I haven’t been back to these woods in almost ten years, when, a few days after Sibby’s disappearance, I accompanied the police, along with my parents and a child psychologist hired by the cops, back to the site of the abduction.
The woods had always been our playground, a wild, free space where we’d been completely in charge. But on that day, our refuge was taken over by adults trampling over our pathways, crashing through our hidden dens. The air was thick with mist, and my father held me close to him as Detective Avery walked with us to the treehouse.
Until then, it had been a normal thing for us kids to push through one of the gates at the back of our yards and step into the quiet darkness of the friendly forest. We’d cut passageways through the trees and built little dens under the boughs of large evergreens, but on that morning, we headed straight for the treehouse, where I was asked to describe as much as I could about the people who took Sibby; their height and builds, the clothes they were wearing, which direction they’d come from, which direction they took her away.
I remember that trip better than the abduction itself. My parents’ calm reassurances, the gently coaching questions from the psychologist, serious-faced forensic investigators methodically searching for clues.
I remember my rising panic as we approached the treehouse. My breakdown when we arrived. My screams and tears, the frantic attempts of my mother to talk me down, my father yelling at the police that he’d known this was a terrible idea. The psychologist kneeling in front of me, talking me down from my panic attack, encouraging me to breathe, to close my eyes, to listen to the memories.
But I could come up with no new description of the people who’d taken her, no details about Sibby’s reaction, or where they’d come from or gone. Just a darkness around me, a dim flickering awareness of their receding footsteps. The squelch and crunch of shoes through the wet springtime leaves.
And then, as I stood there with the psychologist, a new memory appeared.
Just one: a voice. A clipped line, far enough away that I could hear it between Sibby’s gasped cries. A man’s voice, raspy and low.
“We’ve only got one chance at this. Now hurry up.”
Back in the woods that day, I remembered it as clearly as if the kidnapper were leaning in from behind me, whispering directly into my ear.
You can describe a person’s face, remember the details to a sketch artist, watch as they bring your memory to life on paper. But good luck trying to describe somebody’s voice. You might as well try to explain someone’s fingerprint.
That voice has haunted me forever. It runs through my mind at the oddest moments. In class. In the shower. When I’m out for a run. As vivid as anything else I’ve ever remembered and equally as useless. The cliffhanger at the end of a book, the last piece of an unfinished puzzle.
They tried their best. They asked me over and over again to think of something else that they could connect with the voice and begin to zone in on a culprit, but it was an impossible task. There’s no other way to say it: I failed. But now, as we approach the ragged remains of the treehouse, I can hear that voice echoing through the trees as clearly as if it had just been said a few short terrifying moments ago.
All the snow we’ve had over the past few days means the search is going to be difficult. Any footprints will be obscured, and other clues will be hard to find. But the forest is still full of people eager to help.
We don’t even know for sure that Layla was taken through the woods, although it’s the safest bet. It would have been so easy for someone to pull over beside the highway, make their way through the forest, and take someone back the same way, without ever having to deal with the risk of eyewitnesses.
There’s no indication that Layla’s disappearance had anything to do with the treehouse, but that’s where I find myself walking, almost in a trance.
“Where are you going?” asks Burke as I begin to tread my way through the snow toward the huge maple tree where our house had been.
I don’t answer, just gesture vaguely, not sure whether I want him to accompany me or not. He does, but I’m annoyed when I realize that Terry is also heading in the same direction, although he’s hovering back far enough to not make it obvious.
This irritates Burke even more than it does me.
“I don’t know what the hell he’s trying to prove,” he says, barely trying to stay out of Terry’s earshot. “Nobody expects him to help, but if he has to, couldn’t he follow someone else around the woods? It’s not like I don’t have to see him enough as it is.”
“He’s probably just as unsure of what to do as everyone is,” I say. All around us, people are stepping carefully through the snow, between and around trees and tangles of bushes, stopping erratically to stare at the ground, into the crooks of branches, up and into the treetops, as if Layla might be floating above the woods, peeking down at us.
“He’s unsure of how to live like a normal adult,” Burke grumbles. He stops and points. “There it is.”
I stop and stare ahead to where a maple tree sits in the middle of a stand of birches.
“That’s not it,” I say. “It’s smaller than our tree.”
“This is it,” he insists. “You just grew faster than the tree did.”
“There’s no treehouse,” I say.
“This is the tree.” Terry has stepped up beside me and he points up into the branches. “Look.”
Sure enough, there are a few rotting old boards arranged in the tree’s bigger branches, what’s left of the platform. I walk around to the other side of the tree and find the steps that were nailed onto it.
“This goddamn thing,” says Terry, and Burke and I both turn to look at him, surprised at the anger in his voice. “You kids wouldn’t have been in the woods at all if I hadn’t built this stupid treehouse.”
“You built it?” I ask, almost whispering, but I’m already remembering. Of course it was Terry who built the treehouse, Terry who corralled us kids together to collect old bits of lumber and put together a work party. He and his girlfriend, who I found so very glamorous.
“It was your girlfriend, wasn’t it?” I ask Terry. “She had the idea to build a treehouse back here for all the kids. What was her name?”
“Sandy,” says Burke. “I remember Sandy. She was at the movie with us too, wasn’t she?”
“It was her idea,” Terry replies. “I’m glad of it; otherwise, I would’ve been a suspect.”
I’m shocked by this. What does he mean exactly?
He answers my question for me. “An itinerant, unemployed dirtbag like me? Who the hell else would they have pointed at?”
“Whatever happened to her?” asks Burke. “To Sandy.”
Terry’s face goes dark. “Didn’t work out,” he says. “She turned into a holy roller, got in with some religious nuts. We weren’t together all that long.”
“Too bad,” says Burke. “She was really nice. Super pretty. I think I had a crush on her.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’ll all be smooth sailing if you ever manage to score yourself a girlfriend,” says Terry bitterly. He lights a cigarette and begins to walk around the old tree, kicking at bits of lumber that have rotted into the leaves.
I laugh. “He got you there, Burke,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, you can both screw off,” says Burke. He turns around, scanning the ground. “So no signs of anything happening here, right?”
I look up at the rotten old structure. It’s obvious that if Layla was in the woods, she didn’t come here. Even if someone did want to climb the ladder, there’s nowhere safe to sit once you get to the top. If there is a connection between her disappearance and Sibby’s, the treehouse is not the common denominator.
Throughout the woods, people call to one another through the trees. Occasionally someone yells out Layla’s name, as if she’s playing hide-and-seek, and might just appear from behind a tree, safe and giggling.
“We should probably go out there and help with the search, hey?” asks Terry.
“Yeah,” says Burke. “Why don’t you go on ahead? We’ll catch up with you later.”
Terry gets the hint. He nods and then turns and continues on into the woods without a word.
“Let’s go in the opposite direction,” says Burke.
He turns as if to start walking away, but instead of following him, I reach out and put my hand on the tree’s trunk. Everything around me seems to disappear, the sound of Burke speaking my name recedes into the distance, and the trunk seems to shrink and twist into the ground, or maybe it’s me who is shrinking, back to that year, that spring, back to that small, shy person I was.
I close my eyes against the dizziness, lean forward to put my forehead against the tree, and try once again to remember. It feels close, so painfully close, closer than I’ve ever been before. But then it fades away, and once again, as always, nothing comes to me. No memories. No sudden flashes of insight. Just the awful voice I’ve spent more than half my life trying to forget:
We’ve only got one chance at this. Now hurry up.
“Dee?” Burke’s voice is just behind my shoulder. “You all right?”
I drop my hand and step back from the tree. “I have to go,” I say. “I can’t stay here.”
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to put a hand on my arm. “It’s okay.”
I push past him and begin to run.