Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

  “Was your dad hitting her?”

  I’d noticed before that when he talked about his mom his voice would flatten, and when he answered this time it sounded almost robotic.

  “I was gentle…I was always gentle when I touched her. I didn’t make her cry. It wasn’t right.”

  “He was hurting her?”

  Staring hard at the center of my chest, his eyes vacant, he shook his head back and forth and repeated, “It wasn’t right.”

  He caressed the base of his neck. “She saw me…in the mirror. She saw me.” The flesh around his fingers reddened as he tightened his grip on his throat for a second, then he pulled his hand down to rub at his thigh like he was trying to wipe something off his palm.

  In a raspy voice he said, “Then she smiled.” The Freak’s mouth lifted up into a beatific smile, then widened until it was almost a grimace. He held it so long it had to be painful. My heart lurched in my chest.

  Finally meeting my eyes, he said, “After that she always left the door open. For years she left the door open.”

  His voice flattened again. “When I was fifteen she started shaving me too, so I was smooth all over like her, and if I held her too hard in the night she got mad. Sometimes when I had dreams, the sheets…she made me burn them. She was changing.”

  Careful to keep my voice tender and soft, I said, “Changing?”

  “I came home early from school one day. There were sounds from the bedroom. I thought he was on a trip. So I went to the door.” He was rubbing at his chest now, like he was having a hard time getting air.

  “He was behind her. And another man, a stranger…. I left before she could see me. Waited outside, under the porch—”

  He stopped abruptly and after a few beats I said, “Under the porch?”

  “With my books. That’s where I hid them. I was only allowed to read inside if he was home. When he was gone she said they interfered with our time. If she caught me with one, she ripped the pages out.” Now I knew why he was so careful with books.

  “An hour later when the men passed over me, I could still smell her on them. They were going for a beer. She was inside—humming.” He shook his head. “She shouldn’t have let them do those things to her. She was sick. She couldn’t see it was wrong. She needed my help.”

  “So did you? Help her?”

  “I had to save her, to save us, before she changed so much I couldn’t help her anymore, you see?”

  I saw. I nodded.

  Satisfied, he continued. “A week later when she was at the store, I asked him to take me for a drive so I could show him an old mine up in the woods.” He stared down at the knife in the deer’s neck. “When she got home I told her he’d packed all his belongings and left, he’d found someone else. She cried, but I took care of her, just like in the beginning, but this time it was even better because I didn’t have to share her. Then she got sick and I did everything for her that she liked, everything she asked. Everything. So when she got sicker and asked me to kill her she thought I would just do it. But I didn’t want to. I couldn’t. She begged, she said I wasn’t a real man, that a real man could have done it. She said he would have done it, but I just couldn’t.”

  While he’d been talking the sun had disappeared and it began to snow—a light dusting of white frosted us and the deer. One of The Freak’s blond waves had fallen over his forehead in a curl, and his eyelashes spiked together and sparkled. I wasn’t sure if it was from the snow or tears, but he looked angelic.

  My thighs ached from holding a crouched position for too long, but there was no way I was asking him if I could stretch. My body may have been motionless, but my mind reeled.

  He shook his head, then looked up from the knife.

  “So to answer your question, Annie, it can feel great. But we’d better get a move on, or some wild animal is going to smell the fresh blood and come hunting us.” His tone of voice was now cheerful.

  For a minute I didn’t get what question he was talking about. Then I remembered. I’d asked him what it felt like to kill someone.

  While I continued to hold the deer’s legs, he reached into the slit and gently rolled the stomach sack, about the size of a beach ball, out onto the snow. It was still attached at one end, by something that looked like an umbilical cord, from under the rib cage. He pulled his knife out of the neck—it stuck for a second, then released with a pop. Then he reached back in with the knife and cut out what looked like the deer’s heart and organs. He dropped them near the sack like they were garbage. The smell of raw meat churned up bile at the back of my throat, but I choked it down.

  He said, “Stay here,” and disappeared into a large shed at the side of the cabin. He returned in seconds carrying a small chain saw and some rope. My breath caught in my chest when he knelt at the deer’s head. The pristine silence of winter wilderness was shattered by the sound of the saw cutting through the deer’s neck. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. He put the saw down, picked up the knife, and walked to the rear of the deer. I flinched as he reached toward me, which made him laugh, but he was only taking the legs from me. Then he used his knife to slice a hole through the ankle, right behind the Achilles tendon on both legs, and threaded the rope through.

  We dragged the carcass to the shed, each holding one of its front legs. I glanced back. The deer’s body had left a trail of blood behind us and a bloody indentation in the snow. I’ll never forget the sight of that poor deer’s head, heart, and guts lying out in the cold.

  The shed was solid metal—no wild animals welcome—and a big freezer stood against one wall inside. Some sort of machinery that I think was a generator hummed noisily at the back, beside it a pump that must have been for the well. Six big red barrels labeled diesel lined the opposite wall. Next to them was a propane tank. I didn’t see any firewood, so I figured it was stored somewhere else. The air smelled like a mixture of oil, gas, and deer blood.

  He threw the rope attached to the deer’s back legs up over a crossbeam in the ceiling, then we both pulled on it until the carcass was hung. Would my body be hanging up there one day?

  I thought that was the end of it, but he started to sharpen the knife on a stone, and I began to tremble violently. Meeting my eyes, he scraped the knife back and forth in a rhythmic motion with a smile playing about his lips. After a minute or so, he held it up.

  “What do you think? Sharp enough?”

  “For…for what?”

  He began to walk toward me. I threw my hands in front of my belly. Awkward in the rubber boots, I stumbled backward.

  He stopped, and with a confused expression said, “What’s wrong with you? We have to skin it.” He cut around each ankle, then took a leg. “Don’t just stand there, grab the other one.” We rolled the hide down—he had to use his knife to nick at the tissue once in a while to help it along, but mostly just down the legs, and when we reached the main part, it peeled off like dead skin after a sunburn.

  When it was off, he rolled it up and put it in the freezer. Then he made me stand outside where he could see me while he collected the saw, put it back in the shed, and locked it up. I asked him what he was going to do with the innards and its head—he said he’d deal with them later.

  Back inside, he noticed I was shivering and told me to sit by the fire to warm up. Our talk didn’t seem to have upset him. I considered asking if he’d killed anyone else, but my stomach clenched at the thought of hearing his answer. Instead I said, “Can I wash off, please?”

  “Is it time for your bath?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Then you know the answer.”

  The rest of that day I wore deer blood. It made my skin crawl, but I tried not to think about it, I tried not to think about anything—not blood, dead deer, or murdered fathers. I just focused on the fire and watched the flames dance.

  Later that night, as he drifted off to sleep, he said, “I like cats.” He liked cats? The murdering sadistic fuck liked cats? A hysterical giggle fought to come
out my throat, but I clamped my hand over my mouth in the dark.

  SESSION ELEVEN

  Got to tell you, Doc, I feel like I’m doing pretty good these days. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to just crawl back into bed, but I grabbed Emma’s leash and took her down to the waterfront for a walk. As opposed to up in the woods for one of our usual jaunts designed to guarantee we won’t see a soul.

  Instead, we were kind of social. Well, Emma was—she has a weakness for smaller dogs, has to stop and smooch all of them. She’s hit or miss with the big ones, but show her a poodle and she’s in puppy make-out heaven. I’d managed to avoid most human interactions by staring off into the distance, or at the dogs, or at my feet while jerking on her leash to hurry her by, but when she insisted on visiting with a cocker spaniel, I stopped and actually shot the breeze with the owners, an elderly couple. It was standard dog-owner drivel: What’s his name? Timber? And how old? But damn, Doc, a couple of weeks ago I’d rather have pushed them into the sea than communicate with them on any level.

  When I first came back, I had to stay at my mom’s place for a while because my house was rented out, and man, was I relieved they hadn’t sold it—just another lie The Freak fed me. Fortunately I was so paranoid about ever losing my house that I’d just taken the entire commission from a house sale and placed it in a separate account so I’d have a year’s worth of mortgage payments banked. The mortgage company just kept taking their payments out, month after month, and I suppose when my bank account was drained they’d have foreclosed.

  I asked Mom where my things were, and she said, “We had to sell it all, Annie. How do you think we came up with the money for your search? Most of the donations went for your reward. We had to use all the rental money too.” She sure wasn’t kidding—they sold everything. I keep expecting to see some chick walking around in my leather coat.

  My car was a lease, and once the cops processed it, it went straight back to the dealership. Now I’m driving that piece of shit out there until I figure out what I want to do—a fancy car doesn’t seem that important anymore.

  I had a lot of savings, but all my bills were on direct withdraw, so I don’t have much left. My office gave Mom my paychecks from some deals that closed after I was abducted. She tried to cash them so they could add to the reward money, which has now gone to charity, but they wouldn’t let her so she had to deposit them into my account—good thing, or my whole life would’ve folded.

  A few days ago I was cuddling with Emma on the couch when my phone rang. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but I saw Mom’s number on the call display and knew if I didn’t answer, she’d just keep calling.

  “How’s my Annie Bear today?”

  “Fine.” I wanted to tell her I was tired because the night before—the fifth night in a row I slept in my bed—a branch scratched against my window, and I spent the rest of the night in my closet, wondering if I was ever going to feel safe again.

  “Listen, I have some great news—Wayne has come up with an amazing business idea. I can’t tell you any details until it’s finalized, but he’s on to something big.”

  You’d think eventually they’d realize the guy just doesn’t have the Midas touch. I almost feel sorry for Wayne sometimes. He’s not a bad man or even stupid, he’s just one of those guys who really wants to be something, but instead of putting the pedal to the metal and driving forward, he’s too busy trying to figure out the quickest route there and just ends up going in circles.

  When I was a kid he took me with him a couple of times when he went to pitch a new investment idea. I was embarrassed for him—he stood right in people’s faces as he was speaking, and when they tried to lean away, he talked louder. For the first few days after a meeting he’d walk around the house all happy, checking his phone messages a million times, and he and Mom would stay up drinking and toasting themselves. Nothing ever came through.

  Once in a while he did something that made me think he might not be a total loser. Like when I was fifteen there was a concert I really wanted to go to, and I spent a whole weekend collecting bottles around town. On Monday—the day the tickets had to be bought—I turned them in but I didn’t even have close to the amount I needed. I locked myself in my room and cried. After I finally surfaced, I found an envelope under my door with Wayne’s handwriting on the front and a ticket inside. When I tried to thank him, he just flushed and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  As soon as I started making good money in real estate I tried to help them out—new tires, new computer, new fridge, even just cash for bills and groceries. In the beginning it felt good to give them a hand, but then I realized it was like throwing money down a hole—a hole that drained right into the next dumbass business scheme. After I bought my house I couldn’t afford to help as much, so I sat them down and explained how they could set up a bud get. Mom just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. They must be getting by somehow, because their lifestyle sure hasn’t changed.

  Mom noticed my lack of enthusiasm on the phone and broke into my thoughts. “You haven’t said anything.”

  “Sorry, I hope it works out for him.”

  “I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “I really don’t appreciate your negative attitude, Annie. After everything that man did for you while you were missing—after everything we both did—the least you could do is show a little more interest.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just not in a very good mood right now.”

  “Maybe if you left your house once in a while instead of moping around all day, you’d be more pleasant to talk to.”

  “Not likely. Whenever I do try to leave, some dickhead reporter is jumping all over me, not to mention Hollywood agents with their bullshit offers.”

  “They’re just trying to make a living, Annie. If it wasn’t for those reporters you hate so much paying you for interviews, you wouldn’t have anything to live on yourself, would you?”

  Leave it to Mom to make me feel like I was the asshole. Especially when she was right—the vultures were funding my living expenses now that my savings were almost gone. But I still couldn’t get used to the process, or seeing myself in print and on-screen. Mom saved every newspaper clipping from every interview—finally her chance to have a scrap-book for me—and taped every show. She gave me copies, but I watched only two of them and shoved the rest in a drawer.

  “Your fifteen minutes are almost over, Annie. What are you going to do for money then? How are you going to keep your house?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something, Mom, I’ll think of something.” What was I going to do? My stomach twisted into knots.

  “You know, an agent isn’t such a bad idea. They might be able to get you some up-front money.”

  “You mean get themselves some money. One I talked to wanted me to sign away all my rights—if I’d listened to him the movie people could’ve done whatever they wanted.”

  “So talk to a producer yourself, then.”

  “I don’t want to talk to any of them, Mom. Why is that so hard to understand?”

  “Jesus, Annie, I just asked a simple question, you don’t have to take my head off.”

  “Sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Maybe I do need to get out more. We better talk about something else before I totally lose it.” I forced a laugh. “So how’s your garden doing?”

  Two things Mom loves talking about—gardening and cooking. They’re also two things that take a lot of TLC, always a lot easier for my mom to lavish on food and plants than on me.

  When I was a kid, I actually remember being jealous of her roses—the way she talked to them, touched them, checked on them all the time, and was so proud when one of them won a ribbon at the local fair. It was bad enough I had a sister who was a prizewinner, not to mention a cousin, but how the hell do you compete with roses?
Sometimes I wondered if it was because she could follow recipes or shape plants and everything turned out the way she wanted—unlike most things in life, especially kids.

  She did try to teach me to cook, though, and I wanted to learn—but my lack of any cooking ability was only exceeded by my lack of a green thumb. Hell, I couldn’t even keep a hanging basket alive before the mountain. That all changed there, when spring hit around the middle of April and The Freak started letting me outside to plant a garden.

  I was around seven months pregnant the first time, and my eyes felt like they were going to explode with spring’s light and beauty. When I took that first breath of clean mountain air—all I’d smelled in months was wood smoke and cedar walls—my nostrils tingled with the scent of fir trees in the sun, wildflowers, and the moss-covered earth at my feet. I wanted to lie down and grind my face into it. Hell, I wanted to eat it.

  If I was farther north or off the island, I figured there’d still be snow, but it was warming up and everything was lush and green in every shade you could imagine—sage, emerald, pine, moss—the air even smelled green. I couldn’t tell if it was comforting to know that I was probably close to home or if that made it worse.

  He didn’t let me go very far from the cabin the first time but he couldn’t stop my eyes from exploring. The trees encircling us were so dense I couldn’t see if there were any other mountains around. A few grassy spots showed through the moss carpeting of the clearing, but it was mostly just moss and rock. Must have been hard to drill a septic tank up here, not to mention a well, but I figured we were probably pulling from the river. At the forest’s edge I saw some stumps, so they’d logged up here in the past. I couldn’t see a road, but there had to be an access point close by.