Little Girl Lost

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Margaret’s boyfriend had been questioned and released. Later, so had Tara Sheeran’s and Christina Myers’s. Theoretically, a young woman could have snuck her lover into the house while her family slept. It was even possible that he’d gone into a murderous rage.

  But repeatedly?

  Not unless all the teenaged rape victims were protecting the same secret lover. The police had searched in vain for a link among the girls—something more relevant than age, general geographic location, religion. All were Catholic, which wasn’t unusual in those Brooklyn neighborhoods at that time.

  The authorities had missed the one key thing the girls had in common. Not surprising. In those days, birth control clinic visits were closely guarded secrets. Today, no one would bat an eye.

  A droplet of fresh blood splashes onto the photo.

  “Dammit!” Red goes to the bathroom, peels off the oozing bandage, and stares into the mirror.

  No sleep, too much caffeine, stale skin in staler clothing, all that medication on an almost empty stomach . . .

  Recipe for recklessness.

  You need a shower, and some food.

  Early on weekday mornings, the water runs from hot to lukewarm to ice-cold within a minute of stepping into the shower. Today, it’s at least five. Long enough for Red to shake the lethargy and wonder what will happen if by chance White is wrong about what lies ahead. What if there is no Judgment Day? What if the world goes on turning? What if all of this is for nothing?

  Wrapped in a towel, Red goes into the kitchen. The refrigerator shelves are empty, but as always, the crisper is filled with apples. Macouns, Cortlands, McIntosh, Golden Delicious . . .

  The fresh bandage mottles with blood as Red works the paring knife over the fruit, then rinses the blade, just like on that long-ago day in the trailer when Mother lay dead on the floor. Sweet white flesh and shreds of skin swirl in the sink and are trapped in the strainer.

  Red carries the apple slices to the living area, turns on the television, and takes a bite. A bit too tart. Needs a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, but the cabinets are as bare as the fridge.

  “Waste is sinful. Buy only as much food as you need to last a few days at a time,” White instructed.

  Until today, Red never had an inkling of misgiving about that command or any other.

  “Do you trust me?” White asked that first night, over coffee after the World Trade Center.

  “Yes. I trust you.”

  And now?

  I don’t know. But I don’t trust Black.

  The noon newscast has begun, with stories about war brewing in the Middle East; nuclear testing in France; President Reagan’s upcoming arms control address. On the heels of a segment about continued financial fallout from Black Monday, a familiar face appears onscreen.

  “Coming up next, what happened to Manhattan tycoon Perry Wayland? Police are asking for your help, and his family is offering a reward.”

  The photo is gone, replaced by a Shower to Shower commercial with a cloying jingle. “Just a sprinkle a day . . .”

  A sprinkle a day . . .

  A sprinkle of cinnamon sugar . . .

  An apple a day keeps—

  No. Red forces down a mouthful of sour green Granny Smith and crams in more, chewing and swallowing, tamping Mother and the doctor into dark places.

  Perry Wayland reappears on TV. The camera pans out to include his wife and children. It’s the same photo from this morning’s newspaper.

  “Hedge Fund manager Perry Wayland remains missing at this hour, his car towed from the George Washington Bridge. Authorities have not ruled out suicide, though a search of the Hudson River and adjacent shoreline recovered no evidence of remains. Police say that isn’t unusual, but they’re continuing to follow other leads. Wayland lives with his wife and children on the Upper East Side, where neighbors described him as a quiet family man who keeps to himself. He was last seen leaving his office at 195 Broadway on Thursday evening. Kirstin Wayland is offering a substantial reward for information leading to her husband’s whereabouts.”

  As the reporter gives the missing persons hotline information, Red imagines calling it.

  I know where you can find Perry Wayland. He’s on Block Island with—

  “Tragedy in Yonkers today,” the anchorwoman says, against a graphic of a chalk-outlined body, “when a star high school athlete was killed in a predawn hit and run. Seventeen-year-old Kevin Donaldson was struck early this morning while jogging alone on this quiet side street. The area was covered in dense fog at the time, and the driver likely failed to see him. There were no witnesses. A neighbor walking her dog came upon the victim just after seven o’clock . . .”

  Red stares at the televised image of a familiar sloping road lined with small houses. Rescue vehicles flash red lights in the street, and neighbors congregate on the sidewalk behind police barricades.

  What if Christina Myers is watching the same newscast and realizes Kevin Donaldson is her lost child?

  “Authorities are asking anyone with any information on the tragedy to come forward. When we come back, the Cardinals are set to face off against the Twins in Game Six of the World Series in Minneap—”

  Red jabs the button to the right of the screen, and the television goes dark and silent.

  The Donaldsons and Yonkers police aren’t offering a substantial reward like the Waylands are, but if someone saw Kevin Donaldson mowed down not once, but twice . . .

  Even if a witness had been lurking and noticed the car, though, he or she wouldn’t have gotten a good look at the driver. Red had been cloaked in the raincoat, hood pulled up. But if someone did see, and the police release a description of the car and someone else—say, the toll clerk on the Whitestone Bridge—remembers seeing it early this morning, dented and covered in blood . . .

  They still won’t track it to you.

  Not even if they find it in long-term parking at JFK.

  But if they start asking around . . .

  Red thinks of the taxi driver and Timbuktu, of the cop on the sidewalk, of Barb . . .

  Paranoia takes hold.

  Christina might have been in touch with her son’s adoptive family all along, if not with the boy himself. Or she could have been keeping tabs on him from afar, as Red had done.

  If she finds out he’s been killed, she’ll go up to Westchester. If his adoptive parents were unaware of his connection to the Brooklyn Butcher case, she’ll tell them. And even if she thinks Kevin’s death was a tragic accident, if—when—she hears about the Sheeran double murder, she’ll become suspicious, go to the police . . .

  Her Sheepshead Bay address is scribbled on a sheet of notebook paper at the front of the folder that bears her name. There’s an envelope of surveillance photos taken last month, and notes chronicling Christina’s routine and those of her neighbors. Further back in the file, black-and-white crime scene photographs from 1968 clearly show the exterior and interior layout, complete with bloodstains spattered on the floors and walls.

  You can wash the gory remnants from nonporous surfaces like porcelain and stainless steel, but no amount of scrubbing will erase them from floorboards and plaster. Even if you bleach them away, mask them in wood stain or paint over them, the scars remain.

  Nobody knows that better than me.

  Red goes to the bedroom, opens the drawer, and takes out the gun.

  Silas Moss’s house is yellow, all right. Not pale and buttery, or a tawny historical shade, but more like . . . rubber ducky yellow. It’s also enormous, far bigger than the Victorian homes on Striver’s Row back in Harlem. It has a wraparound porch, and rises three turreted stories into autumn maple boughs that almost, but not quite, matches the maroon trim and the mansard roof’s fish-scale shingles. A cold breeze rustles the foliage and creaks one of the shutters. If not for the bright-colored paint, this place would remind Amelia of every haunted house in every scary movie she’s ever seen.

  She scuffles through dry leaves littering the walk and climbs the
steps. Off to one side, a couple of fat pumpkins and a pot of orange mums should clash with each other and the paint job, but somehow, it all coordinates.

  She reaches for the doorbell, then sees a hand-lettered index card taped above it.

  Bell Out of Order. Please Knock. (Loudly!)

  She hesitates, then knocks.

  After a moment, she knocks harder, and the door opens.

  “There, that’s more like it!”

  She’s heard that people on television look different when you see them in real life, but white-bearded, bespectacled Silas Moss looks exactly the same. Maybe that’s because he’s not an actor, just a regular person. He’s wearing suede slippers with his brown corduroy slacks and tan cardigan sweater.

  “You’re not Jessie,” he informs her. “You must be Amelia.”

  “How did you . . .”

  He leans forward and whispers, “Magic.”

  “Really?”

  He chuckles and holds the door open, gestures for her to step over the threshold.

  Thrown off that he knew her name, she stands rooted to the rubber doormat, her so-called street smarts belatedly kicking in.

  I don’t like you talking to strangers, Bettina counsels from beyond the grave.

  If Amelia had heeded that warning, she would never have gotten to know Marceline, who does believe in magic. Practices it, even. It’s too late to count on her for help, but Silas Moss is right here.

  “Coming in?” he asks.

  She gives a decisive nod and steps over the threshold, wincing when he slams the door behind her.

  “Sorry. Wind caught it. Can I take your coat? And your bag?”

  She hesitates, not wanting to part with the tiny dress even for a few minutes. But she does hand over her coat.

  He opens a closet door, and a plastic bag topples out. It appears to be full of other plastic bags. The professor quickly hangs her coat—on top of another coat, she notices—then scoops the bag from the entryway’s mosaic tile floor and crams it back onto the packed closet shelf, where it’s sure to fall out again the next time he opens the door.

  In the foyer beyond the vestibule, a crystal chandelier hangs from a high ceiling, and a grand staircase of carved wood curves along two walls with a wide, windowed landing halfway up. The floors are polished wood and the wallpaper is a rich bronze swirly pattern. Through an archway, she sees a living room filled with fancy dark wood furniture, framed oil paintings, and shelves filled with books. Not paperback novels like Bettina used to read, but thick leather-and clothbound volumes that look like the ones they keep in a glass case at the library, well beyond the grasp of ordinary patrons.

  The place looks and feels like the history museum Amelia once visited with her elementary school class, except it’s not clean or orderly. Every surface is cluttered with stacks of books and papers. A heap of clothing is draped over the newel post at the foot of the stairway, and a small laundry basket and several pairs of shoes line the lower steps, tripping hazards waiting to be carried up. The furniture is dusty. Dry leaves tracked inside are scattered well beyond the door.

  “Come on into the kitchen. I was just making some lunch. You’ll eat again, even though you’ve already had yours, won’t you?”

  “I . . . How did you know . . . magic again?” Seeing his expression, she answers her own question with a smile.

  The kitchen is surprisingly small for a house this size, though it would be large by New York standards. Several of the narrow, dark wood cupboard doors are ajar, the wide white porcelain sink is heaped with dishes, and the old-fashioned six-burner stove is grease spattered.

  On the speckled countertop, she sees a loaf of Wonder Bread, a jar of dill pickles, a white-paper-wrapped package of deli ham, and a jar of mustard. It’s not the fancy or spicy variety, but the bright yellow kind that matches the house. He gestures at two plates, each of which holds two pieces of bread as if he’d been expecting her.

  “I’m making you a sandwich, Amelia. I promise there’s no tofu involved.”

  The light dawns, and she grins. “Did Aline call you?”

  “You don’t believe in magic?”

  She thinks of Marceline. “Sometimes.”

  “Good for you. So do I. Because if you believe in science, you believe in magic.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ You’ve heard that, right?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t you read anything by Arthur C. Clarke?”

  “No,” she says again. She’s never even heard of him.

  “Hang on a second.” He disappears into the next room, leaving Amelia to ponder her embarrassing lack of intellectual sophistication until he returns to hand her a book. “Here you go. Read it.”

  “Um . . . now?”

  He laughs. “Did you take Evelyn Wood?”

  “What?”

  “The speed-reading course.”

  Oh, right. She’s seen the commercials with Steve Allen.

  “It’s a first edition. Take it with you, and return it whenever you have a chance.”

  “I can’t—I’m just visiting. I don’t know when I’d be able to return it.”

  “Anytime is fine. You have to read it.”

  She looks at the cover. Profiles of the Future: An Inquiry into the Limits of the Possible.

  “Now, do you like cheese?”

  “Cheese?”

  “On your sandwich. I don’t, but my friend Jessie does, so I have some.”

  “You don’t have to make me a sandwich. I just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions, and then I can get out of your way.”

  “You’re not in my way. I hate eating alone, and Jessie is running late.”

  “Oh—I don’t want to eat his lunch.”

  “First, there’s plenty of food. Second, Jessie isn’t a he, she’s the girl next door, about your age. I keep an eye on her when her parents are out of town. So, cheese?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Mustard?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “And you’re here because . . .” he asks, as if it’s part of the sandwich preferences.

  “I, um—I watched 20/20 last night. I want to see if you can help me find my birth parents by checking my . . . is it DMA?”

  “DNA. It stands for deoxyribonucleic acid.”

  “Do you think you can help me?”

  “That depends on a lot of different factors. Why don’t you tell me your story.”

  Amelia shares a condensed version as he constructs a pair of simple sandwiches, pours two glasses of apple cider, and gestures for her to sit down.

  “That’s all I know,” she concludes, sliding into a rickety wooden chair at the small round table. “I mean, it’s all I was told. There might be more to it.”

  “There usually is. I’m sorry for the loss of your adoptive mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As someone who’s been blindsided by such a dramatic personal past, you’ve suffered terrible losses, my dear. Not least of all, your very identity.”

  Even Marceline had never seemed to grasp the stark reality of her life.

  “Thank you,” she says again, this time in a whisper. “Thank you for getting that. Me.”

  He picks up his sandwich with two hands. Before he can take a bite, the front door opens and a voice calls, “Si? Sorry I’m late! I had to finish doing my Cinderella chores. You should see the list they left me.”

  “Jessie,” Silas informs Amelia.

  Breezing into the room, she’s hardly the girl next door type. With the exception of her fuchsia lipstick, she’s wearing black from her oversized plastic earrings to her combat boots. Her hair, sleek and short on the sides and long on top, falls in a side-parted swoop above her big dark eyes. Pert meets punk—a brunette version of Mary Stuart Masterson in Some Kind of Wonderful, the movie Amelia saw at the Beekman with the guy from her psych class—back when Bettina was still
alive, and still her mother, and Amelia herself was still . . .

  Me. I was me.

  Until the professor put it into words, she hadn’t quite understood that she’d lost her identity. She’s an imposter, and so are the people who’d raised her.

  No wonder she needed to come here. She isn’t just trying to find her birth parents. She’s trying to find herself.

  Jessie stops short, seeing Amelia. “Oh. Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Jessamine McCall, this is Amelia . . .” Silas shakes his head and looks at her.

  “Crenshaw.” She stands, the way Bettina taught her, and offers a hand to the girl.

  For a moment, she just looks at it. Then she reaches out her own hand. She’s wearing silver rings on every finger and a stack of black rubber bracelets. Her nails are stubs that look bitten, polished black.

  “Everyone calls me Jessie,” she says. “Except Si, when he’s being all proper.”

  “As opposed to improper.” Silas shuffles to the counter. “I’ll make you a sandwich, Jessie, while you two girls get acquainted.”

  “I can make my own sandwich.” Jessie is already opening a cupboard and grabbing a plate.

  Silas takes it out of her hands. “I know you can, but today, I’m going to make it for you, because I think you’re going to be interested in what Amelia has to say.”

  “Why?” Jessie looks from him to Amelia, clearly not the kind of girl who wants to sit around listening to a stranger’s sob story.

  “Because she’s a lot like you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She turns from Silas to Amelia, looking like a little kid whose mother just made her hand over the sandbox shovel to the new kid. “Are you failing English lit? Do you love the Ramones? Are you allergic to dogs? Does your college essay suck?”

  “Uh . . . no?”

  Jessie turns back to Silas. “You’re right. We have so much in common.”

  “You do.” Calmly layering ham slices on white bread, he adds, “Amelia is a foundling, too.”

  Heading up FDR Drive, Barnes and Stef mull the scrap of newspaper found in Perry Wayland’s car.

  “Now I’m rethinking that dead junkie on the bridge,” Barnes admits. “Before, I’d have said Wayland wasn’t capable of murder. Now I’m not so sure.”