Full Circle

I had been in Austin for four days for a convention. I’m a romance writer and this had been a biggie for me; I’d been nominated for a Lady, the most prestigious award in the romance biz. I’d lost, but still . . . And then all that glory had come crashing down with the death of my roommate. Willis had rushed to my side, leaving our kids in the care of his mother, Vera.

But they’d had plans of their own, my children. Plans that nearly got them killed.

I climbed out of bed, careful not to awaken Willis, and moved to the window seat. The window was open to the cool night air of April, and I could hear the cicadas trilling their messages, the first sign of summer.

Summer comes early in central Texas. In a month the song of the cicadas would be muted by a closed window and the hum of central air-conditioning. After ten hours of hot Texas sun, even at midnight the roof tiles would still be hot to the touch.

But at that moment, the back yard was bathed in moonlight, washing the color out of everything: the redwood picnic table, the faded red and blue plastic swing set that had been sitting in that same spot for ten years. If Willis had his way, it would still be sitting there when we had grandchildren to play on it. And maybe that wasn’t a bad idea.

Grandchildren. That all depended upon our ability to keep our current children alive.

I’m not a person who worries over what almost happened. I’ve been through enough in my life to glory in the almost-happened, to relish it, to cherish it. The problem now, this night, was that it wasn’t over.

The kids thought it was. And thinking that, they could find the macabre humor lying beneath it all. I’d been in these situations enough to know that a threat like my girls had endured didn’t just stop when the stalker ran away. No. Stalkers don’t stop. They come back, and back, and back. Until they’re satisfied in their sick-puppy minds. And I’m afraid the only thing that would satisfy this sicko was the rape or death of my daughter Bessie. And that was not going to happen. Willis and I would find this sicko, and he would go to jail.

Or die.

There was no response from the house next door. Cursing under my breath, I told my kids to stay put and ran to the Lesters’ back door, dodging puddles from the weekend’s rain. The door was unlocked as we usually didn’t lock up much out here in suburbia. Stepping inside Terry’s kitchen, I got my first hint: the coffee pot was sitting on the counter, cold and empty. Second hint: no boxes of cereal on the kitchen table, no spill of milk, no lights, no camera, no action. Diagnosis: the Lesters had overslept again. I called out Terry’s name, then headed for the staircase leading to the bedrooms. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to wake up the Lester family.

Terry’s house was neater than mine and more formal than mine. Hell, the boys’ locker room at the high school was more formally decorated than my house. I had to pass through the dining room with its Chippendale-style table, chairs, and sideboard into the foyer to get to the stairs. From there I could see into the living room, with its impossibly cream-colored couch and loveseat, the pale carpet without a spot on it, and the knick-knacks my children couldn’t keep their hands off.

I headed up the stairs. I had only taken one step when I saw the stains on the walls. Then I smelled it. Two distinct smells, actually. One I recognized but didn’t want to admit. One that matched the stains on the wall. The other was something new, something bad.

I stepped back, my mind gone suddenly blank. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong, but I didn’t know what. And I didn’t want to know what. Without much thought I ran out of the house, got my kids out of the station wagon and into our own home.

‘Take your sister upstairs!’ I yelled at Graham.

‘Why?’ he yelled back.

‘Because I said so!’ I said, grabbing the phone in the entry hall. I dialed 911 and told the operator to get someone out to the Lesters’ address. While I was still on the phone with 911, I felt a presence on the stairs. I turned and saw my daughter Megan standing at the top of the stairs, tears in her eyes, her pretty face scrunched up.

‘Megan, go back to your—’

‘I’m not playing with Bessie no more—’

‘Anymore,’ I automatically corrected. ‘Honey, I’m on the phone—’

‘She won’t even wave at me!’ Megan wailed.

‘Megan, I don’t know what you’re talking about—’

‘She’s just standing there at the window being mean!’ Megan said.

The implications of what my daughter was saying finally dawned on me. I dropped the phone and ran up the stairs. The window in Megan’s room overlooked the connecting driveways of our house and the Lesters’ next door. Straight across from Megan’s window on the second floor was Bessie’s. And Megan was right: Bessie was standing at her own window, her face and clothes matted with rusty red.

I grabbed Megan and took her into her brother’s room. ‘Graham, watch Megan.’

‘Is she gonna do tricks?’ replied my smart-alec son.

‘Do it!’ I said. There must have been something in my voice. For once, my six-year-old son actually obeyed.

I ran out of the house to the Lesters’ back door. It was still open, just the way I left it. And somewhere upstairs, beyond the blood I’d seen on the stairway, Bessie stood, obviously hurt but alive. I knew I couldn’t wait for the police, or an ambulance, or anyone else. I was there. And so was Bessie.

I’ve never thought to ask myself if I’m brave. That’s not one of those characteristics women think a lot about. That’s a man’s bailiwick. In retrospect, I don’t think going after Bessie was all that brave, not if bravery is a conscious decision. I was running on instinct; there was nothing conscious about going into that house at all.

Once inside, I headed for the stairway, and turned on the light. The marks on the walls were reddish brown, and the smell was distinctive. I hurried up the stairs to the landing and, turning, started to head up the second half of the flight but tripped, falling face first. And landing on ten-year-old Aldon, lying on his back, his eyes opened, the formerly feisty blue eyes now almost opaque in death. The top of his pajamas was covered in blood. I scrambled off him, throwing myself backwards against the wall. I felt the bile rise in my throat, and jumping to my feet, ran back down the stairs for the clear air outside.

I gulped in lungfuls of warm spring air. My body was shaking all over and I knew I had to get home, back to my own babies and away from whatever had happened at the Lester house. After two steps in the direction of my own home, I remembered Bessie. Standing at the window, staring into space – covered with blood and gore. But alive. I couldn’t leave four-year-old Bessie in that house. I couldn’t.

I hugged the wall as I gingerly stepped around little Aldon, trying not to touch or disturb him in any way. At the head of the stairs I turned right again, starting toward the end of the hall where Bessie’s room was. Terry and Roy’s room was the first on the left. My eyes seemed to have a mind of their own and swiveled to the open doorway of the parents’ room.

Sitting on the floor, his back against the open door, was Roy, or what was left of him. I only recognized him from the pajamas I’d helped Terry pick out last Christmas. Royal-blue Chinese silk. They’d cost $150. The top half was soaked in blood, the door behind him a Rorschach pattern of gore. Between the legs of royal-blue silk rested a shotgun, Roy’s finger still on the trigger guard, although the muzzle had dropped across his left arm. His face was gone.

I gripped the doorjamb to steady myself. When I moved my hand to continue on down the hallway, I saw the bloody handprint – my own. I looked down at my hands and the front of my shirt, all covered with blood. Aldon’s blood, no doubt. At some point I heard a high keening sound. It took just a moment before I realized it was coming from me.

I forced myself to go on. The last room on the left was Monique’s, my babysitter, the girl who trusted me with her heart’s secrets. The door was open. Monique was in a sitting position against the back wall, her eyes squinched shut, her mouth in a grimace. Blood from her body had spattered the wall behind her, leaving a bloody pattern on the colorful posters hanging on the wall. Terry lay across Monique’s bed, the back of her nightgown covered in blood.

I moved to Terry’s body and gingerly picked up her hand, feeling for a pulse I knew wasn’t there. I sobbed out loud. One eye was hidden by the blanket, the other stared dully at me. I touched the lid softly, pulling it down to close over the big, cocker spaniel brown eye. I wanted to stay there forever, just hold her in my arms and cry. But I didn’t. Turning, I quickly moved across the hall to Bessie’s room.

She still stood where I had seen her from Megan’s window. Staring ahead of her into space, her little arms by her sides, her back to me. She looked so angelic standing there, her pretty little pink nightgown, her long dark brown hair falling in tresses down her back.

I gulped in air, steadied myself against the doorjamb and said, ‘Bessie, honey, it’s me, Auntie E.J.’

There was no movement from the window. ‘Bessie, honey, we’re going to go to my house and play with Megan, OK? You want to do that?’

I moved cautiously toward her and gently turned her to face me. Her eyes, carbon copies of her mother’s, didn’t track. They moved where her body moved, but they weren’t seeing anything. From the back she had seemed angelically aloof from all the mess around her, but turning her I saw the front: the blood-matted nightgown, clumps of something foul on her face and in her hair. I picked her up in my arms. ‘We’re going to go play with Megan now,’ I cooed. ‘Just you and me. How does that sound?’

I pressed her face against my breast as I made my way out of that house of death.

But I think I’ve done good by her. I love her daughter as my own; all of Terry’s special things are still in storage until Bessie has her own home. And I’ve tried to keep Terry and Roy and Monique and Aldon alive in Bessie’s mind and heart, as well as in my own. But this – how do I protect Bessie from the unknown? From a monster sick enough to pretend to be Bessie’s dead brother to get to her?

All these things were still in my mind as I prepared breakfast this fine Monday morning. I had the windows open to the beautiful April morning. My azaleas were beginning to bloom in the back yard, and the willow tree was budding out. Butterflies flitted by the open window. And all I could think was: Screw the lot of you. I’m not in the mood.

I poured juice as I heard the heavy clomp of size eleven shoes hitting the stair treads. Shortly thereafter, Graham burst into the kitchen. At sixteen, Graham was already three inches above my five-eleven status.

‘Hey,’ he said, flopping down on to a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘Hey yourself,’ I said, setting the juice in front of him. ‘Captain Crunch or Frankenberries?’ I asked.

My son saluted me. Assuming that meant Captain Crunch, I pulled the box from the shelf and handed it to him, just as his father wandered into the room.

‘Have you seen my briefcase?’ Willis asked, looking absently around the great room.

‘Did you leave it in the car?’ I asked.

‘Maybe,’ he said, taking a seat on the barstool next to Graham and grabbing the Captain Crunch.

I’d tried the first seven or eight years of having children to never have sugar cereals in the house. Then Graham, who was a great climber, found his father’s stash of Frosted Flakes on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets and all bets were off. I had to give it up.

‘Graham,’ I said.

‘Huh?’ he said, not looking up as he shoveled cereal into his mouth.

‘Look at me, please!’ I said, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be.

‘Whaaaat?’ he whined, while looking at me, at least.

‘I want you to keep an eye on Bessie today,’ I said.

‘Elizabeth,’ he corrected. Last year Bessie had decided to go by her full name. I’m not exactly a fan of the idea. ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ Graham asked. ‘We don’t exactly go to the same school, Mom.’

‘I know that!’ I said. His grandmother had given him her old car when she bought a new one, and today was his first day to drive to school. He’d already promised the girls a ride. ‘When you drop them off this morning, just watch to make sure they get inside . . .’

Graham sighed loudly. ‘Jeez, Mom, of course.’

‘And when you pick them up don’t be a minute late! I don’t want them waiting outside the scho—’

‘You pick ’em up,’ Graham said, standing and taking his bowl to the sink. ‘I’ve got soccer this afternoon.’

‘OK,’ I said, relieved. It would be disruptive for me to drive them to school this morning after Graham had promised them a ride in his ‘new’ car. ‘But you needed to tell me that first thing.’

‘I just did,’ he said, heading for the back stairs.

‘No, I mean . . .’ But I was talking to air; my son was gone.

Then I heard them coming down the stairs. ‘That is too my top!’ Megan said, or screeched.

‘I bought this with my own babysitting money!’ Bessie declared. ‘It’s mine!’

‘I bought that when we went to the mall that time with Meredith!’

‘Excuse me,’ Bessie said, ‘but I don’t think you bought anything when you were with Meredith!’

‘What are you implying?’ Megan said, now at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips as she stared daggers at her sister.

‘I’m not implying jack-squat!’ Bessie shot back. ‘I know and you know that Meredith Rhiengold is one of the biggest shoplifters in the whole school!’

‘I did not shoplift! Ever! In my whole life!’

‘Oh, well, did Meredith get this for you?’ Bessie said, fingering the top she was wearing.

‘Ah ha! You admit it!’ Megan said, pointing a finger in her sister’s face. ‘That is my top!’

Bessie looked into the kitchen where two sets of eyes were staring at her. Willis said, ‘She got you, hon.’

‘Go upstairs and change,’ I said.

Bessie’s face turned red then she turned to Megan and ripped the top off, leaving her in just her bra. ‘Here’s your damn top! It’s ugly anyway!’

‘Then why did you want to wear it?’ Megan said in that nasty way girls have of scrunching up their faces while taking sarcasm to its evil extreme. She was talking to her sister’s back as Bessie headed for the laundry room.

‘Mother, are there any clean clothes?’ Bessie demanded.

‘I don’t know!’ I yelled so she could hear me. ‘Did anybody do laundry while I was gone?’

‘Then what am I supposed to wear?’ Bessie yelled back, tears evident in her voice.

I heard Megan walking down the hall to the laundry room. ‘Here, wear this. Just ask next time, OK?’

‘I don’t want to wear your stupid top!’

‘Then go naked!’ Megan said and slammed out of the room.

Megan was sitting at the breakfast bar eating Frankenberries when Bessie came in, wearing Megan’s top. Megan handed her the box of cereal but Bessie shook her head. To me, she asked, ‘Do we have any Fruit Loops?’

‘No. It appears no one went shopping while I was gone.’

A big, trembly sigh, then, ‘I’ll just have a banana.’

‘No fresh fruit either,’ I said.

She grabbed for the Frankenberries. ‘Just give me the stupid cereal,’ Bessie said, and Megan laughed, which got her a noogie on her arm, which in turn caused Bessie to receive a wet willie, at which point I intervened.

‘Eat! Next one to touch the other gets to ride to school with me in the Volvo.’

It was amazing how quickly they straightened up.

‘Eat fast,’ Graham said, coming in from the garage. ‘I’m leaving in five.’

The girls finished up, put their bowls in the sink, and both ran upstairs for their backpacks. And in five, they were gone. Out the door and away. Out of my sight but not out of my mind. This was just the first day. The first day to wonder when he was coming back and what he would do when he got here. The first day to try to know where Bessie was at every moment. Every second. My belly clinched up. And if he never came back? I asked myself. Then I guess, I answered myself, I’ll worry about him for the rest of my life.

I pointed back towards Terry’s house and said, ‘They’re all d-e-a-d.’

‘Ma’am?’ the officer said.

I rolled over from my all-fours position into a sitting position.

‘Ma’am, are you hurt?’ he asked, obviously seeing the blood on my shirt and hands, and possibly my face.

‘No, but I think she is,’ I said, looking at Bessie standing just feet from me.

The officer squatted next to me and pulled Bessie gently to him. She came docilely. Together we checked her for cuts or shotgun wounds. We found none.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked, my voice dangerously close to a whine.

The officer stood up and headed for his car. ‘I don’t know, ma’am. I’m not a doctor; maybe shock.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m calling an ambulance and some backup now.’

He made his call and came back, his hand on the butt of his gun riding low on his hip.

‘Aren’t you going to go in there?’ I screeched. I really did. It was beginning to hit me. I wanted someone to do something, and he was the only someone within yelling range.

He started asking me questions: my name, address, relationship to the child, but not what happened. I tried to tell him several times, until he finally said, ‘Save that for the detectives. They’ll be here shortly.’

I stood up. My face dangerously close to his. ‘They’re all d-e-a-d in there. Can you spell? Do you understand the concept? D-E-A-D?’

He put his hands on my arms and gently pushed me out of his space. ‘Ma’am, just sit down there on the lawn with the little girl. We’ll take a look at the house as soon as my backup arrives.’

‘Backup!’ I snorted. ‘They’re dead; they’re not going to hurt you!’

I sat with Bessie and waited until the ambulance and the backup arrived. I saw three officers go into the house, but then I was distracted helping get Bessie into the ambulance. An officer was dispatched to watch my children and I gave her Willis’s number at work, asking her to call him to come home and tell him briefly what happened.

As I crawled into the back of the ambulance with Bessie, a plainclothes cop crawled in with me. Holding out his hand, he said, ‘Detective Stewart, Mrs Pugh. Mind if I ride with you and get your statement?’

I held up my bloody palms and he put his hand down. Shaking hands was not an option. I looked at Bessie then at one of the EMTs working on her. ‘Can she understand me?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, ma’am, but I don’t think so. She’s got all the symptoms of shock.’

I moved to the back of the ambulance with Detective Stewart and there told him everything, from the moment I first walked into the house, until the moment I came out and puked in the oleanders.

By the time I’d finished telling my story, we’d arrived at Codderville Memorial Hospital. They took Bessie quickly inside and, after several hours, I was told she was diagnosed as being in severe shock, borderline catatonic. I told my story to several more police officers, plainclothes and uniform, and a couple of medical types and one social worker. Finally, the doctor came out and told me that Bessie had been given some medication that would make her sleep for several hours.

‘The best thing you can do for her and yourself, is to go home and get some rest,’ he said gently, an arm on my shoulder.

I thanked him and turned, finding Detective Stewart standing there. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ he said, grabbing keys from a uniformed officer.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before he dropped me off. All the vehicles that had been clogging the street earlier – the police cars, ambulances – were gone, and the house next door was cordoned off with yellow tape. I tried not to look at it as I rang the bell for my own home.