Abbie swayed backward and forward in her seat, clutching her handbag, the reality of the nightmare unfolding before her like a puzzle nearing completion. The implications of Molina’s words had a single bearing. Her abductor was an active serial killer, and nobody was safe, including her family.
Molina, noticing Abbie’s despair, stood up and headed over toward her side of the table. She perched herself on the edge of the metal surface, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Look, Abigail, we’ve no reason to believe that he knows where you live or that he’d bother to hunt you down. He’s moved on to other victims. You’ve no reason for panic at this stage.”
Abbie raised her dilated pupils, teeth chipping away her nails. Her every thought clouded. Any promises or assurances at this stage sounded hollow.
“Do you recognize the tattoo?” Molina probed again for information.
“I . . . haven’t seen it before. I . . . have no idea what it means,” Abbie stammered. She dug her brain for clues, but it was like treading through a minefield, one logical thought followed by two or three explosions of irrational fear. “I have to get out of here.”
Molina reached into her pocket and placed a small black device onto the table. “This is a pager, and a tracking device. We’ll maintain surveillance on your home. But if you go anywhere else, please take it with you. A single click on the yellow button will alert us you’re on the move. The red button is for emergencies only.”
Abbie rubbed her palms along her upper thighs, the material of her jeans soaking up the cold sweat. Fear had lulled her into a trance-like state. She was branded, and her body belonged to him now. He would lead her like a sheep to the slaughter.
CLAP.
Molina slapped her hands together, pulling Abbie out of her trance like a drowning child dragged above the surface of the pool by his mother.
“Mrs. Blake, did you understand what I said?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Abbie said. She slipped the pager into her handbag and stood up. “Will that be all, Agent Molina?”
“If you recall anything, please contact me right away. We’re running out of time.”
“Sure,” Abbie said, bolting for the door. She wanted to get the hell out of there, and fast. The image of the tattoo was all too familiar, and it left her in pieces. Months before her mother passed away from cancer, she had created a painting on her deathbed. An eye with a teardrop signed “Mama.” The pain, the suffering, splurged on a single canvas. How it ended up on her body and those of the other victims was a complete mystery to her. As she exited the station, she repeated to herself, I’m no monster.
CHAPTER 22
The old wooden door creaked open, and a gust of dank, stale air sucked her in with the drag of a vacuum. She pulled her navy T-shirt over her mouth and nose to avoid the thick cloud of dust. It seemed like nobody had been down to the basement for years, a stark contrast with the rest of their renovated home. The staircase creaked under her weight with each step. She ran her fingers along the brick wall and flicked on the switch. A single low-hanging light bulb flickered on. Brown cardboard boxes littered the cement floor. Toward the back they piled up as high as the ceiling, each cardboard box labeled with a black permanent marker. Ski clothes. Halloween. Jonah’s Baby Clothes. Miscellaneous. She rummaged through the different boxes like a vagabond, searching for anything of value. There was one key difference: she knew what she was looking for, and the implications were terrifying. It may have been a few years, but the day she brought the box down to the basement remained etched in her memory. The extreme pain or joy was more than an old memory. It was part of her, defining who she was today. Each box she inspected, she threw behind her in an unruly pile. Her sweat-drenched navy-blue T-shirt clung to her body like cellophane. The dusty, humid air mixed with her sweat, forming a muddy layer that caked her forehead. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and stared at the brown residue.
Disgusting! This place needs an urgent clean-up.
It would have to wait until she found what she was looking for. It was a grueling task, swimming in cardboard boxes, scanning the labels with the speed of a barcode reader. After more than an hour of intense searching, a label called Mom’s Stuff sprang out of the pile. She blinked, jaw agape, picking up the dusty box. Her memory had served her right. She slumped on the nearest box and peeled away the duct tape that sealed the opening. With each tear of the tape, her heart raced with renewed ferocity. She had to see it with her own eyes. She ripped away the last piece of duct tape and the box flaps sprung open, revealing a large pile of photo albums and stray photographs. She clawed out the photo albums, dropping them on the floor beside her, hoping to avoid a trip down memory lane. This wasn’t the time to become emotional; she needed an objective mind. But when a stray photograph of the farm caught her eye, she couldn’t resist. She picked it up with both hands, bringing the image so close to her face that she could see nothing else.
In a flash, she was back on her uncle’s farm in rural West Linn and chasing her older sister Julie through the endless corn maze. It was a sweltering day; the sky hovering above them like an inviting swimming pool. Not a cloud in the sky.
“Come on, Abigail, you’ll never catch me,” Julie teased her.
Abbie could hear her sister’s childish giggles coming from somewhere within the maze. She charged through the corn stalks, shrieking with excitement. “Julie, where are you? I’m coming.” She brushed the stalks aside with her arms, cutting through the maze. She was a natural athlete and a particularly fast runner, so although Julie was two years older, catching up was a breeze. Pumped by the chase, she ran with the swiftness of a powerful gust. “Julie, where are you?” she called out again. Their quest had rules. If the pursuer called out, the escapee would have to call back. The voice would signal the direction of the chase. Otherwise, it would be impossible to find someone within this leafy green and gold world. “Julie! This isn’t funny, where are you?” Abbie slowed down and checked left, then right. There was no sign of her sister. The only sound was of her footsteps crunching through the broken stalks. Panting, she waited a minute to catch her breath.
“Julie!” she screamed again in a desperate plea, her voice echoing through the maze and scattering the crows into the cloudless sky. It sent shivers down her spine. They had played this game many a weekend, and they always stuck to the rules. She walked faster, her ears perked up, listening for any signs of her sister, her heart drumming in her chest. The tall corn stalks that once seemed inviting and playful now stared back at her like scarecrows. She screamed Julie’s name again and again until her voice was barely audible, tears flooding her eyes. “Please, Julie, I’m scared, don’t leave me,” she said out loud. It sounded no louder than a hoarse whimper. Only the harsh, raucous call of the crows answered her cries. She kept her head low and marched in the house’s direction, averting her eyes from the corn stalks. Screaming was no longer an option; her throat wouldn’t allow it. She waded her way in total silence, pale and sweat soaked.
To her right, a loud rustle caught her attention. She crouched and listened, her small frame shuddering. “Julie!” she whispered, crawling toward the sound. The rustling intensified the closer she got. Human groans emanated from within the last layer of corn stalks in her way. The sounds were unfamiliar to her young mind. Choked, she brushed the stalks aside with two hands and peeked her head through the opening. Her eyes fell upon Julie’s hollow glare. She lay on her back in the dirt, in a pathway, between the rows of stalks. A man with unbuttoned vintage overalls had her pinned down, his muscular exposed back gleaming with sweat in the scorching sun.
“Run, Abbie. Run! Get out of here now!” Julie screamed.
Before the man could turn around, Abbie disappeared into the corn maze. From her kneeling position, she blasted off into a sprint by pushing hard off her legs, pumping out her arms. There was only so much that her ten-year-old brain could process. Her sister was in
trouble, and she needed to get help fast.
In the depths of the corn maze, an eerie stillness encompassed her. Only the occasional caw of the crows and the crunching of broken stalks underfoot perforated the silence. In her haste she had lost her sense of direction and cut through the field in a panic, fleeing with the blindness and haste of a racehorse with blinkers fresh out the gates. But the corn maze was endless, and it would not spit her out aimlessly.
After running herself to the brink of collapse, she glanced up at the sky. The sun no longer burned with the same intensity, having long passed its highest point. Orangey hues streaked across the field. Having watched many a sunset from the porch, she turned left and headed south toward the house. With every step, images of her sister’s tormented expression burned in her mind like a hot coal. In a daze, she thrashed at the corn stalks blocking her path until she spilled onto the front lawn. Despite the receding sunlight, she could see Mama in the distance, standing on the sagging porch, scrutinizing the fields. The green slated roof, baked by the scorching summer sun, looked even bleaker in the looming sunset. The house’s wooden exterior, weathered by the harsh elements, stood in defiance, a testament to its rugged frontier.
“Mama!” Abbie shouted, her feet sinking into the plush grass. With no natural obstacles in her way, she breezed across the scenic terrain. Mama’s youthful face turned toward her as she was midway across the lawn. Even now, in the basement, while gripped by these graphic memories, she was fascinated by the contrast of Mama’s appearance compared to her deathbed, when her body was riddled by the cursed disease.
“Abigail, where’ve you been? I’m worried sick about you,” Mama said, darting in her direction.
Abbie flew into the safe embrace of Mama’s arms, panting. “I . . . I was out in the field . . . playing . . .” She stammered for words.
“How many times have I warned you about wandering off into the corn maze alone?” Mama chastised her, scowling.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I played with Julie in the maze. Then a man did something horrible to her . . .”
“Are you imagining things again, Abigail? Julie was home hours ago.”
Abbie held her hand over her chest and looked up at the sky in silent prayer. At least her sister was safe. But Mama’s angry demeanor meant that she demanded justification. “I’m not lying, I swear it. Ask Julie.”
Mama charged toward the house and hollered for Julie, dragging Abbie by the arm.
“What happened?” Julie asked, emerging onto the porch flanked by her uncle and another stocky man dressed in farm overalls. She avoided Mama’s stare, her eyes darting.
“Abigail says you were attacked in the field.”
“She’s imagining things again, Mama. We played hide-and-seek. Then I told her to go home, and she wandered off instead.”
Tears welled up in Abbie’s eyes as Mama lashed out at her. She was a dreamy and creative child, but she knew what she saw. While Mama screamed and scolded her, Julie mouthed the words I’m sorry when their eyes met. She lowered her head and sniffled the tears, feeling the full force of Mama’s wrath and Julie’s betrayal. But her uncle’s friend in the blue overalls seemed damn similar to the man in the field. It was her duty to tell the truth, to protect her sister. Julie wasn’t betraying her, but protecting them from the evil. She raised her head and wiped away the tears. “Mama, I . . .” For a second Abbie paused and locked eyes with Julie, whose face was ashen. Then she noticed it, a quick and subtle motion of her sister’s forefinger raised to her lips. At first it was as if she was wiping something from her upper lip. Then she did it again, with emphasis.
Abbie hung her head once more without finishing the sentence. It would be their secret.
“What did you say? Speak up.” Mama’s nostrils dilated, her face red.
“I said I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.” Abbie kept her eyes on the green grass, a white butterfly circled by her feet.
“You see, she’s making up all kinds of strange stories,” Julie said.
“Let’s go inside. It’s getting late,” Mama said, defusing the tension as if nothing occurred.
Abbie watched them enter the house through the creaking front door. She dropped to her knees, letting the butterfly flutter its wings against her thighs and belly.
The photograph slipped from her hands and floated through the dank basement air with the ease of a paper airplane. She placed her palm on her stomach, still sensing the butterfly. It felt like yesterday, but that moment changed her life forever. She never played in the corn maze with Julie again. From that day on, Julie had changed; she was no longer the bubbly older sister always seeking the next adventure. She had become a rebellious recluse. When they visited the farm, Julie would sometimes enter the corn maze alone. Oh, how she wished she was with her now, to ask what happened. Why had their sisterhood ended so soon? They never spoke of it again.
In her early twenties, Julie died of an overdose, and it shattered Mama to pieces. They may as well have buried her with Julie on that icy winter’s day. Her vibrant, youthful appearance vanished in a single moment. She spent the rest of her days in mourning. She wasn’t bitter and always received Abbie with a genuine smile. But her eyes were vacant, and the tragedy never too far from her lips. When the disease came on and she received her diagnosis, she almost seemed elated. “Julie’s waiting for me in heaven,” Mama would say. But as the disease progressed and the pain became excruciating, she lost her wits. She had thrown in the towel even before the fight began by refusing any chemotherapy treatment. Little did she know that the road to a reunion with Julie was blazed in hell. She would not go quietly into the night like her daughter.
Abbie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger, easing the pain radiating through her head and neck. She had worked hard to suppress these memories.
The past will never come back. Focus on what’s important now. You’ve already got enough on your plate.
She continued to remove the photo albums from the box and organize the scattered photos in a neat pile. Someday, she would let these memories resurface, but not today. Toward the middle of the box, she removed a red leather-bound photo album. Below it, placed in the center of the box, she could see the underside of the canvas. It was the size of a standard sheet of printer paper.
I’ve found it!
She reached for it, elated that her memory served her right. Then again, she was equally frightened of the implications. Her hands trembled as they neared the canvas. She rested it on her lap and swallowed hard. Once she flipped it over, there would be no turning back. She held her breath and flipped the canvas. The painting remained identical, unblemished, the paint still vibrant. The tearful eye stared back at her unforgivingly. A surge of emotion ravaged her with the force of a volcanic eruption, threatening to burn all the hard work she had done until now. She let out a raw, primal scream. These connected memories made sense. Mama’s painting was not symbolic of her illness, it was of Julie’s pain. She knew all along about the abuse, and that’s why she could never forgive herself. Abbie swayed backward and forward with the painting in her hands, willing away the pain. But instead, intense rage smothered her. If Mama knew, she was just as liable. No matter the price, she should have chosen her daughter above all else.
Abbie ran her finger along the outline of the iris, the pupil, the sclera. It seemed identical to her tattoo and those of the victims. She clutched the painting, shaking her head. Only two people ever knew this painting existed—her and Mama—and Mama was dead. That could only mean one thing:
Somehow, I’m the real monster.
“No!” she screamed from the depths of her soul, weeping. There was nothing worse than to be afraid of yourself.
“Abbie, what’s going on?” Robert’s voice shot out of nowhere.
She scrambled the painting behind her back and slipped it into the cardboard box. It was a matter of survival firs
t until she could figure it out; nobody could see that painting. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit basement until she found Robert standing at the bottom of the rustic staircase, his hands pressed to his forehead, mouth agape.
“I heard screaming. What’re you doing down here?”
“I wanted to clean up a bit. This place is a total mess,” she huffed, feigning frustration at how much work there was to do. “I’m sorry that I startled you. I stumbled on a picture of Mama, and it flooded me with memories of her death.”
He edged toward her, his arms outstretched, palms facing upwards. He embraced her, lowering her cheek onto his tense shoulder. “I know how difficult that was for you, baby. I’ll bring somebody in to clean up. Forget about this place. We’re late for dinner.”
She nodded in agreement, relieved more than anything that he didn’t see the painting and wasn’t suspicious.
They climbed the creaking stairs hand in hand.
“Did we plan for dinner?” Abbie asked.
“Don’t you remember, babe? We scheduled dinner for tonight with my parents. It’s been a while.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she lied, not remembering having ever spoken about it.
Am I blanking out?
As Robert locked the rusty basement door, she resolved to shut the past out of her mind. That was history. Right now, her survival instincts were dominating her thoughts. No one could ever see that painting. She didn’t plan on spending the rest of her life in a cell or a mental institution. Although the tattoos were unexplainable, she didn’t believe she could commit these crimes. If she had, the solution was final. She would spare everybody the grief. Young Jonah had more than his fair share. Having a serial killer mother would scar him for life. It’s not something anybody can relate to or forgive. However, suicide resulting from severe trauma would be something that, in time, her family would understand. No one could ever know of her guilt. Instead, she would end her life on her terms, as the victim.
Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Page 12
