula upstairs, leaving Tricia to the living-room
sofa-bed. Bobby had left not long after midnight, leaving Tricia still
keyed up about the McBride case but unable to take any steps. Solace for
her was in her study, as always—the stroke of one found her pacing the living
room working on her chromosome locations for various disorders, distracted only
by thoughts of what a strand of DNA could reveal about an unknown criminal.
Her mind swirled around cytosine, adenine, guanine, and thymine—“Paula
throw you out of your room? Or is your brother up there entertaining
her?” Trish’s concentration was broken by Maggie’s wry observation—
And Trish remembered the other reason she was so willing to take the
living-room bed. “Just thinking through a case from
today. A home invasion out on Crawford Road.
A mom and her kids.” And even had Paula’s
research not suggested hypotheses to Tricia, the quickly-smothered
consternation in Maggie O’Hara’s eyes would have drawn Trish’s attention.
Maggie’s hurried turn back to the coat rack to deposit her jacket, in
Trish’s eyes, fairly screamed evasion, raising Tricia’s uneasy suspicions even
higher. She nerved herself to ask—
“I’m beat. I think I had a few too many. Hannah’s even worse
off—she’s staying over at GKE House. She’ll be hung over even worse
tomorrow than she was today. ‘Night.” And
before Trish could ask, Maggie was up the stairs in a most suspicious hurry…
************************
She didn’t mind having the early-morning breakfast shift at the Denny’s.
She was a natural early riser, and liked making money while having her
afternoons free for classes and her own relaxation and entertainment. Her
brother might be content to part-time at ACCC and work at the Staples—no, she
would remind herself, that was uncharitable; he was serious about his IT
studies, and helping the service techs at the big-box office house was as
useful an entré to the field as any other—but she had
bigger aspirations. Two years at ACCC, then finish her
elementary-education degree work at Snowden State. Waiting tables for the
early-morning breakfast crowd at Denny’s was a valuable exercise in human
relations, helpful for learning how to deal with the parents she would face in
her future career. And the busy pace was already helping to shed a few
pounds; she had already had to reduce her uniform a size, with prospects of yet
another. The regulars—mostly older couples, old enough to be her
grandparents in many cases—often complimented her on her weight loss, and she
had even drawn the eye of a couple boys in the ACCC student union, one of whom
had gone out of his way to speak to her in the school’s canteen. Maybe
he’ll get up the nerve to ask me out, she again wondered with a smile as she
brushed her reddish-brown hair back into a sleek little ponytail appropriate
for her shift at the restaurant. No, she teased herself with a smile as she
secured her ponytail in place with a pair of demure hair clips behind her ears
and brushed down the shoulders of her uniform shirt, maybe I should ask him
out! Something simple at first—a lunch downtown in Center
City, a stroll around Independence Park afterward, and then—
The doorbell struck away her reverie, and she involuntarily checked the small
Timex watch already strapped to her right wrist. Who would be at the door
at five-thirty in the morning? Maybe Dad—no, he’s not due for two more
days, and why would he ring his own doorbell anyway? Nothing happened to
him on his trip, could it? No, he or Mr. Barnaby would call us. The
bell rang again, a quick punch. She smirked at her reflection in the
mirror—well, no one else is awake, so I guess it’s up to me to answer.
Mom would sleep in an extra hour and still have time to go to church, and
Spence will be dead to the world until almost noon after such a late night with
his friends last night. She sighed and padded through the dark hallway,
peeked out the small window in the front door into the dim pre-morning—
No one there. If this is some prank by those little twerps down the road,
they’re going to be sorry! I’ll—and she saw a small box on the front
stoop. Does FedEx deliver at this time in the morning? A long
moment of deliberation, and she stepped onto the stoop—leaned down to pick up
the package—
She didn’t even have time to gather a breath to scream—
5 To
Hunger More
Krysten was unfazed by the pre-dawn darkness which
presented itself to her through the basement windows. She was the
earliest riser in Chateau Snoop, comfortable with waking to darkness; she
glanced at Missy, with whom she had shared the basement “guest room” bed to
allow Paula and Richie their private time, and smiled at her stone-asleep old
friend. It was like the old times of their childhood, sleepovers finished
off in Missy’s bed, Krysten always awake long before
Missy would stir. She had spent many a post-sleepover morning chatting
with Ms. Bonhart in the kitchen, helping make
breakfast, until Missy awoke to begin her day. But the kitchen upstairs
in Snoop Towers was still and dark; no friends’ mothers to welcome her awake.
She passed the living room, and saw that other best friend in the world
Tricia also stretched in perfect slumber. She knew exactly why Trish had
taken the sofa-bed, and wondered idly whether she had gotten to talk to Maggie
about the Howland burglary/invasion. For a moment she considered waking
Trish to ask, but she had also had far too much experience with Trish in a
semi-conscious state to bother with the effort. No, she decided, she
would shower and dress, grab a bite for breakfast, and when Trish finally woke
up, she would find out what if anything Trish had discovered. It would make
for a smoother-run morning…
************************
Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely hear the words whispered
into her ear at her brother’s bedroom door. Only the knife blade at her
throat kept her able to hear and respond to the man’s threats—“Get him out
here, bitch. And if you try anything to warn him, I’ll cut your fuckin’ head off.” The other man—taller, leaner, but
with his features hidden by the ski mask—waited at the door, his own knife in
his hand. “And I’ll cut him and your mom up into dog food, so mind what
you do.”
Sarah tried to steady a voice she knew she would not be able to control, the
knife and the words and the two masked invaders leaving her in a state on blank
terror. Her hesitation provoked the man to dig the knife blade a millimeter deeper into the flesh of her throat—she fought
back a whimper—“Spence? Spencer, are you awake?” The knife edge
changed its angle a degree—“Spencer?” She heard him shift on his bed, as
if he had heard his name but was too sleepy to immediately respond—“Spence, I
need you for a second.” A somnolent grumble from behind
the door, the sleepy protest at having his sleep disturbed once again by his
insistent sister. “Please?” and she knew her plea was as much for
the two invaders as it was for her brother. Another whimper boiled up in
her throat as she heard sleepy feet scuffle along the floor behind his door…
************************
Chelsea had remained in her own rock-like sleep as Krysten
had gathered her toiletries for her morning shower. After the luxuriantly
long shower that was the regular reward for her early-rising habits, she
returned to her bedroom in the first translucence of gray morning light to see
her younger sister shifting on her bed, sleep loosening its grip on her but not
yet vanquished by wakefulness. Morning carried a hint of chill in the air
which teased Krysten’s bare flesh as she replaced her
bathrobe on its hook inside the door, so she hurried to her dresser and
selected her outfit for morning. Services at the First United Methodist
Church were the usual centerpiece of her Sunday
routine, and the morning chill suggested an outfit a bit warmer than she had
been selecting through summer and early autumn; a modest calf-length
half-sleeve dress in an earthy brownish-red hue, heavier cotton than the
dresses she wore for services during the warmer months. Sheer hose and
red flats which matched her dress. The lustrous gold
cross on its heavy gold chain which Tyler had bought for her when he moved west
for the show. As she dressed, starting with her most modest
underwear for the occasion, she smiled at her sister, slowly rising from the
depths of her sleep. She usually knew better than to try to bug Chelsea
into going to church with her; worship services were something she had left
behind when she moved into Snoop Towers. For Krysten,
however, services were a touchstone for her, calming and re-focusing her after
a long hectic week—and yesterday had left her more unsettled than she would be
after any normal week. It was so for Chelsea too, and as she wriggled
into her unmentionables, Krysten wondered whether
this morning was one in which she might actually succeed at convincing her
sister to try church again…
************************
The men wasted no subtlety on the business of waking Mrs. Merritt; with both of
her children under control, knives at both their throats, there was no need to
decoy or coax the woman out of her room. With Sarah held immobile, tight
against the older man—as her panicked reason suggested to her that he
was—Spencer was allowed only enough motion to reach down and open his mother’s
unlocked door, even that digging his throat against the knife the leaner,
younger man held to him. “Get up, bitch.” The older one glanced at
the younger one as the woman—wavy brown hair with a scattering of gray, soft
round face with only a few nascent lines gathering at the corners of the eyes
and lips, a soft maternal frame draped with a modest, simple nightie—stirred against her pillow, far from wakefulness.
“Get the fuck up!” louder and rougher, but still no open eyes—and he
wrenched the tip of his knife blade down into Sarah’s flesh—she squealed as the
tip nicked into her—and the woman’s eyes flicked open—started—blinked away her
sleep—then lit upon the sight of her two children with knives at their throats
held by two ski-masked men—
************************
Pre-dawn gray had begun resolving into blue clarity as Krysten
slipped her feet into her red flats, the last bit of her morning preparations.
Her clothes were immaculate, her hair pinned back neatly without a single
stray strand, her makeup—conservative but smart—smooth and perfect. She
would, as usual for Sunday, eschew breakfast until after the early service; she
found her appetite was all the sharper after church—and besides, her mother
would almost certainly have sent her traditional Sunday invitation to her
daughters to breakfast at home. The invitation would of course be for
everyone in the Chateau, which meant that the only issue Krysten
would have would be keeping Ginger from flirting with her mother. It was
an old Ginger O’Day routine, her way of rallying the
newly-abandoned and –divorced Mrs. Parker into renewing her social and romantic
life, kept up even after her efforts had borne fruit in the guide of the much
younger Shaun Walker. But Ginger O’Day hitting
on Mom would be a small annoyance beside a comforting church service and a
home-cooked meal which she did not have to cook…
************************
“Please, Sarah’s cut, she’s hurt”—but Mrs. Merritt had barely moved a foot to
go to her daughter’s aid before the younger man, between the two, nearly felled
her with a vicious backhand slap to her face with the hand which still clutched
his knife; the clenched hand and the handle of the knife made the slap into a
short heavy punch.
“You just shut the fuck up and do what we tell you,” said the older man, again
angling the edge of the knife against Sarah’s throat. “You got a
basement, don’t you? Well?”
The woman tried to steady her feet beneath her, one hand caressing her
already-bruised jaw, her eyes stinging with pain-driven tears.
“D-downstairs, just a small sitting room, just a few”—
“Shut the fuck up and take us down there. Don’t try any stupid shit.”
She had finally steadied herself, stricken expressions on her children’s faces
steeling her to maintain control. “I’ll take you there. But please,
just take what you want and I promise we won’t”—and the younger man’s raised
hand stopped her plea—
“Don’t you fuckin’ worry about what we want, bitch.
You just worry about doing what we tell you. Now show us this
basement, and don’t try any stupid shit.” Propelled to the door by the
young man’s sudden grip on her elbow, Mrs. Merritt stumbled into the hallway,
her mind racing in a search for a way to placate the burglars…
************************
Trish, despite her stone-like sleep, had been vaguely aware of activity
beginning to stir in the Chateau. Her eyes opened to morning light filtering
through the window curtains, and knew that Krysten
would be off to early services at church. How the heck can she be awake
at this time on a Sunday? I’m not functional this early, even on Sundays
I’m cantoring! But wakefulness would not be denied,
so she surrendered to it enough to squint at her phone screen to find the time.
Seven in the morning. I don’t want to hear
anybody here tease me about sleeping all day! She rolled to the edge of
the sofa-bed, tentatively sought the floor with a bare foot. Yes, the
floor is still there. I ought to kill Krys for
waking me up this early. She wandered toward the main downstairs hallway,
and by chance her eye fell on the coat rack—hey, where’s Maggie’s jacket?
She left it there last night! There’s no way she’s awake and out of
here this early on a Sunday! Not even the one Sunday every month she
makes it to Mass gets her up this early! What the heck is with her?
Breakfast in a quiet kitchen. Cooking was far
too much work for her when semi-conscious; she couldn’t even rally herself to
fix a bowl of cereal. Yeah, a banana.
That’ll do. It’s still mostly yellow, even, and no gnats flying
around it. Yeah, fresh enough for too early on a
Sunday. Where the heck could you have gone to, Maggie?
A quick stop at her bedroom door, cracked open. She peeked inside—Paula
and Richie sound asleep. You wore each other out, didn’t you? You
could at least put on a nightie when you and my
brother are finished, you know, Paula. At least you didn’t leave any of your
toys on the floor; I’d have made you clean the whole room! She retrieved
her small basket of toiletries and picked fresh underwear from her dresser, cast an eye toward her wardrobe. I really
ought to go to Mass this morning—no, Doc McNeil might
need me in the lab if they get any more trace. It might even give me time
to wake up. For the love of God, Krys, why
aren’t you ever happy unless you’re waking me up too early?
Hannah and Maggie’s room half-open as Trish passed on her way to the bathroom.
Could Maggie really be—yeah, she really is out of here! What’s up
with that? I’m usually the one waking her up! Maybe she went out to
the Cook Pot to grab breakfast? No, she wouldn’t bother. Maybe a
shower will wake up my brain.
Empty bathroom. Thank God. I get most of
the hot water. She adjusted the water in the shower, slumped out of her nightie and dragged herself inside, closed the curtain
behind her. Darn you, Krysten…
************************
The older invader gave a satisfied nod. “Yeah, this one’s nice. Real nice.” The carpet was thick dark blue, the
sofas—two of them, one rather outdated, the other not as much—plush and
comfortable, the two overstuffed chairs matching one of the sofas. The
walls were faux brick, the drop ceiling relatively new, straight and level and
pierced with a modestly ornate lighted ceiling fan. A modest fireplace at
the far end, accoutered with workmanlike tools and a
small stack of firewood. Solidly middle-class, as was the 50-inch Sony TV
set in a well-assembled store-bought entertainment center.
There was some money in the household; perhaps not a lot, but the Merritts were clearly comfortable. Dad
on some kind of business trip, no doubt. Perfect. He scanned
the room, the sofas, the chairs. We can make it
work. The mother and daughter cowered together in the younger man’s grip,
the son trembled in his. You know, unless I’m mistaken, this kid might
be… “Over there, you little fuckin’ wiener,”
and he flung the young man toward the fireplace. The morning carried only
a slight chill, which could not account for the tremor which seized Spencer in
his tee-shirt-and-shorts sleepwear; as the younger man flung Sarah beside her
brother, clad in her work uniform, she too trembled the same way. Terror. Perfect. And now to start—
“Hold still, bitch,” said he as he dragged Mrs. Merritt in front of him with
one hand, the other hand digging into the bag his younger colleague wore on his
shoulder. The hand emerged with a neatly-cut length of sisal rope, which
made the two youths who saw it gape and shudder even more. The cord, as
with all sisal rope, was wiry and rough, furred with loose fibers
which promised much scraping and digging into bare flesh. The mother,
turned away from him, as yet did not see what was intended for her bindings,
even as her captor yanked her arms behind her and pinned her wrists together.
But she at the very least understood his immediate intention for her; she was
to be tied up. We won’t be able to fight them as they burglarize the
house. Stay calm and don’t resist. Let them get their business done
so they won’t hurt us. It’s only property, we can replace it. The
most important thing is Spencer and Sarah, keep them from coming to harm.
Cooperate for their sakes. Even as the man began tying her
hands, she kept her voice as even and calm as she could in the frightening
situation. “Please…just take whatever you want. We won’t try to
stop you, we won’t even call the police. We
don’t have all that much, but you’re welcome to take whatever you want.
Please.” He remained silent behind her as he continue
to play the rough rope on her wrists. “Just don’t hurt us. We
aren’t dangerous. Just take what you want and we won’t make any trouble.”
The younger man, behind her shoulder, giggled, a laugh
which for the first time hinted to Mrs. Merritt that something other than
burglary was in the minds of her captors. “Oh, we’ll take what we want,
bitch, you count on that. We’ll take everything we want. From all of you!” He took a step forward, his knife
brandished toward Mrs. Merritt’s cowering son and daughter, still fully in her
sight as the other man forced her to her knees. “First thing is your
clothes, kids. Take ‘em off. All of ‘em. Get naked!”
Mrs. Merritt gasped as the enormity of what was intended for her children
started to resolve in her imagination—but her protest was choked by a knife
blade at her throat—
“You just keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, bitch.
Just do what we tell you and watch. Here, I’ll help you do that!”
From behind, the knife disappeared, but the gloved hand pried open her
mouth while the other rammed a thick cloth between her lips. She could
not cry out or protest while the older man finished tying off her gag and the
younger man menaced Spencer and Sarah into starting to strip off their clothes…
************************
Felicity blinked herself awake in the cool darkness of her well-curtained
bedroom, picked out Ginger’s sleeping form still in her bed. Quarter to
eight. Don’t you work today, Ginger? You need to get up out of bed!
Felicity herself had rolled herself to a seat on the edge of her bed, ran
her hands through her tousled black locks, smacked her
lips against the rank taste of her night’s sleep. The previous night’s
sangria nagged a little at her head, a smidgen of headache behind her bleared
eyes. And people actually think spending a night drinking their asses silly is somehow fun. Idiots.
And if it was supposed to make me feel better about
yesterday—yeah, not so much. Her dreams had centered
on that chill, antiseptic emergency-room cubicle, Samantha McBride curled up
and trembling on the bed in a skimpy hospital gown, unable to look straight at
Felicity, blinking at her through shaking fingers. But her dreams merged into
a Sherlock-style scene, each horrid act perpetrated on the child
hovering over her in legible words, words which stabbed at her stomach even as
she rose from the bed to gather her shower materials. And her imagination
reeled again at the thought of what had been done to her little brother—
“When you finally pry Trish out of the shower, get dressed and go down to the
hospital. Samantha needs to know you’re still there to help her.”
Felicity had started for a moment, then located Ginger’s eye glimmering
up at her from her pillow. How did she—“And you need to see that she’s
going to be okay.” Felicity nodded as she gathered her bathrobe…
************************
Mrs. Merritt could not voice the scream that gathered in her throat; her gag choked
off her voice, filled her mouth so that she had to fight to keep from choking
on the cloth which stifled her. A scream was the only protest she could
make at the scene searing her sight; she knelt bound on the floor, her bound
hands tied to her bound ankles in a kneeling hogtie. Even though she had
nearly torn her arms out of their sockets with the desperation of her struggles
against her bonds, she was helpless to fight what she saw before her—
“Panties too, you fat little bitch.” Sarah, her mind all but effaced by
the knife and the humiliating orders from the younger invader, gibbered an unsteady whimper as she bent to remove the last
of her clothes, which she had desperately hoped to preserve. “Quit
covering yourself up, you fat little fucking cow. Hands
behind you. You too, you skinny-ass fucking
wiener.” A quick terrified glance at his sister timorously putting
her hands behind her, and Spencer too obeyed, clutching his hands behind his
back as the younger man reached into his bag again…
6 The
Cistern of my Lust
Krysten was always early for the first morning
service, her little red Escort in the lot even before the pastor’s. The
sun warmed the interior of the car as she waited for Mom and her baby sister
Ginny to arrive. Usually, she was first into the sanctuary, able to pick
her favorite seat and hold it for Mom and Ginny.
But as much a touchstone as Sunday services were for her, there was also
case business to take care of this morning, for the Howlands—at
least the parents and the youngest, Merri—were
regular attendees as well. The question had percolated through her mind
all the previous night after it had been brought up; why did Mrs.
Howland get so concerned about safety after the burglary so long ago?
Sure, Ginger’s thesis that it was a natural outgrowth of the burglary was
most likely, but something about the case would not let her go. Not just
the sudden interest in personal safety; Mrs. Howland herself had changed.
She was still sunny and pleasant, but ever since the burglary there was
sometimes something forced about it, a persona that Mrs. Howland seemed to play
sometimes for the benefit of her Girl Scout charges. Chris had always
been shy, Bethany backward, and both had only gotten more so afterwards.
It was Merri who most resembled the old Mrs.
Howland nature, bright and open and generous and unconquerably nice.
Could a mere burglary change the others so much?
The big old Ford Expedition with the Mountaintop Veterinary Hospital logo on
the side, picking its way into the old parking lot after a few other cars
before it, heralded the possible answer to her question. The passenger
door opened slowly, the door behind it popping open quickly. Mrs. Howland
stepped out carefully, short plump legs descending from the high perch of the
big vehicle requiring caution; behind her, ‘tween-aged
Meredith, plump like her mother but much younger, was much less concerned with
caution. While Carolyn Howland edged down from her high perch in a
slacks-and-blouse set just dark-blue enough to hide any accidental stains, Merri, as she was called by all and sundry, plopped to
earth in a princess-waisted pink dress voluminous
enough to conceal her chubby frame and allow her to move comfortably on her
matching pink flats. Both mother and daughter, like Krysten
herself, were redheads, their hair rather more orange than Krys’
fiery, wavy tresses, and the old connection of Girl Scouting was a common
ground which steered both Howland girls straight to Krysten
as soon as they saw her. “Hey Krysten!” was Merri’s piping-bright greeting as soon as she saw her
friend, and Merri fairly ran to her former fellow
scout, Mom trailing in her wake with a welcoming smile for an old friend.
“How’s it been? I miss you at Scouts! It’d be cool if you
came out to a meeting again! I”—
“She’s still the same Merri, isn’t she?”
Carolyn’s smile was that of a loving aunt to a beloved niece, much the
same smile she lavished on all her scouts, past and present. “But I did
want to ask you about that Campus Scouts idea I told you about. You and
Trish could get it started, and now your sister and Felicity are going to
State, so”—
Krysten’s smile interrupted Mrs. Howland’s renewed
sales pitch. “I think Chelsea might like to, maybe Lissy
too. But I was hoping to see you this morning about something else, Mrs.
H. I wanted to ask you about”—but the chirp of Mom’s car horn interrupted
Krysten’s inquiry, Mom gliding her new-used Beetle
between the Howland Expedition and Krysten’s Escort.
It can wait, Krysten decided as she caught a
glimpse of her baby sister Ginny wiggling happily in her car seat…
************************
Sarah’s squeal of pain as the taller, younger invader tightened the sisal rope
around her wrists only prodded him to laugh. The cord dug into her soft
plump flesh, its rough wiry texture dug tightly into wrists crossed in the
small of her back. Her fists had been clenched as the rope was looped
around her wrists, but the deep cutting grip loosened them, leaving fingers
already tingling with slowed circulation to hang limply—“Aww,
does that hurt?” he said as he knotted off her bindings, and Sarah felt her
stomach turn as the irony in his voice cut into her. Is he going to hurt
me even more than this?
“P-please, it’s too tight. You don’t have to tie my hands so tight, I
promise I won’t”—and the sudden short backhanded slap from behind snapped her
face to her right shoulder, her cheek suddenly afire.
“Just shut the fuck up, or I’ll make you shut up.” Her pained whimper,
blending from Mom’s gag-muffled shriek from the floor where she knelt, brought
forth another giggle. “See your mom there? We can stuff the same
kind of shit down your throat!”
Sarah glanced up at her elder brother beside her, who winced as his own wrists
were bound by the other invader in the same manner Sarah’s had been.
We’re all tied up now, all of us, and we can’t fight back against them.
We have to keep them calm, do what they tell us. We have to—“No,
please, I’ll be quiet, sir,” said Sarah softly, her words slurred by the pain
of a cheek mashed against her teeth, already starting to swell. “We all
will, won’t we, Spence?” Spencer nodded, his eyes wide, his lip
trembling.
His heart was racing, his mind swirling not just with the terror of the two
masked invaders, but also the shame of not having protected his mother and
sister. With Dad away, he was acutely aware that, as inadequate as he
was, he was the “man of the house,” and he had failed to protect Mom and Sarah.
Now there was no fighting back, merely the need to do what was necessary
to placate the two men. “Yes,” he said, his
voice a defeated, ashamed murmur. “We’ll do whatever you want.” And
the giggle which escaped the tall young invader at Spencer’s humiliated
acquiescence struck horror into the hearts of all three Merritts…
************************
Chelsea Parker had been fully awake while Krysten had
dressed for church in their room, but had kept herself perfectly somnolent, the
better to keep Krys from pestering her about church.
Ever since Dad had skipped out on Mom, she had turned her back on
anything even vaguely suggesting worship; Dad was well-known as one of the most
pious of men in Snowden, and the hypocrisy of cheating on Mom, then leaving her
pregnant with Ginny while he skipped off with that hospital receptionist made
the very thought of church repulsive to her. Most of their
Wednesday-night acquaintances at Dad’s beloved Pure Faith Baptist Temple blamed
the breakup on Mrs. Parker—she should have been more attentive to his needs, many
of them declared—and the rest seemed indifferent. While the friends at
Mom’s First United Methodist were more sympathetic to Diane’s cause, and many
rallied to help her move on from the breakup, Chelsea still could not reconcile
herself with darkening the door of any church. Krysten could keep up family appearances, but Chelsea
herself was having none of it. Instead, after enough time that she was
sure her sister was out of the house, she rolled out of bed in her skimpy
gray-fleece tee-shirt nightie, gave herself a cursory
glance in Krysten’s vanity mirror, tousled her
short-trimmed red locks, and decided on a bit of breakfast. She was off
work that day—usual for a Sunday—and was perfectly content to give herself a
day of absolute relaxation after the harrowing Saturday she had endured.
She blinked her eyes fully open, debated for a moment whether she needed
slippers to go downstairs—
And her phone went off. A glance at the
screen—oh shit. Courtney. Yeah, she manages day shift on the
weekends now that she’s going back to college herself. What the hell does
she want from me? Somebody called off, I bet. Somebody decided to
play sick, and of course I’m the first person Courtney thinks to—“‘Sup,
Courtney?” She listened sleepily to her manager—“Sarah? Sarah Merritt
didn’t show up? Little Miss Sunshine?
Didn’t even call in to…that’s weird, she’s not
the type to ignore her phone. Did you…Oh, come on, Courtney! Do you
know how long it’ll take me to stop over there and check? I live in
Snowden, you know, and it’ll take me long enough just to get to the restaurant
to cover for…It’s not that slow before eleven, you have all the
early-bird people who go to sunrise services like my sister, and…Well, okay,
whatever. It’s your problem if you get swamped before I get there, but I
can check over at her place for you. Why can’t anyone else from down
there…yeah, whatever. It’s what I get for being your frickin’
favorite! See you at quarter ‘til, then.” Great. Just fucking great.
Just the way I wanted to spend my Sunday. The tips better be fucking
good today! But of course they won’t; the Sunday-brunch-after-church
crowd are the cheapest fucking tippers of all! It doesn’t matter to
Sarah, of course; she just loves talking to people like that. But it is
weird that Miss Sarah Sunshine is ditching a day. Not even answering her
phone. Maybe she finally went out with that guy she always talks about
from ACCC and slept in. That’d be funny as hell…
************************
From her knees where she had been flung in front of Spencer, Sarah blinked in
nauseous horror at the command the younger man giggled at her. How can I
do that? How can you even ask me to do that? My own brother!
My God—“What the hell?” said the older man, his voice an acidic scoff.
“You never had a boyfriend to know what the fuck to do? Hell, even
fat cows like you get boyfriends! You some kind of nun
or something? Or don’t you play with boys?” She wanted with
all her soul to protest—but he’s my brother! I can’t do that to my
brother! Why are you making me—but a squeal from her mother, over
her shoulder, caught her attention. Mom’s face was ashen and blank with
horror at what the invaders were demanding of her daughter, her eyes wide and
round and wet—but Sarah, in her one glance, caught a message, perhaps in the
glimmer of her eyes, or the angle of her head, or the tone of the whimper the
gag allowed her. Our first job is to survive. We have to do what
they tell us. We have to placate them—and suddenly her scalp was afire as
the younger invader dragged her head facing Spencer again with a vicious tug on
her straying ponytail. “Or are you just fucking stupid? Do what
he fucking tells you, you stupid fucking fat cunt!” The younger man
took away any choice she had in the matter; he yanked on her ponytail again as
if it was a joystick, lowering her face, while with the other hand he pinched
her mouth open, dragging her lower jaw down—she squealed, her stomach heaving
at the monstrousness of what she was being forced to do—
************************
“What are you doing up so early?”
Felicity, just outside the bathroom door just opened by Trish, replied with a
dry, smiling smirk. “Says the girl who eats breakfast at one in the
afternoon!”
“You know, you’re not done pledging the sorority, Little Sister. I can
arrange a nice little Rite of Correction for you!” Trish’s smile hinted
that she was mostly kidding. “No, seriously, what gets you up this early?
Krysten woke me up with her running around
getting ready for church, so I decided to go hang out at the lab to keep
working on the trace from yesterday.”
The subject of yesterday sobered Felicity as well. “Going
down to visit Samantha before I’m on at work. I can’t just leave
her down there, you know.” A door opening down the hall started the
two—“You too, Chell? What’s with everyone
getting up so early?” Chelsea explained her predicament from work—“That’s
weird. Sarah Merritt didn’t strike me as the type who ditches work.”
She had met Sarah Merritt during the spring, when car trouble meant that
Chelsea and Felicity—whose jobs were close to each other, Felicity in the Deb
clothing store in the Allen Valley Mall, Chelsea in the Denny’s built just
beside it—car-pooled to Center City while Chelsea got
her disabled old Cavalier back into running shape.
Chelsea grunted affirmation. “Everyone’s up too early this morning.
I heard Maggie blowing out of here even before Krys
did. It’s entirely unnatural. And I’m going to spend the day
getting shitty tips from the holy-roller crowd.”
Felicity snorted a chuckle. “Sweet. And I
get to stand around and talk with ‘Ren. Sunday evening is always slow.
So who gets the next shower? I want to get down to the hospital and
see Samantha, and you have to go check up on Sarah.”
“You go ahead,” said Chelsea. “That poor kid was in a really bad way, and
I only have to be at work at eleven. If I find Sarah sleeping in, I’m
dragging her with me!” And Chelsea was almost capable of doing that…
************************
Sarah had been dragged away from Spencer, thrown toward a sofa, draped
face-first over it. From where she had been forced, she could look over
her shoulder and see the younger man dragging Spencer toward her—“Now let’s see
you do something with it, you wiener! Make this little pig squeal!
Here she is for you, just waiting for it!” Her stomach flipped
inside her as she understood what the man was forcing Spencer to do to
her—please, no—“The fuck? What’s wrong with you, wiener?”
************************
Maggie O’Hara was surprised at how well she could function on an early Sunday
morning. Usually—except for the one Sunday per month or so that Trish
managed to guilt-trip her into going to Mass at St. Ignatius—Sunday was for
sleeping in, casual reading or practice at the university dance studio, and
occasionally doing some classwork. A day of lazy snacking, and as much slacking as her schedule
allowed.
But then Tricia mentioned a home invasion on Crawford Road, a
mother and kids. She was up and around the living room, and even
at her most obtuse, Maggie knew that Trish was waiting for her. And there
was only one reason Trish would be doing that after a home invasion involving a
mother and kids.
Hence her early-morning brisk walk toward the Snowden Commons Apartments.
As soon as she had escaped up the stairs to her room, she had sent a
text, but had received no answers. Another text,
and another. No answer. Maggie knew that she often didn’t answer
texts; her friend very often made herself deliberately incommunicado to the
rest of the world. The young woman could easily curl up with a book and
bury herself in it for hours, if not days, and would
seal herself off from all contact with humanity until she was ready to
re-emerge. It must be a good thing for a historical-research major to do
that. On the other hand, it was a trait which made Maggie rise at an
ungodly hour to actually go meet with her face-to-face. At least the
weather isn’t bad. It would have been a real witch to walk over there in
the rain.
The sun was fully up by the time Maggie reached the Snowden Commons Apartments
lobby. She needed only a moment to spot the correct intercom switch,
punched the button—punched again—one more time—“Beth, it’s me, Maggie.
Are you up yet? Good. I need to talk to you—unless I’m very
mistaken, Trish Dwight is going to be looking you up this morning. A case
she’s working on. No, I’d better wait until I’m up there to explain.
Please? It’s important.” Bethany Howland agreed to let Maggie
enter…
************************
Spencer had seen the same warning in Mom’s eyes as Sarah had. Do what
they want. Keep them placated. Don’t give them cause to be even
more violent. He had kept quiet as Sarah had been forced upon him, his
heart riving at the sickened horror on her face as she did as she was forced,
even as his body responded. But now the younger man dragged him across to
where Sarah had been draped face-first over the sofa, her backside defenselessly in the air, her bound hands ineffectually
grasping at nothing. “Make this little pig squeal!” No. No!
I can’t do this! Not to my sister—not to a girl! He went
limp—“The fuck? What’s wrong with you, wiener? Don’t you like girls
or something?” And his stomach curled up inside him…
************************
“I knew you would be here. When I saw you weren’t cantoring,
I knew I’d see you here.” As a St. Ignatius parishioner herself, she knew
who would be the cantor on any given Mass.
“And a nice big Good Morning to you too, Doc,” Trish greeted Dr. McNeil as they
both strode from the front doors toward the biological-trace lab. “I just
thought I’d get in a little more work on the trace from the McBrides.”
“Your nose is brown enough, Ms. Dwight! You don’t have to keep it up for
my sake.”
“Well, there’s a little more I wanted to ask you about. Paula reminded us
of an old case, the Howlands, ten years ago. It
sounds like it might have some parallels. Yeah, I know, before your time
here, Doc, but I thought maybe you could pull a few strings and get us whatever
evidence they might still have.”
Calico allowed herself a chuckle as she unlocked the lab doors. “You’re
still not awake, I see. No, I wasn’t here back then, but you know who
was. Your old buddy Detective Klasko.
Why he hasn’t moved to Florida yet, I don’t know, but he’d be the one to
talk to about that case.”
Trish rolled her eyes in self-disgust. “I blame it on the…well, I had a little help sleeping last night.” She
picked out her phone and checked the time. “He might be over at the Cook
Pot getting lunch. Patty melt with fries, a
slice of peach cobbler, and coffee black.” During her stint as a waitress
there, she had taken Dennis Klasko’s lunchtime order
enough times to still have it memorized.
“If you go past Bauman’s Bakery, bring back cinnamon rolls!” They would
be sold out, Trish said to herself as Calico’s sendoff
echoed in her head…
************************
The younger invader’s face blanched, and Spencer quivered. He knows!
Oh God, he knows—“Shit. Holy fucking shit! You are!
You’re a fucking faggot! Some skinny
fudge-packing homo!” And it seemed to a terrified Spencer that the
young man’s eyes boiled into red fury—
7
Bellona’s Bridegroom
The older invader, for just an instant, thought to intervene when the other
lost it—not a good idea, dude—but in the end let him have his way. Yeah, I get
it. Can’t blame him, really. I should have
guessed about this kid Spencer that he was a queer. Just
something about him. Hell, he might just kill that skinny-ass
fudge-packer. I guess I can’t blame him for that, either. And as
the other poured out savage blows on the defenseless
young man Spencer, savage fists to his defenseless
face, his body, knees to his groin—as the mother and sister shrieked and
writhed in horror at the scene, as Spencer himself slumped unconscious to the
floor, gushing blood from his head—he felt his arousal stirring in him.
Sarah had been left ungagged, and he knew her screams
might rouse attention from the neighboring houses, so
he could add necessity to the motivatior of his
rising lust—and he dragged Sarah to her knees by her ponytail. Her face
turned again toward the beating her brother was enduring, the blows raining
down on his face, his body—until her face was yanked back to look up at the
older invader—“You just shut the fuck up, little pig,” said the man as he undid
his black jeans—
“No, please, not again,” she whimpered as she tried feebly to pull away from
him, revulsed by what she had already been forced to
do to Spencer, horrified that she was going to be forced again—
“Just shut the fuck up and do what you’re told,” and Sarah’s stomach turned
inside her as she was forced down again—
************************
The interstate to Center City was only lightly-traveled on a Sunday morning, and Felicity had her Intrepid pacing at a comfortably fun clip on nearly-empty
lanes. The brisk pace made her focus on the driving more than on what
awaited her at the end of the trip, the broken daughter of the broken McBride
family. Maybe Caleb would be awake too, and he would
need so much help to face what had been done to him, to deal with damage
that should never have been afflicted on such a little boy. The thought
made Felicity shrink again, and she forced her attention back onto the road,
made herself focus on the driving, Chelsea’s amusing irritability, anything
that would take her mind for a moment off what awaited her in those small rooms
at Center City General…
************************
Chelsea knew she cut a fair figure, even in her Denny’s uniform. Despite
her diminutive frame and her freckles and her short-trimmed red hair, there was
no mistaking Chelsea Parker for anything other than a pretty young woman,
evidenced by her talent for nice tips from the male customers. No, that’s
not all looks; Sarah gets nice tips too, mostly because of that charming little
girl-next-door friendliness of hers. And she’s got a pleasant face,
too. A little plump, but there are plenty fatter.
I wonder what could have gotten into her for her to ditch work?
A last tug into place for her uniform shirt, a last quick
comb through her hair. Makeup was frowned upon by the management,
and she didn’t particularly care for it anyhow. A last glance into the
mirror—“You’re up early, Paula. I thought Richie wore you out more than
that!”
The petite girl in the bathroom doorway blushed, eliciting a chuckle from
Chelsea. So many contradictions to Paula Ryan.
Quiet shyness and a gift for written words. Corporeal fastidiousness and a kinky, voracious sexual appetite.
And after a night of wild sex which everyone in the house could hear, the tiny
girl in the oversized black tee, still owlishly blinking away sleep from her
bespectacled brown eyes, blushed. Another contradiction—such a small,
delicate young woman could so have big bluff Richie Dwight so completely
whipped. “Actually, I rather think I wore him out,” said Paula, a
hint of wantonness in her sleepy smile.
“God, he is so whipped!”
The wantonness in Paula’s smile deepened. “Not last night. I
couldn’t find my riding crop!” Which remark floored Chelsea; the literary
little nerd who Paula had been in high school could have never said what the
Snowden State coed just said. “I think Ginger
stole it! Well, at least I didn’t leave any rope burn!” She knew
she was shocking Chelsea, and found herself enjoying it, but let the repartee
go. With wakefulness, the memory of the previous day sobered her.
“I’m glad I don’t have anything to do today. I might just read, write a
little, maybe. I still have one response to do for Intro to Lit. You have to work?” Chelsea’s explanation
was short; Paula did not know Sarah Merritt as Felicity did. “I hope
everything turns out for you today. Plenty of tips, I guess,” and Paula
left Chelsea to finish up before taking over the bathroom. So strange
that we’ve become such good friends so quickly, Chelsea mused; we really didn’t
have anything in common in high school—me with the jocks, Paula with the
nerds—but here, that doesn’t seem to matter. It’s strange what you learn
about people sometimes…
************************
Mom’s shrieks and the ongoing storm of blows on Spencer’s crumpled body had
become mere white noise in Sarah’s mind. Her own face and body crackled
with pain from the older man’s blows—“you don’t know how to do a fucking thing,
do you, you useless little fat cunt!”—and now she lay splayed on the sofa, her
ears filled with the man’s grunts as he violated her. She was beyond
response now; her mouth had been filled with her own underwear taped into
place, but the horrors had overwhelmed her into silence even without the
gag. Not even Mom’s renewed cries—at the fringe of her vision, she saw
the younger invader cutting her legs free and throwing her supine onto the
floor—roused her to any resistance. For only an instant, an appeal
flickered in Sarah’s mind, but its futility squelched it before it could take
full form. No, this is never going to end, this is all there is ever
going to be. Please, please, just get it over with…
************************
The substance of the service was less important to Krysten
than the familiar comfort of it. Mom and Ginny at one
side, Dr. and Mrs. Howland and charming little Merri
on the other, the choir and the pastor and the glittering stained glass in
morning sunlight. That comfort, though, was fighting against the
question which still shifted uncomfortably in her mind—Paula’s strange
observation about the Intelligencer article about the Howland
burglary—the way Mrs. Howland changed—how old would Merri
have been if—“Krysten Allyse!”
Mom’s voice hid a reproof in a titter, and Krysten
realized that parishioners were beginning to filter out of the sanctuary.
“I think someone didn’t get enough sleep last night, did she!”
Dr. Howland chuckled. “A college Saturday night!
There are so many things to do, aren’t there, Krysten?”
The twinkle in his eyes—something rare, Krysten
realized—intimated of parties and drink. And to Krysten,
the reason she had drunk last night. But how do I ask?—
“I’m stopping in the little girls’ room, dear,” said Mrs. Howland to her
husband as the little group made its way to the foyer. Merri started a moment, then settled beside her Dad—yes, my
chance!—
“I think me too.” She left Mom and Ginny talking to Dr. Howland and Merri as she followed Mrs. Howland to the downstairs rest
room…
************************
Just like always. Just as if I’d never left.
The seat at the dinner bar closest to the door, the short, stocky body turned
about a quarter-turn toward it as if ready to spring into action. The
balding head, a fleshy dome surrounded by a fringe of graying
hair, half-tilted down toward his plate—yep, a patty melt and fries. I’d
bet your coronary arteries are a real sight, Detective! A seat open
beside him—her appetite suggested patty melt, her hips countered with salad—and
after only a momentary hesitation, Trish took the open seat. For long
moments as Trish disinterestedly perused the menu she took from between the
napkin holder and the sugar jar, her mind working on the question of how to
frame her request, he gnawed at his patty melt just as if he hadn’t noticed
her—“I know what you’re after, kid.” Even knowing Detective Klasko (retired)’s proclivities, the perpetual sardonic
grumble of his voice started her—she again hastily gathered her thoughts—“I
still have ears at the barracks, you know, and Janet still keeps me in the
loop. She’s a good egg.” He turned his attention to his fries,
smearing a few through the puddle of ketchup at the fringe of the plate.
The waitress—frayed old Connie, who had been there when Trish had started,
remained after she’d quit, and would probably be there forever—greeted Trish as
a big sister would a younger one returning home, knowing instinctively that
Trish would decide for the patty melt over the salad, as she always did.
Trish too had her routines—Connie headed back to put in Trish’s order—“This
whole McBride thing from yesterday. And you want to know about the
Howland thing.”
“How did you”—
“Janet said she had you and little Carrot-Top working trace at the scene, gave
me the short version of what went on there. Said she threw up for fifteen
minutes as soon as she got away from you kids. She’s still growing her
hide, I guess. For some people it takes a while.” He gnawed another
bite from the patty melt, gulped a swallow of black coffee. “I knew you
kids would do background on local burglaries, and I knew damn well you’d come
across the Howland thing. A little before your time here, but Carrot-Top
and Missy would remember it, and I knew you’d be the one to pester me about it
when they did.” Trish replied that it had been Paula who had made the
connection. “God Almighty, is there any girl in this town you haven’t turned
into Nancy Drew? But anyway, I decided I might as well have myself a
patty melt for old times’ sake and get it over with you. Yeah,” he said
with a grin at Trish’s gape, “I’ve put ‘em behind
me. Boneless, skinless chicken and fish and leafy green vegetables, that’s
me, kid! Diet and exercise! I’m making myself the picture of
health. Even if it frickin’ kills me.”
He knew his prevarication wouldn’t put Trish off. He had been there the
very first time she had thrown herself into a mystery, a spunky brand-new
twelve-year-old child dragooning her new friends into investigating the fake hauntings around old Snowden High School and Snowden Middle
School. Got herself in a heap of trouble with
that dirtbag Paul Wormley
and his employee-turned-accomplice Chuck Wood, but damn if she and her little
Snoop buddies hadn’t figured out the whole thing by the time I got myself and
some uniforms out there! Even then he had wondered if someday
he wouldn’t be working for the bright-eyed little brunette with the big ideas
about catching bad guys, and while retirement had put that image away, he was
completely unsurprised that Tricia Dwight, now a comely young twentysomething woman with a mind that managed to amaze
even tough old birds like Calico McNeil and good cops like Janet O’Malley,
would have made herself into the relentless investigator she had become.
A sidelong glance at her sipping her glass of water—the Cook Pot still served
ice water to every customer before their order—and he recognized that
implacability in her brown eyes, now hiding behind sleek glasses, that he had
first seen that night long ago in the dark hallways of Snowden High.
Nope, old man, she’s not going to let you off the hook on this. Not that
she ever did. He sighed, swallowed another mouthful of coffee—
“It wasn’t just a burglary, was it?” Now it was Klasko’s
turn to be startled. “It was a home invasion. Like the McBrides’.” She had turned fully toward him, and she
had read the start on his face—“You wouldn’t have bothered to let me find you
if it hadn’t been. And you’ve never hesitated like that in your life, I’d
bet.” Her eyes, usually so quick and sardonic, now bored in on him, an
interrogator closing in for the kill. He knew what that felt like and
looked like too. “And it sickened you just like yesterday did Detective
O’Malley. You wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise.” The
implacability faded from her eyes, and she sagged in her seat. “And you
fed a bogus story to the paper.” Another sigh from the old man, and he
nerved himself to speak again…
***********************
Felicity hadn’t been certain how she would be received by the hospital staff
when she arrived at the pediatrics floor, but a nurse
who had been on the floor the previous day greeted her with silent gratitude in
her eyes that was more than sufficient welcome, her eyes flicking toward a door
at the angle in the hallway. McBride, S. A placard below the first one—McBride, C. At least
they put them together. Caleb must have done okay in surgery. She
couldn’t see through the closed door, but shadows on the curtained inside
window suggested that the two children weren’t alone. She hesitated at
the door—what do I say to her? How do I?—but her hand knocked before her
mind could catch up to it. A long moment—the door opened, the drawn face
of Jeremy McBride, tired red eyes and straying whiskers at the fringe of his
otherwise neat beard—“Thank God you’re here, Felicity,” and he stood aside to
let her into the room. The room was full; Samantha on the near bed, Caleb
prone on the other. Between the two beds, two chairs. One, vacant,
was beside Samantha’s bed; the other, beside the unconscious form of Caleb,
held Mrs. McBride, rocking slowly, idiotically, in the stationary chair, her
arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes flickered up at Felicity only for a
moment before receding back toward her son, but in that moment Felicity saw a
vast void in the face, the eyes, as if Kimberly McBride’s mind had been erased
or excised, leaving only a body to rock in its place and gaze down at its
ruined fruit. Samantha lay on her bed in loose pajamas,
obviously brand-new out of the packaging, turned toward the door, away from her
father’s chair. Much of the vacancy in the mother’s eyes was visible in
the daughter’s as well, but Felicity, as she saw the eyes gazing up at her,
detected a stir of life remaining. Samantha glanced at her father—only
the briefest moment, and even then not fully at him so
much as around him—then again at Felicity.
“Can we go for a walk?” The question was vaguely directed not at either
Felicity or her father, but somehow between the two of them, but finally
settling on Felicity herself. Her father nodded silently, and Felicity
saw that as Samantha could not look fully at her father, so he too could not
look directly at his daughter. And Samantha’s eyes seemed to swallow up
Felicity as she sprang from the bed and seized Felicity’s hand even before
Felicity could completely enter the room. Samantha’s grip was insistent,
a force which impelled her down the hallway in Samantha’s wake. She wants
to talk, but not in front of her family. She wants to talk to me.
And the weight of the previous day lowered onto Felicity’s shoulders again as
Samantha pulled her toward a small dim room at the end of the hallway…
************************
Krysten had no qualms about entering the ladies’ room
attached to the downstairs meeting hall. The room was big and
comfortable, able to hold three or four women easily, so she could have yet
another layer of concealment between them and the world. She opened the
door—
And found Mrs. Howland sitting slumped in one of the two chairs, her face sunk
into her hands, her shoulders shuddering. “I heard about the McBrides,” her voice seeped up toward Krysten
from behind the quivering hands. “Samantha is in the troop, you
know. A sweet little girl. And her
brother…I knew what you wanted to ask, Krysten.
I knew that look in your face when I saw it this morning. I knew you’d
remember…such a little detective. Trish has such an influence on
you. You’ve gotten so strong since you’ve known her.” With an
effort, she raised her face, red and streaked, up to Krysten.
“The one thing I’d hoped was that they never came back. They were never
found, and…after so long, I thought they were gone, arrested somewhere else,
for something else, and they’d never come back. And they’re here
again. I know it. They came back and went to Jeremy and
Kim’s. They went to Samantha and Caleb. They’re back. And Merri…she was a baby. I heard…heard them downstairs,
Bethany and Christopher crying…Merri was just dozing
off, and I had her children’s Benadryl…I hid her in the closet, prayed she
stayed asleep…”
************************
Bethany Howland, corpulent as her frame was, seemed like a head atop a heavy,
blanket-covered ball sunk deep into the one comfortable chair in the
apartment. The blue eyes sunk deep in the fleshy face were cast down
toward knees hidden somewhere in the chair under the blanket, her dark-dyed hair
unkempt over her shoulders. From beneath the blanket, a pink hand reached
for the steaming mug which Maggie herself had prepared in Bethany’s
kitchenette. “I would have nightmares about them coming back. I’d
be there in the kitchen again, and the door opens, and…” She gulped her
tea.
“And moving out didn’t help it. I know.” Bethany had told her the
stories long ago, well back in high school, when Maggie and Chris had started
seriously seeing each other. Bethany had felt impelled to explain her
brother, the eccentricities she was sure Maggie O’Hara had noticed, and had
finally told someone everything that had happened that day. Maggie had
sworn that night to tell no one, would protect
Christopher as his sister had done. But that would not obtain anymore,
not after the disaster at Crawford Road. “I guess that’s why he stays in
New Haven even between semesters.”
“He pretends it’s about conditioning. He needs to add weight if he’s
going to stick with the team next training camp. He’s probably not wrong about
that.” He carried only 185 pounds on a six-foot-eight-and-a-half frame,
thin for a defenseman, especially one already drafted into the NHL and hoping
to make his team the next year. “But you’re right. He just can’t
come back. He can’t face home any more than I can.” Another sip of tea. “Merri
thinks I’m just being a cool big sister inviting her over here so much.
We…”
“You’ve never told her.”
The little eyes filled up, tears spilling onto the plump florid cheeks.
“She’s the only thing that hasn’t been contaminated by it. The one thing
that lets me remember what I used to be. One little bit of purity.”
She saw a sardonic smile begin to animate Maggie’s face—“Not like that.
Yeah, she’s really into Tess Vandiver. I mean
pure as in not having her soul ripped apart by it. Innocent.
I don’t care if she and Tess turn out to be the fruitiest lesbians ever, just
so long as she still can be innocent of what they did to us.” Maggie
nodded…
************************
Chelsea and Krysten each had her own car, reparations
from their divorced, cheating father. Chelsea’s little yellow Cavalier
was far from fashionable, but she prided herself on her ability to keep it in
good running trim. She wasn’t about to play the helpless-about-cars-girl role
that Krysten still tended to affect; she wasn’t about
to be dependent on anyone else to keep her car going. And the car was
going very nicely this late morning, smooth and tight as she ducked off the
exit for south Center City. She had
Google-Mapped Sarah’s house—next-door Independence Park was an excellent
marker—and a quick turn past the ancient but still functioning rail yard and
the Giant shopping plaza led her to the quiet street bordering the park.
A white rancher, a little old-fashioned but nicely kept. Yep—their name
on the mailbox! Got it the first time! Who says girls have no sense
of direction? But…she was sure that the medium-blue Cobalt in the short
driveway was Sarah’s car; she had seen it in the employees’ lot any time Sarah
was working. So…you did ditch work, didn’t you? Or took sick
and forgot to call in? No, that’s not you, either, Sarah—you don’t forget
anything! You better have a good excuse, Chelsea
grumbled to herself as she flipped her door shut and strode toward the front
door…
************************
The two men had switched. The older man was now sating himself on the
mother, lying catatonic beneath him; the younger intruder had thrown Sarah to
her knees on the floor, her face driven into the carpet hard enough to bruise
her previously-unwounded cheek. But the pain of the impact, the pain of
the rug burn being driven into her cheek by his angry thrusts, even the pain of
being torn by his savagery upon her, had been dulled by the relentlessness of
her defilement—and now, by the terrifying stillness of her brother, lying mere
inches away from her face. His own face was little more than a gout of
blood, trickling thickly onto the carpet; his body a mass of already-deepening
bruises from his chest to his groin. His eyes were swollen shut, his
mouth nothing but a smear of blood, his bound hands inert behind his
back. The shut eyes were not moving beneath the puffy lids, and Sarah’s
whole attention was locked onto her brother’s chest, desperately trying to see
even the least movement, the least breath, the smallest throb of a blood
vessel. Please, Spence, please, please breathe, please live,
please don’t leave me and Mom to—and suddenly her ravagement
paused—
“Listen! You hear?” Her assailant’s voice was a hard whisper—
“Yeah, I do,” came the whispered reply from the older man, pausing atop Mrs.
Merritt. He strained to listen—“Damn! Someone’s here!” The
two invaders exchanged a cold look—strained to listen—
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