The Body Keeper

by Anne Frasier

  “Anybody with a past like yours would dream of being from somewhere else,” she’d told him. “But you can’t change who you are. You saw some lady on television, and now you wanna run off to Minnesota. That’s insane.” Maybe she was right.

  They’d argued about it, about not having the money for the trip with a kid on the way. And when he took off, she’d screamed something about breaking up with him. He kinda got it. He mighta wanted to break up with him too.

  He pulled into a station, gassed up, and went inside to use the restroom and grab something to eat. Back in the car, shivering from the unbelievable cold, he tried to call his girlfriend. It went to voicemail. Would he even have a home when he got back? Would she decide she was sick of him and his dark moodiness? He wasn’t easy to live with. And having a kid on the way made him feel like even more of a loser. What kind of father would he be, somebody who’d grown up as a sexual slave? Where moving on to breaking and entering was a big step up in the world?

  Before leaving Oklahoma, he’d looked up the addresses he’d need in Minnesota. He knew he should just get out of town, head south on I-35. By the time he reached Kansas City, the snow would be gone and the temperature would be warmer. He could be home in less than twenty-four hours. But he was here, and he had to know . . .

  What the detective said made sense. Some traumatic event in his childhood had blocked his memories. But what could have happened that was more traumatic than the shit he did remember? Having sex with adult males when he was just a kid? And later, after he’d run away, becoming a prostitute? He didn’t know why he hadn’t told the detective that he thought he remembered the other woman too, Nanette somebody. That didn’t even make any sense, because the stories were unrelated. Maybe his brain really was just making shit up.

  He tried his girlfriend again. She answered, and he let out his breath in relief. “I’ll be home in a couple days,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry I got mad.”

  “Nah, you were right. It was stupid. A waste of money when we got a kid on the way.”

  They talked a little longer, and he felt better. She was the person who’d brought him out of the darkness. Too many times, and he felt bad about that. One of these days she’d leave, and he wouldn’t blame her. But for now . . .

  A car honked behind him.

  The station had gotten crowded while he was on the phone, and someone wanted his spot so they could fill up. He told his girlfriend good-bye and entered an address into his maps app, then started the driving directions.

  The house ended up being average and boring and didn’t look familiar. One and a half stories, with a dormer and pale-green siding. And since he was used to breaking and entering, the first thing he noticed was a security-alarm sign for a company that no longer existed. His professional guess? There was no alarm system.

  He circled the house in his car, driving up the alley. And Jesus. The alley, with deep snow on both sides, was almost like an Olympic luge with very little sign of cars going in or out. Apparently, people parked on the street when the alley got bad. Sliding all over hell, he had no choice but to keep going, finally spotting her garage with the house number. He slowed to a crawl as he passed. Two-car, handle on the outside, so no automatic door. Everything said the place would be easy, and he was torn between breaking in or warning her.

  He reached the end of the alley, turned back onto the street, and pulled to the curb a couple of houses down from the one he was interested in.

  He was a patient man when it came to this kind of thing. Had to be. Impatient people got caught. While he waited for signs of activity, he ate the pizza slice and drank the Diet Coke he’d picked up at the gas station. When he was done with the pizza, he tossed the triangular cardboard box on the floor and lit a cigarette, lowering his window a couple of inches, turned on his car so he could get some heat, and saw it had dropped to a few degrees below zero. Crazy.

  After a while, someone pulled up in front of the house. Older model Chevy, beige—also boring. A woman got out. Bundled up, so he couldn’t get a good look at her, carrying bags of groceries. She juggled her packages and unlocked the front door. Once she was inside, lights in the house came on. He hadn’t even realized it was getting dark. Five minutes later, he got out of the car and casually said hello to someone walking a dog. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, hair blowing, face freezing, he walked to the house and knocked.

  The woman answered.

  She wasn’t what he’d expected either, even though he’d seen her face on television. This person was average too. On the drive up from Oklahoma, he’d had time to fantasize about a house in an upscale neighborhood and a grieving mother who seemed like she could be a teacher or a politician. This person seemed . . . empty. Light-brown hair that was turning gray. The hair that wasn’t gray was lighter than his. That surprised him, and he felt renewed doubt about being her son.

  He stuck with his plan to carry out something he’d done before, not in Minnesota but Oklahoma. Today he didn’t have any props, so he decided to adjust his usual script.

  “I’m looking for somebody who used to live here. Guy I went to high school with.” He waited for some sign of recognition. Wouldn’t a mother know her own kid, even if he was grown? Wouldn’t she show some kind of reaction? She didn’t. And while he was gauging her lack of response, he looked into the house, beyond her, to the kitchen, where she’d put her bags down. On the floor near the door was a mat with one pair of boots, still wet from the snow. A coat tree held a single coat, a sweatshirt, and some kind of shawl thing. The living room contained no sign of another person. That answered his big question. Did she live alone?

  A cheap TV, a blanket draped across the couch. He checked the tops of windows and doors and didn’t spot any sensors or cameras.

  “You must have the wrong house.”

  She was ready to close the door, when he said, “He joined the army. Had a dog. Some kind of retriever. Does that ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

  She hadn’t been very nice. That annoyed him. He made one last attempt to shake a response out of her. He pointed from her to him. “Have we met?” He could be charming, something mostly done with a smile and gestures. He poured it on.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure? You seem familiar.”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  That action brought about a decision. Angry, he strode down the walk and back to his car. Inside, he turned on the heater again, sucked the last bit of drink from his gas-station soda, and waited.

  CHAPTER 35

  He thought he might have to wait for Gail Ford to go to sleep—he hated home-occupied break-ins. But an hour later the front door opened and she stepped out, locked up, and walked straight to her car without even glancing in his direction. Seconds later, she drove off in a cloud of exhaust. He gave it five minutes in case she forgot something and came back. That happened a lot.

  Two streetlights made the block too bright, but who the hell would be outside if they didn’t have to be? Head bent, hands in his pockets, he walked toward the house, circled around back, and slipped inside an unlocked three-season porch—another stupid thing homeowners did. Leaving porch doors unlocked because they weren’t the main house. But unlocked porches gave burglars a nice place to hide while doing what they needed to do to get in. Like kicking at the knob a few times.

  The wood frame shattered enough for him to shove the door open and enter the kitchen. Didn’t appear to be any lamps on timers to even attempt to make criminals think someone was home. He told himself this would be a good lesson for her. She was lucky it was him. Someone dangerous could have broken in when she was asleep. This way, she’d come home and find the broken door, then get a security system. Many people got security systems after the break-in. He was once hired by a shady security-alarm dealer to break into houses just so the homeowner would install his equipment. It was a good scam. Stolen merchan
dise, plus the install and sale of the system.

  A couple of night-lights helped him find his way around, one in a kitchen outlet. The light was a cardinal, maybe. Some kind of bird. Another one radiated a small amount of illumination from the living room. Neither would scare off a burglar. He didn’t reach for any switches. Instead, he used his cell phone to move through the rooms.

  The house still didn’t seem familiar to him. Had she lived here when the kidnapping took place? He’d hoped being inside would trigger a memory, but he was getting nothing from scents or visuals. Nothing from the shitty wallpaper or the narrow hallway that led to a bedroom and bathroom.

  The bedroom that appeared to be hers had a lived-in stench, kind of like clothes that had been put away when they were still damp with sweat. Combine that with a disgusting mix of laundry soap and air fresheners, and he almost gagged. His girlfriend called him an odor snob because he couldn’t stand fabric softener or the smell of most laundry soap or hand soap or body soap. He bought organic products, and only certain ones.

  There were no displayed photographs in the room. That surprised him. Women her age seemed to love that stuff. He opened and closed dresser drawers, then moved on.

  In the living room, he hit the jackpot. Several framed photos along one wall that he’d missed earlier when talking to her at the door. A man and a woman and maybe their son, their son maybe being him. He’d done his homework, and he knew the husband was dead. But that must have been the abducted kid. And maybe she displayed the photos because they showed the happy family and what life had been like before the abduction.

  He didn’t even remember being lured somewhere. How did he not remember something like that? He didn’t remember walking home from school, didn’t remember anybody grabbing him. But he’d heard about it a lot because it was a story that tended to pop up in the news every few years. The little he did recall was probably just memories of the media reports stuck in his brain. Abducted boy.

  But he remembered what came later. A dark room, chains, a ride in a windowless van. And years of sex with much older men. He got bigger and stronger and finally overpowered his owner one night and made his escape. He didn’t kill him. He could have, but he didn’t.

  He heard a creak above his head, froze, and listened while holding his breath.

  Maybe just the house shifting. Really hot weather could make a house crack and pop, the sound sometimes like a gunshot. Maybe cold weather did the same thing.

  But no. Footsteps. Walking across the floor above his head.

  He turned off his phone and looked right and left, not yet in a panic, but close.

  He’d been involved in robberies where the owners had come home. He had only a couple of choices. Hide in the house for the night, or risk coming face-to-face with the person. From experience, he knew homeowners were usually shocked and immobilized to find someone inside. It took time for them to act. His best choice right now? Not to worry about noise and get the hell out of there as fast as he could. He lunged for the front door, turned the knob and pulled, but it wouldn’t open. He tried again. It was like a cartoon, his foot against the doorframe as he tugged hard.

  Footsteps were moving down the stairs. And then a voice spoke from across the living room. “I knew you were up to something when you knocked.” He let go of the door and turned to face the woman he’d been talking to earlier.

  Coat off, she was wearing socks, no shoes. And she was pointing a gun at him. He thought about how dark the house had been when he arrived. He’d scoffed at her lack of lights, but now he wondered if she’d set a trap for him. Had she been waiting?

  “I saw you scoping out the place, looking past me into the house, mentioning a dog, checking to see if I had one. Then you didn’t drive away. So I got in my car. That door is a sticky bastard, by the way. Now I’m glad I didn’t get it fixed. While you were still outside, I drove around the corner, parked, and came back in through the porch.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” He took a few steps, then stopped.

  “Stay.” The gun barrel didn’t falter.

  She was tough. He’d give her credit for that. “I know this looks bad,” he said.

  “It does.”

  “But I have a reason to be here.”

  She let out a snort.

  “Listen, I can fix your back door. I’m handy. I can fix your front door too. And I can give you some tips about securing your house.”

  “I think you can just stay where you are.”

  It hadn’t been his plan to reveal himself like this, but he had no choice. He still didn’t know if any of what he suspected was true, but coming clean seemed the best thing to do in order to save his life.

  “I know this is weird, but I think I might be your son.”

  He waited for her to gasp and put the gun away and run to him, maybe pull him into her arms, touch his face, and say how he did look like the kid she’d known and loved, now that she thought about it.

  She did appear surprised, very surprised, but she didn’t do any of the expected things the mother of a long-lost child would do. She kept the gun aimed at his head.

  CHAPTER 36

  You look like you could use a drink.” Gail’s words were friendly, but the gun in her hand didn’t waver. “Let’s go to the kitchen.” She kept him in front of her, motioning him through the doorway to a wooden chair. Time flipped, and her breath caught as she remembered days he’d sat there, mornings before school and evenings before bed. She found herself wondering if he still liked the same cereal, and if he still liked the same superheroes. So stupid, letting her mind slip like that, getting sentimental.

  She was pretty sure he wouldn’t try to jump her. He was too stunned for that, but she didn’t put the gun aside, managing to open a bottle of vodka with one hand, grabbing two short glasses, filling each one, sliding his across the table as she leaned against the counter with hers, watching him over the rim.

  Two swallows and he was done with his drink. She set hers aside and filled his glass again. Another drink down, and he asked, “Are you my mother?”

  She’d tried. She really had. Tried to love him. But she’d never wanted a kid. Having a kid had been Dan’s idea. “You’ll love your own child,” he’d told her.

  Didn’t happen.

  “I think I remember sitting here.” Shaun appeared to think about it, nodded. “You bleached my hair.” Obviously puzzled, because why would anybody do that to a young boy? “I sat here eating cereal with a cap on my head while the bleach processed. Is that right?”

  “I’ve thought about this day a lot,” she told him. “About wanting to see you but being afraid to see you.”

  Dan hadn’t understood how she could do such a thing, give up her own child, their child, but it hadn’t been hard. Not hard at all. And better than killing him, which had long been her secret fantasy. She’d saved him, really. But it had all been too much for Dan, because he died shortly after that, leaving her alone.

  “I’ve actually practiced what I would do if I saw you again,” she said. “I always pour you a drink, and you always take it. What I really want you to know is that I had no choice. Yes, I’m your mother. And I loved you. I still love you.” It was a lie, but she wanted to give him that much after all the trouble he’d gone through to find her. “I was in a bad situation. We needed a kid, you were here, right in front of me, almost old enough, almost the right look.”

  “Needed a kid?” Baffled.

  There was really no easy way to put it. “I sold you to someone, a man who liked young boys. He was very powerful and potentially dangerous.” Not a local, and not a drop of “Minnesota nice” in him. She’d heard he’d died maybe ten years ago now.

  “You sold me?” The question was really a statement, with no emotion or emphasis behind it. He was too shocked for that.

  “Would you like another drink?” she asked.

  He pushed his glass across the table and she refilled it while he shrugged out of his thin jacket, letting it sl
ip behind him on the chair. He looked ready to throw up, like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, like he wished he’d never knocked on her door. That made two of them.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she said. “It would have been better for both of us.” At first, she’d truly thought the body found in the lake was him. She’d needed it to be him. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of this day any longer.

  “I saw you on the news, and then I couldn’t quit wondering. I just wanted to see you. I just wanted some kind of proof.” He was slurring his words, and his eyelids were getting droopy, just like that night twenty years ago. “I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?”

  Rohypnol could do that. Cause amnesia. She looked at his glass. The drug was tasteless, but it had a slightly blue tint.

  He caught her glance and put it together, especially why the alcohol was hitting him so fast and hard. “You drugged me.”

  “I wanted to make it as easy as possible. Then and now.”

  He pushed himself up and away from the table, staggered, planted a foot on the floor to keep from falling, then dropped back in the chair, almost knocking it over.

  “I hope the man was good to you.” She’d always imagined him having a better life there than here. She’d never been good for him.

  “Good?” His eyes opened a crack. “You freakin’ kiddin’?”

  “I hope he was kind. I hope you had a comfortable bed and three meals a day. Because really, isn’t that what we’re all looking for? Just kindness, a bed, and food?”

  “You’re insane.” He was getting harder to understand.

  “Just close your eyes and rest a little bit.” She’d said the same thing to him years ago after she’d dried his bleached hair with a blow-dryer. Back then, the heat had added to his sleepiness.

  “Gotta . . . go,” he muttered as his chin tipped forward to rest on his chest. He looked a little like a roosting chicken. She leaned forward and inhaled. His hair smelled like some expensive, fancy product. His life couldn’t be that bad.