My ancient truck had both four-wheel drive and four good tires. As I drove along the snow-covered road surrounded by the freshly snow-covered trees and then past the Petition, I felt almost invincible.
It took parking in front of Randy’s house for me to realize I wasn’t going to be able to do anything secretly. Unless it snowed some more by the end of his work shift, my tire tracks would be obvious and easy to identify.
I looked out my windshield up to the patch of gray sky above the tall spruces and willed the snow to come down—just as soon as I finished my reconnaissance mission, that was.
I stepped out of the truck and made my way to the front door. The wide porch was welcoming, though there wasn’t any furniture on it. I noticed hooks in the wood plank roof above and thought a swing must sometimes hang there. It was the perfect spot for one. I looked at the view it would offer and could envision myself swinging the day away.
Two big windows framed a wide front door. I walked to one window and peered in. A bedroom. Something right out of a woodsy home decorator magazine. A big bed filled the center of the space. The chunky log frame matched the wood used for the other furniture—two nightstands and a dresser set. The bedspread was red-and-brown zigzag, and cut-out moose marched all the way around the brown lampshades.
The bed wasn’t perfectly made, and there were some familiar-looking clothes—gear—here and there. It was a comfortable and well-used room.
I walked to the other window. This side was the kitchen and dining area. More wood was used for the long dining table, the island counter, and the cabinets. The appliances were stainless, top of the line five years ago, I thought. They must have ferried them over from Juneau.
I went to the door and turned the knob. It wasn’t a surprise to find it unlocked and easy to open. Why would Randy lock the door way out here? I hesitated, not because I’d never gone into someone else’s house uninvited, but because I hadn’t done it in a long time, and it wasn’t … who I thought I was. Though Mill had left me with my grandfather when she’d done most of her “investigating,” she’d also taken me with her a few times.
“Stick close to me and don’t touch anything, girlie.”
“Do you think Dad is in this house?”
“Dunno what we’ll find, but according to his log sheet, this was his last sale. The police haven’t done anything. We’re just going to look. Hush now, and stick with me.”
We hadn’t found anything leading us to Dad, but it had been … fun. It was exhilarating to be somewhere we shouldn’t be, but only because we weren’t caught. My grandfather had lost his mind when he heard my mother had taken me with her.
“Mill, what in the hell were you thinking?” he’d yelled.
“That that house needed to be looked through and I was the only one to do it the right way. Beth wasn’t in any danger. Take a chill, Pops.”
“You will never, ever do that again. If you do, I’ll turn you in myself.”
“Whatever.”
She had done it again, but my grandfather, the police chief, never knew. Mill always was extraordinary at being sneaky.
Was that why it was so easy to consider walking into Randy’s house—because I’d talked to my ballsy mother today? Had that call infused me with her inclinations, reminded me of them, or just brought my own inherited tendencies to the surface?
I wanted answers—even if I wasn’t quite sure what the exact questions were, and dammit, I didn’t trust anyone else to get them as well as I could. Boy, that was typical Mill. Was it typical me, too? I didn’t want it to be, but here I was, and I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself from pushing the door open.
“Shit,” I muttered, and went inside.
I walked into the dining area on one side and then glanced in the bedroom on the other. I peered inside a full bathroom as I made my way down the short hallway and into the living room. It took up the whole back half of the house and was decorated with so many animal pelts, I couldn’t count them quickly. I lifted the brown rug at my feet, searching for a tag that would tell me it was fake. No tags. How many dead animals were in this place?
It didn’t turn my stomach, but I didn’t like it. I would never use animal pelts to decorate my living spaces. But I also knew my attitude was hypocritical. I had my share of leather shoes, coats, and handbags, though never a fur coat.
A long couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a large fireplace with a big-screen television above. If there was a satellite on the roof, I’d missed it, but that was probably the only way to watch anything other than DVDs, and even satellite feeds might not reach through some of the thicker clouds. Two chairs at angles flanked the couch, and more moose lamps sat on end tables.
A sleek black modern stereo system, the likes of which I had never seen, had been placed on a shelf on the wall opposite the television.
I stepped farther into the room and looked around. I didn’t touch anything, and I hoped I wouldn’t see something more bothersome than a bunch of animal pelts. But I didn’t notice anything strange at all. Even on a small desk in the corner, where Randy kept some pieces of mail—I didn’t look closely at any of the mail—nothing was unusual. It all seemed very Spartan.
A loft took up the front part of the house, the space above the kitchen and front bedroom. The loft area on Annie’s sketch had been where she pointed when asked where her and Mary’s bedroom was. The only way to get up there was via a ladder that had been nailed to the wall. I didn’t see a stairway.
I’d come this far. I climbed the ladder.
The loft was less neat than the rest of the house, seemingly lived in—maybe.
There were three beds, all twins, all messy and unmade. A few piles of clothes were sprinkled throughout, and two pine dressers had clothes peeking out of the tops of closed drawers.
Without going all the way up the ladder and into the space, I searched for girls’ clothing, anything feminine or childlike, but nothing stood out. All the clothing seemed like it could be worn by anyone.
But that was the nature of the gear at the mercantile, wasn’t it? Unisex, to a point, generic, utilitarian. The rest of the house seemed designer, but the loft was all about the necessities. There were even two electric heaters, one at each end, though they weren’t turned on.
It struck me as a space where people might sleep, or maybe it was just a place where extra stuff was stored. There were no knickknacks, nothing personal, nothing that told me about the age or sex of the person or persons who might spend time there.
I really wanted to look closely at everything, but something told me not to. That same something told me that if Randy was guilty of things I couldn’t quite define but that bothered me nonetheless, this was the place that would contain the evidence.
I had a hard time believing he’d ever done anything wrong, but some of the best bad guys knew how to hide behind good-guy disguises.
I should never have let myself in for a personal tour. I didn’t regret it quite yet, but I knew without a doubt that I should not go into that loft.
I lifted a foot and started to move it down a rung. I’d turned my head to look down when something moved in my peripheral vision. I gasped and turned more fully to look out the windowed back doors. Amid the trees, I was sure I caught sight of a dark spot moving away from the house.
It could have been an animal, but I remembered what Gril had said about the dark shadow behind Lane’s house—that it didn’t quite move like an animal. This dark spot was moving quickly.
I was probably six or seven rungs up. I twisted a little more, keeping my eyes aimed outside, and took a quick step—too quick.
I went down, landing hard on my back on the floor. I hit my head.
Dr. Genero had told me I would be able to live a normal life but that I should stay away from contact sports like football and hockey, and to wear a helmet if I ever rode a bike. She made it clear that hitting my head was a very bad idea.
At the very least this time I’d knocked myself silly—at the most, knocked myself out. Whatever it was, the result was a scene playing out in my mind’s eye.
I was sitting in the back of the van, on top of piles of clothes. They stank. I could smell them. I’d been with him just over a day, but I smelled, too—like fear and sweat. A bandanna had been stuck into my mouth to gag me. I couldn’t talk, but I could make noise. He’d turned and looked at me from the driver’s seat.
“I’m going to get something to eat. If you so much as whimper, I’ll kill you dead.”
I was crying as he talked to me, tears fogging my vision, making my nose run. My ankles were zip-tied together, my wrists zip-tied behind my back. He left the van. I started rocking and mewling, sounding so much like the noise the girls had made outside the Petition’s door.
He came back only a few minutes later. He got into the van, into the driver’s seat, smelling like greasy food. My stomach lurched. He turned and sent me a smile.
“Want some?” he said as he extended a burger my direction, then pulled it back. “Psych. No food for you.”
I came to, or the stars stopped spinning, or something. The vision cleared and I was on the floor in Randy’s cabin, flat on my back, watching the beamed ceiling waver before coming into focus.
I’d just seen something I hadn’t remembered before, something that had happened in the van, but while that memory was something that might take me down under other circumstances, it was currently the least of my worries.
I’d hit my head. That was not good, worse even than the terrifying scene from the van.
I had to get out of there.
I had to get help.
I hoped there was time.