Chapter 6

Elva climbed into the truck, her face white with terror. She had every reason to be terrified of Cudge, but being left behind was somehow more frightening than what he might do to her. “You were going to kill me back there!” she hissed as she lifted herself onto the seat beside him.

His face was set in lines of panic and it gave her some small satisfaction to see him this way. Big, bad Cudge Balog, scared of what a little kid could do to him! “Don’t try and lie to me, I seen it in your face.” She wanted to hear him say she was wrong, that she was crazy and imagined things. She needed to believe that she was safe with Cudge Balog.

He turned the ignition key, foot pressing on the gas pedal. The engine cranked and almost caught before winding down. Again, he pressed the gas, twisting the ignition key viciously as he pumped the pedal, willing the engine to turn over, dreading the thought that he might have flooded it. He was sweating. Elva looked at him, desperately wanting him to defend his actions back at Lenny’s grave. “I ain’t going with you!”

Before she could think twice she was out of the truck and running across the dusty road, heading for the cover of the trees. Bullet-swift, Cudge was out of the cab and racing after her.

Resolution died in Elva even before she felt his hands on her shoulders. “This is all your fault, Elva! You’re not running out on me now. Get it through your head. Get in the truck and don’t open your mouth unless I tell you. In a couple of hours we’re gonna be wanted for murder because of that kid and his mutt. Murder, Elva! And it’s all your fault.”

Cudge wasn’t sure which way to go—north or south? Maybe he’d stand a better chance if he ditched the camper. No, he’d worked too hard to get it, and he wasn’t going to part with it. Why did that mangy mutt have to show up? Of all the bad luck! And that kid—what had happened to him? If only he could have gotten his hands on him. “By now that kid is spilling his guts to his aunt. Hear me, Elva? That kid is blabbing and his aunt is going to the cops. We got another hour of freedom and then . . . pow!” His arm shot out toward Elva but she ducked and managed to miss it.

Elva huddled against the door, unable to move, fearing that if she did, Cudge would try to hit her again. If the cops got her, she would be locked up. If she made a move, Cudge would kill her. Why couldn’t she win, just once? At least the kid had gotten away. If it hadn’t been for her, he would be dead and his parents would be crying over his body, trying to figure out what had happened. She was a heroine of sorts. She had saved the kid and got the good-looking guy. Only Cudge wasn’t a good-looking guy and she didn’t want him. Still, the kid had got away, thanks to her, and she felt good about it. She wished she could bless herself and maybe go to confession. She could do it in her mind. Cudge wouldn’t have to know she was praying and confessing. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession, since . . . since BJ. Father help me, somebody help me, she cried inwardly.

There was no priest behind a screen in a small confessional. She was in a dirty pickup with a murderer. What good was pretending to go to confession? She needed a real priest to give her penance. The kid was safe; that’s what was important. If there was a God up there somewhere, then He would know she had saved the little boy.

“Get the map out, Elva, and make it snappy. You know where we are; find some back roads and give me directions. We’ll head south and maybe our chances will be better once we hit Delaware and Maryland. We’ll ditch the pop-up as soon as we can. I’ll smear the license plates with mud and maybe we can hole up in some other campground. For now, it’s the only thing I can think of. Don’t even say you’re sorry, because I don’t want to hear your sniveling. I’m dumping you, Elva, first chance I get. You ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

Elva clenched her teeth and then bit her tongue. Dump me, my ass, she thought bitterly. Kill me is more like it. Still, she was glad she’d helped the kid. She would do it again in a heartbeat. She felt suddenly defiant as she flipped the map over. Maybe she was stupid like Cudge said and, then again, maybe she wasn’t. “If you take Route 535 south for a while, you can either pick up 33, or at that point look for some other back roads. There ain’t too much on this map, or if there is, I can’t see it, the print is too small. This map must be twenty years old. The amusement park ain’t even on it.”

“Do you see any campgrounds listed?” Cudge asked.

“No.”

“Then get out the camp guide and find one. Do I have to think for you, too?”

Elva dug under the seat and pulled out a tattered loose-leaf book. With nimble fingers she found the page she wanted. “There’s two KOA camps open and the others are closed for the year. This is October.”

“Shit!”

 

Davey was wedged in between the bunks on either side of the pop-up. It hurt when he took a deep breath and something was pounding inside his chest. If only Duffy were here to hug. He sniffled, wishing he had a tissue to blow his nose. The dark didn’t scare him, only the smell of mothballs was making him sick.

Motion, rocking—the camper was moving! The tires were bouncing over the road; the bad man was taking him away. Davey realized that the man didn’t know he was trapped inside the camper. If he just stayed very quiet and waited, he would have his chance to get away. Wait, instinct told him. Wait.

The rocking wasn’t so bad now. It didn’t seem as though the wheels of the camper were bounding over holes and ruts. No, it seemed almost smooth, like when he rode his bicycle off the back lawn and onto the paved drive. It was a road—a highway, Davey thought, making the connection.

His legs hurt. The leather strap from the brace was cutting into his good knee, making it throb like a drum. He wanted to cry, but instead he bit his lip and tried to work the strap free of his good leg. If he could just catch the metal brace against the side of the refrigerator, he might be able to push with both hands and roll free. Time and again he tried and failed. A sob caught in his throat. If only Duffy were here. Again he tried hooking the side of the brace that curved around his shoe against the greasy refrigerator, and this time he was successful. The metal brace clanked against the refrigerator with a loud bang. Would the man and woman hear? What would they do to him? Would she help him get away again? Somehow he knew the man wouldn’t let that happen.

It was cold in the pop-up; a draft was coming up from the crack where the sides and floor of the camper met.

How long was he going to have to hide in here? He had to go to the bathroom. He wished he could see what time it was. When he didn’t get back at the time Aunt Lorrie had said, she would start looking for him.

He had to get out of here and back to Aunt Lorrie. He sighed deeply. How nice it would be if she suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and took him in her arms and held him close. He would sniff and sniff until he couldn’t sniff anymore. Then he would hug her as tight as she hugged him.

Maneuvering a little, he tried to relieve the pressure in his abdomen, but it wouldn’t go away. A look of horror crossed his face when he felt a warm trickle. He’d tried, but hadn’t been able to hold it. Tears stung his eyes as the wetness seeped into his clothes. Only babies wet their pants.

Lorrie clapped her hands in delight when Davey’s fishing pole bobbed up and down in the water. She looked around, calling his name, wanting him to be the one to reel in the fish.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was just after ten. Davey should have been back by now. “Davey! Davey!” she called. When he didn’t immediately appear, she reeled the fish in herself, then removed the hook and set it free. “Oh, well. Maybe next time,” she said to herself as she gathered up their fishing gear. Lorrie shielded her eyes against the bright sun. “Just where is that boy?”

As if in answer to her question, Duffy came scampering toward her. “Hey, there, Duff, where’s your master? He was supposed to be back here five minutes ago.” Duffy stood at Lorrie’s feet, wagging her tail. Fully expecting to see Davey at any moment, Lorrie laughed and headed back toward the motor home. Maybe Davey was waiting for her there.

He wasn’t. She set her gear down, put her hand over her eyes and scanned the campground for a sign of her nephew. “Davey! Davey, it’s time to leave,” she yelled, her voice rising.

She looked down at Duffy. Davey never left Duffy alone, and Duffy never left Davey alone. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Oh, God, she had to find him. What if something happened to him?

She felt herself begin to panic, but couldn’t help it. She raced around the campground, shouting Davey’s name over and over. Eventually she noticed that the little dog was right on her heels. “Some watchdog you are. Where is he, Duffy? Find Davey,” she pleaded. “Go on, girl, find Davey.”

Duffy raced ahead, her short legs whirling the dry leaves in her wake like spindrift. Faster and faster the little dog raced, Lorrie right behind her. Gasping for breath, Lorrie skidded to a stop when Duffy pulled up short, wildly barking.

Lorrie walked around, peering into the brush and beneath the low-spreading evergreens. Nothing. Over and over she called Davey’s name, her voice becoming hoarser with each agitated call. Davey was nowhere that she could see. She looked down at Duffy. She was staring at something but Lorrie couldn’t see what it was. “What is it, girl? Is it Davey?”

Duffy woofed with excitement and ran around in circles. Lorrie knew that dogs had sharper eyes than people, but for the life of her she couldn’t see anything. She scratched her nose. It must be the smell of mothballs that was making Duffy act strangely. “I don’t see him, Duff,” she said, scooping the dog up into her arms. Her heart raced as she headed back to the motor home, wondering what to do. Practically every day the news carried a report of a child being abducted, sexually assaulted and killed. Every day! This was the nineties for God’s sake. Things were different from when she’d grown up. If only she’d thought about that before she’d let Davey go off exploring.

Oh, God, she groaned. What was she going to tell Sara? “I lost your son.” Where was Davey?

Stop it! she told herself. You’re jumping to conclusions. In all likelihood, Davey had just forgotten the time. After all, it was his first camping trip and there were lots of things to see and do, things he’d never seen or done before. She would wait a little longer. Eventually, he would look at his watch and come running. If he wasn’t back in a half hour, she would take action.

Lorrie let her thoughts jump ahead, creating scenarios she prayed wouldn’t happen. First, she supposed she should visit the other campsites and ask if anyone had seen Davey, then she should alert the campground managers and enlist their help in a search. If they didn’t turn anything up, then she should call the police. Once it got dark, she would call Sara and Andrew. Or should she wait till morning? No, they had a right to know as soon as possible. After all, Davey was their son. Their son, not hers. Never hers again after this. Christ, she’d be lucky if Sara ever let her set eyes on the kid again. Maybe on his eighteenth birthday, Sara would take pity on Lorrie and let her see her nephew come of age. Her thoughts were getting more ridiculous by the second. Goddamn it, where could the kid be? Why had Duffy come back by herself? Did Davey send her back for help or had the little dog just tired of the walk and wandered back on her own?

She waited.

After precisely thirty minutes, she headed out to visit the other campers. They’d gone. Both couples. The smell of mothballs made her realize this was the same spot she and Duffy had stood at earlier. She hadn’t noticed before, but the site was littered with trash. She remembered the pickup truck, the way it was painted, and wasn’t at all surprised.

Lorrie took off at a run for the manager’s office and told them her problem. They grabbed their jackets, locked the door and headed out to search for Davey.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll find him. Kids wander off all the time but they always turn up,” the manager assured her.

Lorrie nodded, thankful for his assurance, but not altogether convinced it would turn out that way this time.

“Now, tell us what he looks like and what he’s wearing.”

 

Davey sneezed then immediately clapped his hands over his mouth. He sneezed again as dry, gritty dust blew up at him through the crack between the floor and sides of the pop-up. Angrily, he pounded small fists against the side of the refrigerator and tried to kick out at the cardboard boxes near the toes of his shoes. It was so dark inside the pop-up, he couldn’t even see his shoes. He’d be willing to bet they were dirty. Maybe even ruined. As soon as he found Aunt Lorrie he would throw them away. Would three quarters buy new Reeboks? Three quarters for two shoes sounded right to him. He sneezed again, then again. He was hungry and he wanted a drink. He wanted out of this dark, smelly place. He lashed out with his foot at the carton filled with Cudge Balog’s barbells. His foot shot back as quick as a rattler. Gently, he nursed his aching foot by holding it in both hands. “I want out of here!” he shouted. “Let me out of here!” The only response was a jolting thump as the pop-up hit a bump; another spiral of dust came in through the crack.

Suddenly, his head jerked up and he strained to hear. Was the camper slowing down? His tongue worked frantically in his mouth as he tried to wet his lips. He needed more spit if he was going to shout so someone could hear him. The woman would let him out when she heard him call. But how was he going to know where the bad man was? What would he do if it was the man who raised the top? The woman would try to help him, he was sure of it. The camper was slowing down. He would be quiet and wait.

 

Cudge eased up on the throttle. “Keep your eyes peeled for a gas station, Elva. This ain’t the time to run out of gas. You listening to me?”

“Yeah, I hear you. I don’t see anything but grass and trees. I’m hungry,” she whined.

“Ain’t we all. My advice to you is to suck in your gut because it might be a long time before we eat.”

“Can’t we stop and get something from the pop-up? How long would it take?” Elva persisted. “I can’t remember the last time I had something to eat. I’m really hungry, Cudge. If I don’t eat, I’m gonna be sick. I can feel it in my stomach.”

“Jesus Christ! You don’t hear too good, do you? After that dumb stunt you pulled this morning, you don’t deserve to eat. You had the kid, Elva. You actually had him in your hands, and what do you do? You let him get away. That kid is spilling his goddamn guts to the police right now, and all you can think of is your stomach.”

Elva slouched back against the seat. Cudge was probably right. Scared as he was, he was right. Maybe, when they stopped for gas, she could crank open the top and get something. How long could it take? A minute, two or three at the most. It took that long for the tank to be filled. She decided she would risk it. She needed her strength to run if she found the opportunity. Her stomach seemed to settle down with her decision.

She wondered where the little boy was right now. Was he talking to the police like Cudge had said? She had tried to help. Cudge would never understand; he was too concerned with not being blamed for Lenny’s murder. Her stomach heaved as she remembered the body in the open grave. Poor Lenny, he didn’t even have a coffin. The worms and bugs would eat through the blanket real quick. Her stomach heaved, then eased as she swallowed hard.

Elva risked a quick glance at Cudge. She really wasn’t hungry. She might not be the smartest person in the world, but right now, this minute, if somebody offered her a Big Mac, she wouldn’t be able to swallow past the fear in her throat. Cudge had tried to kill her back there and he would try again. She must never forget that, never pretend to herself she hadn’t seen that look on his face when he wanted to put her in that hole with Lenny. It was okay to pretend sometimes, when reality hurt too much, but this time pretending could get her killed.

“Dammit, Elva!” Cudge spat. “I can’t depend on you to do anything. See that gas station? That’s where you get gas. I thought I told you to keep your eyes open.” Elva shrugged. When you were going to die, what did it matter if you saw a gas station or not? Cudge’s foot moved from the gas pedal; he swung it to the right and brought it down with all his force on Elva’s ankle bone. She yelped in pain as she jerked her foot away. “Next time you do what I tell you.” Cudge laughed at the expression on Elva’s face. “Now, try and act normal.”

The pickup truck bounced over and through deep ruts as Cudge maneuvered around the entrance ramp to the gas station. A homemade sign with big red letters said shocks were a specialty of the station. “Rip-offs,” Cudge muttered, “they probably dug the damn holes themselves.”

The truck pulled alongside the pump. It was so old it looked like something out of a Presley movie, none of the fancy digital stuff that was on the gas pumps in the cities. No, this one was a real antique. For that matter, so was the station itself.

“You sit tight, I gotta take a leak first. Jesus, this place don’t even look like a gas station.” Elva looked around for some sign of life. The place looked empty. Disobeying Cudge’s orders, she opened the door and got out. Limping, Elva walked to the opposite side of the pumps. Maybe she should pump the gas herself to save time. She was just about to lift the nozzle from the rack when she heard music and saw a needle-thin youth coming out of the garage, carrying a boombox. “What’ll it be?”

Elva almost laughed. She couldn’t remember when the last time was that she’d seen a gas station attendant. Usually, there was just some guy sitting in a glass box taking money.

“Fill it up with unleaded, please,” she said in a loud voice. She moved away from the pump toward the pop-up.

“Let me out of here,” she heard someone say. She looked around. The voice came again, louder. It was coming from inside the pop-up. It was the kid. Oh, God. Elva’s brain felt like cold, wet spaghetti as her eyes went to the door marked MEN.

“Hey!” the muffled voice called again. “Let me out!”

Elva slouched against the side of the pop-up. “Is that you, little boy?” She waited, hardly daring to breathe as the attendant danced around on one foot, watching the nozzle with unseeing eyes.

Davey’s eyes closed in relief. She’d heard him. Where was the man? They must have stopped at a gas station. He could smell the fumes and “fill it up with unleaded” was what his dad always said when he stopped to get gas. “Please let me out,” he yelled excitedly.

“You say something to me?” the boy asked, turning down the volume on the boombox. “You want the water and oil checked? Hey, are you all right? You look kinda sick.”

Elva’s eyes remained glued to the restroom door. “Sick? No, I’m not sick. The water and oil are okay.” As if he cared whether or not she was sick. He was just being polite. She felt sorry for him; he kept scratching at his acne. For want of anything better to say, she blurted, “You got a problem or what? How come you bounce around like that on one foot and then the other?”

The boy held up his boombox. “I got music in my soul. My boss, he don’t understand. He likes rock’n’roll. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I like rock’n’roll too. Especially Elvis Presley. I have every single one of his tapes but I usually listen to them with earphones,” Elva confided.

“Whatcha doin’ way out here?” the boy asked.

Elva clamped her mouth shut. What business was it of his what she was doing out here—wherever here was. She’d better play it cool. It would be just like Cudge to get jealous.

“Let me out, please let me out!” came the muffled plea to Elva’s left.

“Shhh,” she whispered into the crack. “Be quiet. I have to think. If Cudge hears . . .”

“What did you say?” the pimply faced youth asked as he slammed the gas pump back onto the rack.

“Nothing,” Elva replied. Her eyes flew to the old-fashioned numbers on the gas pump. Twenty-four dollars ninety. Cudge would have a fit. Let him. Right now she had enough problems. Where was he anyway?

“I heard you say something and I saw your lips move. My ma used to talk to herself before they took her away. You better watch it. She said she didn’t talk to herself either.”

Elva’s heart fluttered. What if this kid said something when Cudge got back? What if he said she was talking to herself? Cudge wasn’t dumb. “Yeah, you’re right, I wasn’t actually talking, I was kind of singing. I miss playing my tapes. I was just saying the words to a song to myself. That’s what you saw me doing. I ain’t like your mother, believe me, I ain’t.”

The boy looked skeptical as he held out his hand for the money.

“You have to wait a few minutes till my . . . till Cudge . . . Here he comes.” She didn’t know if she was sorry or relieved. “Hey, why don’t you turn your set up a little so I can hear that song? I haven’t heard anything but the CB for two days.” Anything to drown out the feeble, muffled pleas of the little boy.

“You got it!” Never taking his eyes from Elva, the attendant turned up the volume. “And now for all you Metallica fans, here’s their latest . . .” The disc jockey bellowed so loud Elva clamped her hands over her ears.

“Shut that goddamned thing off,” Cudge shouted.

The gas station attendant’s eyes widened. Then his eyes locked with Elva’s. Defiantly, he turned the volume up even louder. Blaring music ricocheted around the pumps.

“I thought I told you to shut that thing off!” Cudge bellowed.

“That’s what you told me all right, but this is my turf, buddy, and I don’t give a damn what you say. Pay up and get that junker of yours out of here.”

Cudge balled his hands into hard fists. Who the hell did the kid think he was with all those ugly pimples on his face? He was just about to raise his fist when he saw the boy looking at the license plate. “Okay, okay, play your damn radio. I got a headache and that’s why I asked you to turn it off, but never mind. Here, keep the change.”

“Big spender, a whole quarter,” the kid smirked.

“It’s twenty-three cents more than what your service was worth!” Cudge shot back.

Elva stared at the boy. As defiant as he was, she knew he would have helped her if she’d asked. Why hadn’t she asked? Why had she just stood there and done nothing? Now it was too late. Her window of opportunity had closed with Cudge’s return. The kid stared back at her, pity in his eyes as she climbed into the cab of the pickup truck.

“You’re a loser, Elva. I saw the way you was sucking up to that kid. Well, let me tell you something. I saw that bastard look at our license plates. He’s going to remember us. You in particular.”

“No, he isn’t,” Elva said defensively. God, what was she going to do about the little boy? She had to get him out before he suffocated. Reason, crystal clear, seemed to come back to her. He couldn’t suffocate with the cracks in the outer shell of the pop-up. She knew there had to be hundreds because of the way road dust filtered inside and stuck to everything. The boy might be stiff and sore but he wouldn’t die, not like BJ. Not if she could help it anyway. She saw herself letting the little boy out of the pop-up, spiriting him away and taking him back to his family. They would call her a hero and give her a reward and everyone would live happily ever after. Everyone but Cudge.

She was cold, almost as cold as she imagined Lenny must be. Cudge was perspiring. Served him right, she thought viciously, as she rolled up her window.

The pickup came to life beneath Cudge’s hands. Slowly, it moved past the attendant, who made a show of turning down the volume of his boombox.

“Let me out of here,” Davey yelled. “Open the door and let me out!”

The attendant’s eyes widened in question. He followed the trailer for a few feet, his head cocked, then stood watching as it pulled out onto the highway.

The station owner walked out to where the kid was standing. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“I thought I heard . . .”

“What?” the owner prompted.

The boy shrugged. “Ah, it must have been my imagination. It sounded like there was someone in that pop-up. A kid, but . . . Nah! That ain’t possible.”

“Why not?” the man asked, staring after the pickup.

“ ’Cause there ain’t no room in there once those things get folded up. If there was somebody in there, they’d be smashed. Must have been my imagination.”

“It was probably one of those new radio commercials,” the owner said, pointing to the kid’s boombox. “Back to work,” he said, then headed toward the grease pit.

“I think I’ll write down their license plate anyway. You never know.”

 

Davey knew they were on the move again. “Let me out of here!” he screamed. “Open the door! Let me out!” Why hadn’t the girl opened the door? She’d heard him. He knew she’d heard him because she’d answered him. So why?

Davey thought for a moment. Maybe she was scared the man would see her letting him out. Maybe she was afraid he would punish her if he saw her. Davey scrunched himself even tighter into the space between the refrigerator and the hard, wooden bunk. It was dark and smelly, but it was better than having the man catch him. The girl would let him out as soon as she could. She might even take him back to Aunt Lorrie. His eyes drooped wearily—he was so tired, and he didn’t feel well.