All His Pretty Girls

by All His Pretty Girls (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  Evan ran his palms over his head as he repeatedly paced from one end of his kitchen to the top of his stairs. Several images fluttered in his mind, but the one that flashed most was that of two little boys huddled together.

  One hand reached up to pull at his ear while the other scratched at his cheek. He wished his father was here so he could ask him… what? What could he ask him? He didn’t even know.

  Back in the kitchen, too fidgety to sit, he remained standing as he read the second article.

  * * *

  Tuesday, August 16, 1983

  Ohio Home a Torture Chamber?

  As investigators continue to delve into the mystery of what exactly happened at this Ohio Street home, more disturbing information is coming out.

  Police have uncovered what appears to be a torture chamber in the basement of the deceptively serene-looking home found on this quiet Ohio street in Indiana. Lead detective, Glenn Reed, said, ‘In all my years as an investigator, I’ve never seen anything like this. These children, if that’s who they were, were kept chained inside tiny little enclosures in the basement. It appears there was a slot for food and water to pass through, but not much room to move around. I’ve seen dogs that’ve had bigger spaces.’

  Police and neighbors are wondering how something like this could have taken place in this small community without anyone noticing or suspecting. Authorities warn it could still be several weeks before the identities of the bodies are known, but they are working as quickly as they can.

  We tried to get a statement from the Archer family since this discovery follows so closely on the heels of little Timmy Archer’s body being discovered, but they declined an interview, saying they ‘just want to be left alone to grieve.’ The question, however, begs to be asked; could Timmy Archer have been one of Carl Freeman’s victims, also?

  * * *

  Eyes burning with unshed tears, Bishop threw the offending pages across the room with a howl. Full of manic energy as he teetered on the edge of a mental cliff, he snatched his keys and went for a drive.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Friday, March 29, 9:00p.m.

  Just before nine o’clock on Friday night, Alyssa sat on her couch surrounded by old newspaper articles, punishing herself as they brought up the same feelings of rage and inadequacy she’d felt in the past when she couldn’t save her brother, and now magnified by her failure to save Callie. And if Liz and Hal were right, they weren’t the only ones she’d failed.

  One hand covered her mouth as she stared down at the image of Timmy playing outside on his bike. Gently, her finger traced down his face, remembering when this picture was taken – it was his first time without training wheels, about a month before he was kidnapped. Visible beneath the picture were the articles that had given her nightmares for so long, their blurbs a nonstop neon light flashing in her memory.

  June 1983: Four-year-old LaPorte County boy fifth to go missing in two months. Families fear for the safety of their children. What are authorities doing to stop these kidnappings? How are the authorities protecting the people of these small towns?

  August 1983: Badly decomposed body found partially buried in the woods. Authorities are trying to determine how long the child’s body had been in a location that was thoroughly searched by both officials and volunteers.

  August 1983: The body found dumped in the woods has been identified as that of Timothy Archer, aged four. Although the body was badly decomposed, his parents were able to identify him by his clothing, Chicago Bears baseball cap, and the bike found near his body.

  Alyssa sank deeper into her chair, the familiar pressure building in her chest as she repeated the same mantra she’d been repeating for nearly thirty-six years. You were just nine years old; it wasn’t your fault. But with her wounds reopened, and the scars torn apart, she was plunged back to that day when her life was irrevocably changed; the day Timmy was ripped from their lives, murdered by a child killer who was never found and never brought to justice.

  * * *

  The humidity was high, and the mosquitoes were swarming, thick as the pea soup she hated. She was so thirsty. She yelled to Timmy that she was going in to get some grape Kool-Aid and asked if he wanted any. He told her no; it wasn’t strawberry. She told him she’d be back in just a minute. She was wrong. Inside, she washed her hands, then splashed cold water on her face to cool off. She poured a small cup of Kool-Aid and gulped it down before pouring another.

  When she finally came back out five, maybe ten minutes, later, Timmy was gone. At first, she thought he was hiding. He liked to hunker down in the bushes or in the trees or around the corner and then jump out and scare her. Once, he even hid under the porch steps, and when she walked by yelling his name, he grabbed her ankle, tripping her.

  As she fell to the ground, she accidentally kicked him in the nose, breaking it, she was sure. There was blood everywhere, and both of them were in hysterics.

  Alyssa shook her head, trying not to drown in the memories, but in a tidal wave, they dragged her back under, holding her hostage as they crashed over her.

  They had screamed for their parents who had come running around the corner, stopping dead in their tracks when they saw the mess. Alyssa remembered thinking at the time that her parents looked like a cartoon, the way they skidded to a halt. On the way to the hospital, Alyssa, through tears and hiccups and in between begging Timmy not to die, explained what had happened.

  Luckily, Timmy’s nose had not been broken, but he had required eight stitches for the clobbering it took.

  She’d thought Timmy would have learned his lesson from that incident, but no, he continued with his pranks, delighting in new and inventive ways to scare his big sister.

  So, on this fateful Saturday in June, at the beginning of their summer break, Alyssa went searching for her baby brother, trying not to be irritated. After all, she was nine now, too old for playing hide-and-seek with a four-year-old. It was just exasperating. She tried the new grown-up word on her tongue. She’d heard Timmy’s preschool teacher use that word to describe his in-school antics, and though Alyssa didn’t know what it meant, she knew it sounded like a smart word – and she used it every chance she got.

  She used it in different ways as she scoured the yard and street for Timmy. Spaghetti for dinner? Exasperating. Wash your hands before eating? Exasperating. No dessert unless you clean your plate? Waaaay exasperating.

  Twenty minutes of wiggling around under the crawl space, in the cellar, and looking up in the trees turned up no Timmy. Alyssa forgot about her new fun word; she was beginning to get scared for real. Could he have ridden his bike down the trail and landed in the water? Did he fall somewhere and hit his head? Had Jason found him and somehow taken him? (She knew she wasn’t supposed to watch scary movies, but her babysitter let her watch Friday the 13th because she was so busy making out with her boyfriend that she didn’t want to take the time to put Alyssa back in bed.)

  Alyssa, really frightened now, finally decided she needed to tell her parents Timmy was gone.

  Mama and Daddy searched what seemed an awful long time, no one wanting to believe it wasn’t just another of Timmy’s pranks. Anxious but trying to remain calm, Mama finally called the police to report Timmy missing.

  The police came to the house and questioned Alyssa repeatedly, getting all their facts straight, they told her. She was afraid she would be in trouble for staying in the house too long, but the nice policeman told her she didn’t do anything wrong. But if she hadn’t gone inside, would Timmy be gone now? She didn’t think so.

  Two officers stayed in the house and talked to the family while two others searched the nearby woods beyond the house. No Timmy, and not even Timmy’s bike. It was as if he had turned into a ghost and vanished into thin air. One minute he was there, and the next he was gone. Poof.

  And as scary as that was, it wasn’t until Alyssa looked into her daddy’s eyes that she became truly alarmed that something was definitely wrong,
something very bad had happened. Something that would change their lives forever. Her big, strong daddy who could fix anything and make everything better sat on the couch, shaking, tears in his eyes, shock on his face. She watched her parents sitting on the very edge of the sofa, rocking back and forth, looking lost, as they listened to the officers drone on about procedures that didn’t make sense to her little mind.

  At one point, Daddy went to the mantle and pulled down a picture frame. He pulled out a picture of Timmy and handed it to one of the officers. Alyssa thought Daddy looked like a robot, his movements were so mechanical. The officers took the picture and wrote down Timmy’s physical description along with what he was wearing, and the make and color of his bike.

  Nearly six weeks later, it was Timmy’s Chicago Bears baseball cap the hikers first noticed.

  They hadn’t wanted to believe the body was Timmy’s, but his clothes, his cap, and the bike found nearby made it difficult to deny. She watched all her mother’s hope drain away at the realization that her little boy would never be coming home again. Alyssa watched the light and happiness that was her mother dissolve, leaving in her place a walking shell of a woman.

  Before Timmy’s body was found, Mama swore she didn’t blame Alyssa, that it wasn’t her fault. She told her that every night after Alyssa took her bath, when she tucked her in. But it didn’t matter what Mama or Daddy thought because she knew her little brother would still be here if she just hadn’t gone in for the Kool-Aid. If she had only insisted on Timmy playing in the backyard. If only, if only, if only.

  It never occurred to her that Mama blamed herself.

  As a teenager, Alyssa would think of the day of Timmy’s funeral as the day they physically buried Timmy and emotionally buried Mama, who was distant and emotionless. Anger and blame would have been easier to handle. Instead, it was like living with a zombie. Mama couldn’t be bothered to care about anything Alyssa did or didn’t do. Daddy was only slightly better.

  Within a week of Alyssa graduating high school, Mama died – the doctors said it was a heart attack – and two weeks later, Daddy followed suit, leaving her truly lost and alone.

  * * *

  The memory crashed over her like an avalanche, burying her, and leaving her just as cold, each mental image of Timmy sawing away at her composure. She leaned her head back wishing she had some ibuprofen as she fought back her stampeding emotions.

  She didn’t realize Brock had returned from the store until he sat down beside her. She cocked open one eye, and God bless the man, he had his hand out, palm up, holding three Advil. A glass of water resided in his other hand.

  ‘You’re a miracle-working mind reader, you know that, right?’ She sat up and popped the pills in her mouth, swallowing them down with the water.

  He indicated the pile surrounding her. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ A fuzzy green blanket was draped over the back of the couch, and she pulled it onto her lap, the chill in her heart making the rest of her cold, as well.

  ‘When you weren’t home in time for dinner, I made a plate for you. Let me go heat it up. I’ll be right back,’ he said, already standing.

  Guilt creeped in and jumped on the pile to join regret and grief. ‘I can heat it up myself,’ she said.

  Brock pushed her back. ‘I know you can. But, so can I. Be right back.’

  She didn’t argue. Brock was a good husband, good father, hard worker, fierce and loyal. All the things her father had once been. She gave herself a mental shake as she struggled not to fall back into the memories.

  She smelled the lasagna before she saw it. Her mouth salivated, and her tummy grumbled right on cue. The microwave dinged, the silverware jingled, and then the most mouthwatering food she’d seen in days was placed in front of her. She sank her teeth into a cheesy, gooey bite and moaned in pleasure when her taste buds exploded with excitement.

  Brock laughed. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said as he sat beside her, rubbing small circles on her back as she ate.

  Halfway through, she slowed, feeling satisfied but not yet full. ‘I may have to keep you awhile longer. Who needs Will Smith anyway?’ She leaned into him and kissed his whiskered cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know.’ Again, he waved his hand over the pile of papers. ‘Since Holly is at Sophie’s and Isaac’s at Trevor’s, I’m going to ask again. Do you want to talk about things?’

  ‘No. Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s not like Callie McCormick is the first victim I’ve had die, but for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that I failed her.’ Her voice cracked, warning her husband she was on the brink of an emotional collapse.

  He continued massaging, moving his hands up to her neck and shoulders. ‘Is that why you have all this out?’

  He knew her so well, she didn’t need to answer.

  ‘This wasn’t your fault,’ Brock said, and Alyssa wondered if he meant Timmy or Callie. Either way, he was wrong.

  ‘Did I ever tell you I saw the crime scene photos?’ The words were out before she knew she was thinking them.

  Her fists tightened, as did her posture when he wrapped his arm around her and leaned them both back, gently pushing her head into the crook of his neck. ‘Tell me now,’ he said softly.

  ‘They weren’t the actual crime scene photos. And I wasn’t supposed to see them. Shortly after Timmy’s funeral, I took out the trash for my dad. The newspaper was soggy and covered in potato peels, kind of shoved deep into the corner of the garbage bag, like someone was trying to hide it.’ She paused for a moment. As an adult, she marveled at the metaphor of feeling like trash that had been shoved aside. At the time, though, she was just curious.

  ‘I made sure Daddy wasn’t watching.’ A sad laugh escaped. ‘I should’ve known he wasn’t. Neither of them watched me again, though Dad pretended for a bit. Anyway, I knew Mama wouldn’t be watching because she wouldn’t even get out of bed to take a shower most days.’ She closed her eyes, letting it all play back as if she were living it all over again. ‘There was a grainy picture, and at first, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Then I realized it was a picture of the spot where Timmy had died – or at least where he was found.’

  Her tears went unnoticed until the taste of salt touched the corner of her lip a second before Brock’s thumb wiped it away. Unable to go on with the unbearable guilt crushing her from the inside out, she closed her eyes and cried as the thought that several missing women might be connected to one killer added to the sheer weight of what she could only see as failure on her part to save not only Timmy, but now Callie, as well.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Saturday, March 30

  Alyssa stood at the stove, her nose stuffy from a night of crying, the past couple of days replaying on a continuous loop in her brain. More than once, she was snapped back when the sizzling bacon grease splattered her arm. The third time it happened, she turned the heat down, and walked to the sink to run cold water on the burn. At the same time, Holly slid up to her and put her head on her mom’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a brat the other day. It wasn’t fair, especially since I know you’ve got this case… I heard she died. I’m sorry about that, too,’ she whispered.

  Alyssa turned and hugged her daughter. ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have told you that you were acting like a thirteen-year-old.’

  Holly stepped back and grinned. ‘No, you shouldn’t have. But, I kinda was, wasn’t I? And you don’t need to answer that, by the way.’ She tilted her head toward the stove. ‘Want some help with breakfast?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ Alyssa said, her heart swelling. God, she loved her kids. Sure, they could be typical teenagers once in a while, but overall, she was blessed with wonderful, courteous children. She’d keep ’em.

  Picking up the spatula that her mom had tossed down, Holly said, ‘I’m surprised you’re not at the precinct.’

  ‘I’m going in later, but I’ll work from home f
or a while first. I was hoping to have breakfast with everyone this morning, but Dad had to run to the office to grab his files on that construction bid and won’t be back until later, so I guess it’ll just be you and Isaac.’

  As if on cue, her son came stumbling into the kitchen, serious bedhead exploding around his face.

  ‘Good morning, sleepyhead,’ she greeted him.

  Something resembling a grumble Cookie Monster could be proud of and a good morning spilled from his mouth as he opened the cupboard and reached for a pop tart. She ruffled his hair on the way to refill her coffee cup. ‘In case you didn’t notice, we’re working on a bit of a better breakfast here than those things,’ Alyssa said.

  Isaac popped his first course of breakfast into the toaster, turned the knob to ‘dark’ and slumped at the table while he waited. He wiped sleep from his eyes as he answered. ‘I’m a growing boy. I can eat both.’

  When the pop tarts were ready, Alyssa deposited them on a plate before adding eggs and two slices of bacon. She repeated the same for Holly without the pop tarts, and set both plates down, along with freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Both Holly and Isaac thanked her, and as they ate, she poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Aren’t you having any?’ Holly asked, eyeing her mother’s mug. ‘How many cups does that make?’

  Sometimes Alyssa thought her daughter and her partner got together and planned attacks on her caffeine addiction. ‘I’m not hungry right now; my stomach’s a little queasy,’ she admitted. When Holly gave her mug a pointed look, she laughed. ‘It’s not because of the coffee. And besides, this is only my third cup.’

  ‘Yeah, third cup of your tenth pot,’ Holly deadpanned.