The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Then, nearly a week later, an anonymous tip came in telling police Mindy hadn’t been Orin’s only victim and that they wouldn’t be surprised if there were bodies in the yard. Sure enough, when they went back with cadaver dogs, they found a small graveyard.

  Reports said Orin clammed up altogether then, other than to say he wasn’t guilty. It went to trial. The surviving family members wanted the death penalty.

  Orin said nothing during the proceedings, merely sat there and watched with a constant little smirk on his bearded face. His years in prison had softened his muscles. He looked like an old man. Someone’s creepy grandpa.

  He obviously had buried Pete Vonick somewhere else, since they didn’t find him with the others. His little secret. His reason for smiling to himself like he was a cat who’d just caught the canary. Maybe that was where part of his spirit’s anger had come from, too. Maybe the secret of Pete’s death kept Orin tied to that house as much as Pete’s body tied the boy there.

  If she found his body, perhaps it would release them both. Perhaps Orin didn’t want that to happen.

  But Riley was still stuck with the how of it: how could she prove to the police that Pete was Orin’s first victim, especially when the boy didn’t fit Orin’s pattern of young girls with few family ties? Pete had been taken five years before Gabriella, snatched out from under his mother’s nose, and the hunt for him went on to this day. His mother gave talks about child abduction even now.

  Had it been too close for Orin? Had Pete been a reckless grab that almost got him caught before he really got started? The first kill was often the sloppiest. The kill with the training wheels still on. When it had come time to nab Gabriella, Orin had been ready. Practiced.

  Riley did a search for Mindy Cho next. She’d been sixteen when she was taken and had been a runaway for nearly a year before that. Mindy’s mother had passed away when Mindy was a baby, which left the girl in the care of her only local family: an abusive father. Her extended family was scattered between Los Angeles and South Korea.

  Mindy had run away to escape her father. Then was snatched up by someone even worse.

  Mindy had done a total of two interviews after Orin’s arrest. One decidedly less formal than the other. Riley pulled up the first one on her laptop. In it, Mindy was outside the police station, being ushered out by her court-appointed lawyer and a woman from Child Protection Services. The girl and two women were swarmed by journalists, questions flying at her from all sides. Flashes went off, microphones and recorders shoved in her face. Mindy’s haunted gaze darted here and there and over her shoulder, like a mouse in a meadow, knowing a hawk circled overhead.

  The video was only thirty seconds long, and in half of it, Mindy remained silent. Silent and scared and shielded by the bulldog women who looked ready to tear the heads off the reporters. She was just outside the open door of the waiting car when she looked up, glancing past the car’s roof and the reporters. Her eyes went even wider. Then she lurched away from her protectors and grabbed the lens of the camera focused on her.

  Riley, as always, sat back as Mindy’s entire face took up the screen. A gaping mouth, a flaring nostril, tear-clumped lashes. “He’s out there,” Mindy said, pulling back slightly, staring at the camera. Staring at Riley. “You didn’t find him. He’s still watching. He’ll still find me.”

  Someone yanked Mindy away from the camera—the shot a blur of flashes and limbs for a few seconds before the lawyer and CPS woman yelled at the frenzied reporters. Mindy had just thrown chum in the water.

  “Who are you talking about, Mindy?”

  “Did Orin have help?”

  The girl froze, wide eyes focused past the car. Scanning, watching, searching.

  Her bulldog protectors all but shoved her into the car, scrambling in after her, and then the car peeled away from the curb.

  Riley searched for the second interview, the formal one from two years later when Mindy was eighteen. She wore makeup, a pristine white silk blouse, and black slacks. Jet-black hair brushed to shining hung stick-straight over one shoulder. Freckles were scattered across most of her face, as if someone had blown a fine mist of cinnamon on her cheeks and nose.

  The pair were in a dark-wood-paneled room, the camera facing them as they sat awkwardly across from each other at a weird angle in uncomfortable-looking blue chairs—the wall behind them was mostly windows, partly covered by soft, gauzy curtains that pooled on the floor. On either side of the windows stood three-foot-high stands that looked like a cross between a stool and a side table. A small, elegant white vase sat atop each one.

  It was from the late 1980s, so the quality of the video was pretty terrible and grainy.

  Riley had always hated this video.

  Mindy sat with her legs crossed, folded hands propped on her knee. The small smile on her face twitched occasionally, as if her cheeks hurt from the effort. Given that Riley knew Mindy ended up in a psychiatric hospital three years later, she could only imagine the mental state the girl had been in then, trying to look calm and professional on the outside, while falling to pieces on the inside.

  After a few pleasantries, where the woman thanked Mindy for letting them into her home, they went through a series of benign questions, like how her classmates at Desert Crest High School reacted to the news of both her kidnapping and return. Then, rather abruptly, the woman dove into the heart of Mindy’s personal hell.

  Interviewer: You said you were drugged? A rag soaked in chloroform, was it?

  Mindy: Yes.

  Interviewer: How scared were you when you woke up, realizing you’d been kidnapped?

  Mindy: I was terrified.

  Interviewer: You must have feared for your life.

  Mindy: Yes, I did.

  Interviewer: You thought you might die there.

  Mindy: Yes.

  Riley blew out a breath, fast-forwarding a bit. At one point, the pair moved the interview outside for some inexplicable reason. They walked side by side, slow as molasses, down a sidewalk through what Riley could only guess was a park. Mindy’s tiny heels clicked as she walked a little unsteadily.

  Interviewer: When you were finally able to leave the police station after hours of interrogation, how relieved were you?

  Mindy: I was happy. But I was also scared because I didn’t know what was waiting for me out there.

  Interviewer: Out in the world, you mean?

  Mindy: Yes.

  Interviewer: Because even though you were free, you didn’t want to return to your abusive father.

  Riley noticed Mindy’s jaw and hands clenched here, just for a moment.

  Mindy: Yes.

  Interviewer: You must have felt deeply worried about your future.

  Mindy: Yes. I had family in California—my mom’s sister and her two kids. But my father always tried to keep me isolated. I didn’t know if they’d want to help me. I didn’t know if my father would let them.

  Interviewer: You didn’t know then that your father had died from an accidental overdose the same year you were taken, did you?

  Mindy’s eyes welled up.

  Mindy:No.

  Interviewer: Your father left you everything he had—including your childhood home—in his will, didn’t he?

  Mindy: Yes.

  Interviewer: Did that surprise you, given your relationship with him? Especially since he had no way of knowing whether or not you were alive?

  Mindy: It did surprise me. But I also knew he loved me. He was a sick, sick man who never got over losing my mother—the love of his life.

  They walked a little farther, then stopped by a bench, a tree heavy with purple flowers hanging over it. They sat. But it was at an awkward angle again, turned slightly toward each other so their knees almost touched. Like they’d been told to look like a pair of chatting friends, but also to offer decent angles for the camera. Decent in the way that nothing Riley saw from the ’80s ever seemed to be.

  Interviewer: Now, I must ask you about something that’s cause
d quite a bit of speculation amongst those following your case closely.

  Mindy sighed here, squaring her shoulders as if she’d been waiting for this.

  Interviewer: When you were led out of the police station toward the press waiting for you, you said he was still out there. That he would find you.

  Mindy flushed, her reddening skin a stark contrast to her white blouse. She nodded.

  Interviewer: Who were you referring to? Surely you knew Orin was no longer out there; he was in custody.

  Mindy: I … I wasn’t thinking clearly that day. I was so distressed.

  Interview: From your trauma.

  Mindy: Yes. I was so distressed from my trauma that I don’t even remember saying that.

  Here, Mindy looked over at the camera, breaking the fourth wall as she spoke directly to her rapt audience.

  Mindy: There was no one there other than Orin. I was just scared he might escape jail somehow and come for me. I know now that it was just my fear talking.

  She looked back at the interviewer.

  Mindy: I’ve gotten help, you know, mentally, and I’m working through all the things that were real, and all the things my mind made up.

  Interviewer: Things your mind made up to assist with your trauma?

  Mindy: Yes. My doctor calls them coping mechanisms. But there was no one else. Just Orin and me.

  Interviewer: And Janay, for a time.

  Mindy nodded, her smile slightly more believable, but still strained.

  Mindy: Yes. Just us.

  Interviewer: What do you make of Orin’s claims that another man, a Hank Gerber, was there?

  Mindy flinched.

  Mindy: He lied. Orin lied.

  Riley hit pause, her stomach in knots. “No, you’re lying,” she whispered to herself. When Riley first saw the video, she’d assumed Mindy had wanted to show the world how adjusted she’d become. That she was better.

  Now, Riley got the distinct impression Mindy had spoken the truth originally, and this cleaned-up version of Mindy was put in front of the camera to dispel the rumor she started. The question now, was: who had coerced her into changing her story? Orin had been on death row at this point; Riley highly doubted he could have contacted her.

  Was the myth of Hank Gerber not truly a myth?

  Something fell behind her—somewhere in the back of her apartment. She yelped, dropping her laptop onto the couch and turning around, her knees on the cushion. She waited, straining to hear something else.

  Thud.

  This was a softer sound. Muted.

  While one part of her brain yelled, “Intruder! Call the police!” the other part of her brain knew the sound was likely the work of a less corporeal guest.

  Reluctantly, she got up and crept toward her bedroom, carpet soft and quiet beneath her bare feet. “If this is you, Pete,” she whispered, “we’re going to have to discuss this whole haunting thing. If this is you, Orin, I’m going … well, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Standing outside her bedroom with her back to the wall, the memory of being ten and investigating a curious noise rose up in mind. Taking a deep breath, she darted into the room and flicked on the light.

  Empty. Her closet door—which she always kept closed—stood open. And her unpacked duffel bag from her ranch trip lay in the middle of her room, contents spilled out across the floor.

  She crept toward it, gaze darting back and forth, searching for any sign of ghostly visitors, but found nothing. Squatting before her clothes, she was moments from shoving everything back into her bag when a chill raced down her spine. She yanked her hand away.

  Poking out from underneath a pair of jeans was the edge of a maroon-colored knit cap, though the color was muted thanks to a layer of grime. Carefully, she pulled back the jeans to reveal the beanie. Pete’s beanie. How in the ever-loving hell had that gotten into her bag?

  She snatched it up, ready to wave it around like a disappointed parent and demand an explanation from her new roommate, but she was hit with a burst of images before she could get a word out.

  A picture of an alive-and-well Pete, laughing as his father held both of his hands and spun in a circle, filled her mind. Pete cackled like he was on the world’s best rollercoaster, his eyes squeezed shut. His mother stood nearby, grinning as she watched her two favorite people in the world.

  Riley dropped the cap, stumbling back, a sob choking her. She sank to her knees, hands in her hair.

  When the temperature dropped, it wasn’t as shocking as it had been the first time. Not as cold.

  Tears streamed down Riley’s face by the time she looked up at Pete, wearing the same clothes as before, but with his wild curls held down by the beanie now. The same beanie sitting on her floor. The image of him was fainter. Not quite transparent, but not quite solid either. He had the decency to look shamefaced.

  “Did you put that in my bag?”

  He nodded emphatically, but didn’t speak, hands bunching up the hem of his shirt. Scooby Doo’s slightly detached ear flapped a little, as if he took responsibility for this too.

  What did he want from her? What did he expect her to do? Her stomach roiled.

  “Do you want me to free you from the ranch?”

  He nodded.

  “And I have to find your body in order to do that?”

  Another nod.

  “You know this would be a whole lot easier if you just told me where to look.”

  The temperature slowly started to drop as Pete tried to pull more energy into himself, just as Orin had done. But the colder it got, the more Pete’s image flickered. The room grew frigid, Riley’s breath puffing in front of her face in white clouds.

  Pete opened his mouth, then flickered out of view altogether, abruptly taking the cold with him.

  Chin dropping to her chest and shoulders slumped, Riley groaned. “Of course.”

  She shoved her clothes into her bag and tossed it into her closet, closing the door with a satisfying click. Walking back to the beanie on her floor, she wondered if Pete would be offended if she kicked it under the bed and out of sight. Who knew how many memories were locked up in that one article of clothing?

  Grabbing the blanket she had folded at the foot of her bed, she used it like an oven mitt to place Pete’s beanie on her dresser, keeping her hands from making contact. She felt like a fool, but she didn’t want to risk being blindsided by another memory. Her nerves couldn’t take anymore.

  After a glass of wine, she started to relax a little, her thoughts dulling. If she ended up sharing an apartment with a dead nine-year-old boy, she’d surely have to become an alcoholic to cope. Tucking the half-full bottle under her arm, she wandered back into her living room.

  Her laptop still sat on her couch, the screen black. A swipe of her finger along the mouse pad brought her computer back to life. After keying in her password, the screen filled with the paused image of Mindy’s face, false smile frozen on her face.

  Riley poured herself a second glass of wine. Stared at Mindy’s face. Slowly drank down her glass. Her mind was … fuzzy now. She liked fuzzy.

  “I wonder if you’d know where Pete is buried,” she said to Mindy. “Did Orin tell you not to tell? Did the mysterious Hank Gerber swear you to secrecy?”

  Something darted in her peripheral vision and she whipped her head in that direction. Her vision swam a little with the sudden movement. Probably shouldn’t have more wine.

  “Oh, fuck it,” she said, pouring the rest into her glass. She gulped down half of it and placed the glass on her coffee table, almost missing it and spilling red wine all over her beige carpet. Her vision swam a little again. “What are you hiding, Mindy?”

  Riley had slipped passed buzzed territory and was quite sure this was the time to put the computer away and go to bed, but she suddenly couldn’t shake loose the idea of contacting Mindy.

  The problem with stalking Ms. Mindy Cho, however, was that her social media was either non-existent or well-hidden. And, even if Ri
ley found her, could she really contact a traumatized woman some thirty years after the worst time in her life and ask her if she knew how to find the body of a dead boy? A boy Riley knew about solely because she had been contacted by his spirit … a spirit who was taking up residence in her apartment now because he’d used his ghost skills to slip his beanie into her bag.

  Riley polished off the wine in her glass. Frowned at the empty bottle laying on its side beside the couch. She almost toppled off the couch as she reached for it, then laughed as she pushed herself back to sitting.

  Something hovered just out of sight again, but she didn’t dare look at it. Maybe it was just her hair. Maybe it was Pete.

  Number one item on her to-do list tomorrow? Buy more wine.

  Her wobbly gaze shifted back to her computer. Riley wondered how many whackadoodles had tried to get Mindy to talk to them over the years. Why would Riley’s attempt be any different?

  Mindy was still frozen on screen, her eyes downcast.

  Riley sank into her couch, heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. She really needed to go to bed. Hopefully the wine haze would help her sleep and keep her from waking up every two seconds, paranoid about being watched.

  But her sluggish brain kept on trucking.

  What if Mindy had gone back to Korea after all this? That would put a serious damper on Riley’s current plan. Maybe the airing of the Jordanville Ranch Paranormal Playground episode had been the final straw for Mindy, and she’d fled.

  Riley sat up. Too fast, much too fast. She blinked away the spins.

  The Paranormal Playground episode. Mindy had made a public statement about her distaste for the show.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, she pulled her computer back into her lap.

  A search for Mindy’s statement took Riley to YouTube. Mindy had made the video herself, in what looked like her living room. Thanks to both Paranormal Playground’s popularity and the two stars issuing a response statement before the episode, Mindy’s video had gone viral. The local news showed it a day before and after the episode, which gave Mindy’s video an added boost in views.