ANTELOPE VALLEY
Park started the car. The radio blared loud rock. He twisted the knob till it went away. He fired up headlights. He held the phone against his ear with his shoulder. He listened to clicks and pops on the phone. He prayed Miller had finally learned how to transfer a goddamn call.
High-pitched whistling on the other end of the phone. Like a kid breathing through snot rockets.
Could be a prank call. Could be a loony. Could be Polly.
“This is Detective Park.”
Don’t be a prank call. Don’t be a loony.
“Hello?” He waited for an answer. Nothing but whistling, then a girl’s voice.
“Hi.”
“Polly? Are you Polly McClusky?”
“Yeah.”
It was her. The buzz told him so. The fear in her voice goosed him. All the sudden it wasn’t about the buzz anymore. Or anyway there was something real behind it. The fear in the little girl’s voice. Depth charges boomed in his chest. He put the car in gear. The car spit gravel as it pulled out of the lot. He pointed the car back toward the highway.
“Is your father with you?”
“He’s not here. He’s coming back.”
“Where are you?”
“Can you help me?”
“That’s what I want to do.”
The whistling double-timed.
“I know.” The voice so tiny.
“What do you know, Polly?”
“She’s dead. They murdered her. Her and Tom too.”
“They? Who is they?”
“I’m scared,” she said.
“You don’t have to be. Tell me where you are.”
“Please don’t hurt him.” Something had broken in the girl now and she sobbed as she talked. “I just don’t want to be here anymore. But don’t hurt him please.”
“Polly, you called me. I can help you. But you’ve got to tell me where you are.”
Seconds passed. He knew not to press. He drummed on the steering wheel, come on come on come on.
“The Scenic Heights. It’s a motel. Room 23.”
Eureka bingo bull’s-eye.
“Polly, I want you to know you’re going to be safe.”
A moment of nothing but whistles. Park drove fast. The poppies a smear on the edge of his eyes.
“Oh no.” Her voice a ragged little whisper.
“Polly, don’t hang—”
“Someone’s coming,” she said right before the phone went dead in Park’s ear.