by Wendy Wax
Tense as I am, I snort. For the first time since Clay’s phone call, I take a full breath.
“Do you remember that Girl Scout camping trip when we tried to make it the whole weekend without having to use those latrines?” she asks, reaching into our past for another shot of humor.
I tear my eyes from the almost-impenetrable darkness beyond the windshield to look at Lauren. Her hands are clenched tightly on the wheel. Her chin is thrust forward in the angle of determination I’ve trusted since kindergarten. “I will never forget that camping trip,” I say as drolly as I can manage. “The latrine you talked me out of would have been a better choice than the poison ivy patch I used instead.”
“Amen, sister.” Lauren laughs and I join her. For at least a few seconds we’re both somewhere else.
* * *
Two and a half hours into the drive, we finally pull into a rest stop just outside of Delaware City. We get soaked during our race to the bathroom and the switching of seats.
I try to adjust my seat but it has only two positions: grossly uncomfortable and torture chamber.
The wind and rain intensify the farther south we get. I squint to try to see through the rain then squint to read the screen of my phone that Lauren has placed in a holder that’s attached to an air vent. According to Waze, we’ve picked up and lost the same two minutes for the last hour and there’s not much information coming from drivers ahead of us. In fact, the rain is so heavy we don’t know if there are drivers ahead of us. Or behind us. Or even beside us.
We debate whether you’re supposed to put on your hazards in order to be seen through the downpour—I am for, Lauren is against—and whether we’ll need to stop for gas—we agree that if there’s anything worse than driving in this storm it would be running out of gas and getting stranded in it.
My heartbeat drums in my ears. My brain fills with horrifying images: Lily huddled in a dark cabin without a roof. Or pinned beneath a fallen tree. Or standing on the roof of a car to evade floodwaters that threaten to wash her away.
The fear of not getting to Lily in time is constant and excruciating, even though I don’t know what in time means. For all I know terrible things have already happened. And I wasn’t there to stop them or protect her.
A couple of hours later we pull off into a service plaza and do our impersonation of a pit crew at Daytona (if in fact race car drivers take potty breaks). I top off the tank while Lauren grabs some bottled waters. I’m still behind the wheel when we pull back out. We’re both already exhausted from straining to see through the blinding rain and keeping the car in its lane despite the gusting wind. And from holding back the panic.
When my phone rings Lauren reaches for it and puts it on speakerphone. “It’s Clay.”
There are no greetings or small talk. I envy the fact that he’s had specific tasks to occupy him while I’ve had nothing to do but keep the tin car from shimmying off the road or into some unseen vehicle while imagining Lily in heart-stopping scenarios that we always arrive just minutes too late to prevent. Worry gnaws at me. If it were possible to have an imagination surgically removed, I’d have mine plucked out this minute.
“I got Shane’s cell number from Dana but it goes directly to voice mail just like Lily’s, so I’m guessing there’s no cell reception wherever they are. I haven’t been able to reach the Adamses by phone, either,” Clay says. “So I’m on my way to their house—they live up in Kill Devil Hills. Charlie Hatch in the sheriff’s department is reaching out to the Richmond police to ask them to be on the lookout. He’s requested what’s called an ATL, or Attempt to Locate, and promised to keep me posted. I also checked in with Kendra, but she hasn’t heard anything from Lily.”
Lauren and I exchange glances at the mention of her mother, but within seconds our eyes are back on the road. There’s little room in either of our brains for anything more than seeing where we’re going and beating back the fear about what we’ll find when we get there.
The car rattles crazily for a twenty-mile stretch between Maryland and DC. The wind’s so strong my hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel and my head throbs from trying to see through the rain.
“It’s bad enough flying in something designed to stay in the air,” Lauren whispers, her thoughts mirroring my own. “I’d be taking Xanax right now if I’d remembered to bring them.”
“The last thing we need right now is to relax. We need our wits about us.”
“Too late for that,” she says. “I’m starting to feel like this car. I don’t have any cylinders firing.”
It takes a few minutes to notice that the car is shimmying less violently. I straighten and loosen my grip on the wheel slightly. “Do you feel that?”
“The wind,” Lauren says. “I think it’s starting to drop.”
I’m still peering through the windshield. For the first time I see moving shapes in the distance. “And the rain’s letting up some. Or am I imagining it?”
When I loosen my grip a little more, the car doesn’t careen into another lane. I exhale the breath I feel like I’ve been holding for hours.
For a few minutes we just breathe.
Lauren puts her hand on my arm. “I really do believe everything’s going to be okay. And being positive isn’t going to hurt or jinx anything. We’ll deal with whatever happens together.”
I draw in another less-shaky breath. “Thanks. I know. You’re right. It’s just . . .”
“Yeah.”
We both jump when the phone rings. “You’re on speaker, Clay,” Lauren says again. “What have you got?”
“The Adamses weren’t as receptive as they might have been. Their son told them he was going up to the family cabin on the Mattaponi River to fish with some of his friends, and they see no reason to believe otherwise despite the horrible weather. They confirmed that there’s no reception at the cabin or the area around it. I’m texting you the address right now.”
The address dings in to my phone. Lauren presses the screen a few times and Waze begins to reset itself as Clay continues, “I’ve just filled up the truck and I’m on 158. I look to be about two and a half to three hours away. Kendra and Jake may be ahead of me. They insisted on coming.”
“We’re under two hours now,” Lauren says. “So we should get there first.”
I press my foot down on the accelerator and the tin car jumps forward. For the first time since we picked it up I actually wish it could fly.
* * *
At last, we turn off Highway 360 and into an area that was once woods and farmland, but now contains pockets of civilization and new development. It’s three thirty in the afternoon. The rain is a steady drizzle that falls on us and splatters the narrow paved road that curves past the occasional mobile home or derelict barn or burned-out building. Even smaller roads appear to branch off and lead toward the river that we glimpse between trees and vines. Other roads are dirt driveways with mailboxes. Most of these have wooden signs with owner’s names carved into them nailed to a tree or fence post.
“There it is.” Lauren points to a crude sign that reads simply ADAMS #142 and we turn onto a smaller, rutted road. The ground is soft and pockmarked with pools of rainwater. Tree limbs and branches litter the ground. One huge oak is split down one side from a lightning strike. The river has risen and sloshed over the bank, but it hasn’t reached the cabin.
The cabin sits in a clearing facing the river. It looks tired and worn, sagging from exhaustion. The gray sky doesn’t help. At first I’m afraid that no one’s there. But then I see a mud-spattered red pickup parked at the far edge of the clearing.
Light shines through several windows and there’s a flicker of what must be a television. There may not be cell reception here but at least there’s electricity. I don’t know what we’re going to find inside. If there was ever a party it’s over. If a group of guys came fishing they all fit inside that red truck.
The only boat is an ancient canoe sitting upside down near the truck.
“How do you want to play this?” Lauren asks as we climb out of the car, our backs stiff and our legs cramped from the drive.
“Play what?”
“Do you think we should do good cop, bad cop? You can be the good cop if you want.”
“We’re here to get Lily and take her home. I’m just going to be the mom cop. You can be the ‘auntie’ cop. If you need to have a role to play.”
I square my shoulders and we walk to the cabin and up the sagging steps to the sagging front porch. The fear and adrenaline that got me through the drive are jangling inside me, building inexorably. I need to know that Lily is okay.
With one last deep breath I rap on the front door, which has also seen better days. I’m about to knock again when footsteps thud across a wood floor. The door opens and a tall, lanky boy of about seventeen stares out at us. He’s got a halo of blond hair, wide-set blue eyes, and even, almost delicate, features. But his eyes are wary and the expression on his face is nowhere close to angelic. His body blocks the opening and the rest of the room from view. I feel Lauren shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet. Slowly she pulls something out of her pocket. I have to crane my neck to look the boy in the eye. I’m not tall enough to look over his shoulder.
“Shane?”
“Yeah?” He looks down at me and I can see that his eyes are bloodshot and more than a little glazed.
“I’m Lily’s mother.” Despite the way my heartbeat kicks up, I speak slowly and clearly. Like you would to an animal that might or might not be dangerous.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. And this is her aunt Lauren. We’ve come to take her home.”
“You’re a little late for that. Ma’am.”
My stomach clenches at his words and the sarcastic ma’am. “What do you mean?”
“She left.”
“When?”
“A while ago. She’d been all pissy and holed up in the bedroom most of the time since we got here anyway.” He is clearly put out.
I look into his eyes but I can’t read them or him. “What did you do to her to make her leave in a nor’easter?” I demand.
“Beats me.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. As if Lily doesn’t matter. Anger surges through me. I want to grab him and shake him until he loses the attitude. “But she’s not here.”
Lauren and I exchange glances. She’s only a few inches shorter than him but my head doesn’t reach his shoulders. If I surprised him with a headbutt to the stomach could I throw him off-balance enough to get inside? I’m way too furious to worry about technique.
I take a step forward, crowding him, looking up to stare him in the eye. “We won’t be leaving until we see for ourselves that Lily isn’t here.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Lauren steps up beside me. Together we stand our ground. Finally, when I think we’re actually going to have to rush him and force our way in, he shrugs again and steps aside. “Whatever.”
We step into the living room. The inside of the cabin is as old and weathered as the outside. It smells of mildew and neglect with a slight lacing of marijuana. I scan the space, looking for signs of Lily’s presence, but I see only a filthy plaid sofa and a couple of chairs aimed at a much newer flat-screen TV.
We ignore Shane as we work our way through the kitchen with its ancient linoleum floor, even-more-ancient appliances, and a small table in front of a window that overlooks the river. There’s also a bathroom that was last updated (and possibly cleaned) in the ’70s, a wood-paneled bedroom, and a loft outfitted with a set of bunk beds.
Lauren and I don’t speak as we inspect every inch of the cabin, opening closets and large cupboards in fury and in case he isn’t just an asshole but a homicidal maniac who has gagged Lily and stuffed her away somewhere.
“Your parents think you’re fishing with the guys,” I say when we’ve looked everywhere.
We get the shrug again. Shane Adams is sullen and self-centered and I don’t think he’s going to grow up to be a rocket scientist, but I can see how a sixteen-year-old girl might interpret his surly silence as moody or even sensitive. Lord knows I have experience with seeing what I want when it comes to male behavior.
“Told you.” He smirks. “She couldn’t wait to spend the weekend together and then once we got here she didn’t want to have anything to do with me. Wanted me to take her home in the middle of the storm.”
“Gosh, she wasn’t bowled over by all this and you?” Lauren’s voice drips sarcasm. “Hard to imagine.”
All I can think, is Thank God she came to her senses. And if I find out this boy has touched her against her will, I’m going to come back here and get rid of the smirk and the shrug.
“You don’t bring a sixteen-year-old girl into the middle of nowhere and then refuse to take her home when she asks to leave!” I bite out. “Where is she now?”
He spreads his hands. “Who knows? Walkerton’s a mile up the road. Maybe she went there.” He shrugs. Again.
“I hope to hell you didn’t manage to take advantage of her, seeing as how she’s a minor and that would be a crime,” Lauren says.
“Damn straight.” I touch Lauren’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We know where he lives.”
I throw open the door and we step out onto the porch. Shane follows us.
“She wanted to come here. She practically begged me to bring her.” We’re halfway to the rental car when he shouts, “She talked a big game, said she couldn’t wait to do the deed. But in the end she was nothing but a tease!”
Lauren and I stop and turn. Lauren’s face is flushed with anger.
“I know you didn’t just say that.” Blood roars in my ears. “If you were a whit or two smarter you’d know enough to be ashamed of yourself.”
Lauren shakes her head. “Someone needs to teach you a few lessons about the opposite sex and how to treat them.”
“Yeah. Right,” he scoffs.
I’m pretty sure I could rip his head off with my bare hands right now, but Lauren is already moving toward him. When she gets close she doesn’t say a word. She simply twists her body, kicks one leg out, and leaves the ground. As she completes her turn the rotation of her body drives her foot into his chest and knocks him to the ground where he lands in a heap in a mud puddle, like an oversize rag doll.
I look at Lauren in shock as I race to her side.
“What? He asked for it. Literally.”
“Where in the world did you learn how to do that?”
It’s Lauren’s turn to shrug. “That first day in New York when I got mugged I vowed it would never happen again. At least not without a fight.” She shrugs again, this time with satisfaction. “I’ve been practicing martial arts ever since. I take a refresher self-defense course every year.” She opens one hand. A small black canister of pepper spray is cupped in her palm. “And I don’t leave home without this. If he hadn’t gone down so easily I would have emptied it in his face.”
“Wow.” I shake my head in wonder and gratitude. “Thank you. I don’t think I could have borne seeing him smirk in the rearview mirror.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad Lily got herself out of here.”
“I wish she’d had the sense not to come.” I stare down at the limp body of Shane Adams. “Or that I’d been home to stop her.” A shudder passes through me. “I know it’s the mess between Clay and me that drove her to act out this way.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, Bree. Remember when we were that age? He behaved like a shit, but she isn’t the first girl who got herself in a bad situation.”
She slips the canister back in her pocket then crouches down to snap her fingers in the boy’s face.
He groans and blinks.
“He’s conscious. Grab an arm. Much as I’d like to leave
him here, if there’s more rain the river could rise this high.” Lauren takes one large limp arm and I take the other. We drag him through the mud, hitting every possible puddle, and up the steps to dump him on the porch.
“Come on, I’ll drive,” she says.
As we leave the cabin behind I reassure myself that if Lily were “pissy” and determined enough to walk out of this place, a mile and some rain wouldn’t have fazed her.
Thirty-nine
We’re approaching State Route 629 with Lauren at the wheel when we come within range of a cell tower and messages start dinging onto our phones. Mine shows missed calls from Clay and Kendra and a number I don’t recognize.
“Where are you?” Clay asks, picking up my return call on the first ring.
“We’re just getting into Walkerton.”
“Thank God,” he says. “I’m still about thirty minutes away. But I had a call from a woman named Sue. She works in Walkerton in a place called Scott’s Store. Lily’s there. She’s . . . the woman said Lily’s phone was damaged and that she was . . .” His voice trails off. “Apparently she was too shaken to make the call herself. I . . . I could hear her sobbing in the background.” He sounds like he’s about to cry himself.
I don’t offer even a hint of sympathy. As far as I’m concerned he could have prevented all of this if he’d been tuned in and paying attention to Lily. The fear and adrenaline that’ve been pumping through my bloodstream since I found out she was missing have left me jangling with a dangerous kind of energy.
“Kendra and Jake shouldn’t be far behind you,” he continues. “I had a text a few minutes ago and gave them the address. I’ll see you there.”
Walkerton is neither big nor bustling. The few businesses that exist are closed, and I have no idea if it’s because of the storm or simply because it’s a Sunday. Scott’s Store is a small, pale-yellow clapboard building with gas pumps, an ice cooler, and a Coke machine out front. Only one or two cars are in its parking lot. Lauren’s barely brought the Focus to a halt when I open the door and jump out. Unlike the Ford that has kept its wheels on the ground, I fly into the building, which seems to be a convenience store/restaurant/gas station.
