Girl With a Past

by Sherri Leigh James

  I almost slapped my head, kicking myself figuratively. “If only I knew what it was I saw in there. There’s something that someone doesn’t want known.” Then I remembered papers jammed into a pocket. “What’d I do with the papers that were in my jacket pocket when I was shot?”

  “Papers?”

  “The ones with the photo of the gang on the sofa, the one you folded in half.”

  Steven shook his head. “I was a little distracted concerning you at the time. I gave ’em to you at the hospital. Pretty sure you left ’em in your room at Mom and Dad’s house.” He smiled at me and said, “I’m hella glad you’re okay.”

  My brother's eyes filled with tears. So had mine. He turned his head away. I figured he was as uncomfortable with the emotional moment as I was.

  We arrived at Nancy’s cabin without me coming up with the answer. “I’m gonna go for a walk and think about this. You go tell Nancy her car’s back. See if she’s ready to head home, ok?”

  “A walk?” I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Steven said.

  “C’mon. Just along the lake. It’s all on private land. Most of the places are empty. Nobody’ll see me. You help Nancy get ready to leave.” I said.

  “Yeah. Ok. But be careful.” He touched my shoulder. “You have your phone, right? I’m gonna see about those papers too. Maybe Dad can get a copy of the police file. I’ll call his secretary.”

  “Good idea. I hope you do better with that secretary of his than I usually do.”

  Steven gave me a thumbs-up as he headed into the house.

  CHAPTER

  50

  I headed along the beach toward our compound. We’re a mile or two past Nancy and Elliott’s place. A walk would give me a chance to mull over the unanswered questions. And perhaps I could re-connect with the feelings of safety and security that our sweet cabins on the lake provided. Our lakefront property had been passed down from my maternal grandparents when they no longer wanted to use it.

  Patches of snow lay in the shade. It was a nice walk; the brisk air felt good. But I still didn’t get it. What could the Zodiac file possibly have to do with someone shooting at me and kidnapping Mom? The girl Jennifer: what was her connection? There must have been something in the file that still mattered to someone. But the Zodiac guy was dead. So it couldn’t be him.

  There had been a note on one report, in Dad’s writing, “Ask Tom.” What was niggling in the back of my mind? The threatening letter in legalese, yes, but what else?

  I arrived at our compound. Our place was totally funky, with no pool or spa, small old cabins where the word cabin was not a misnomer. This was home. This was safe.

  The windows in both the living room and the bedroom of the main house were lit from within. We’d left lights on?

  Our leaving at the end of Labor Day weekend had been chaotic. Steven and I both had to be in class early the next morning, and Dad was worried about getting caught in traffic leaving the lake on a holiday. We had rushed to winterize––draining water from the pipes so that they didn’t freeze and burst––and otherwise prepare the cabin for sitting vacant in the cold. We hadn’t returned during the winter, skipping our normal routine of spending the Holidays there.

  Had someone else used the place? Or maybe as the lights-out-in-charge, I’d screwed up the job.

  I didn’t have a key, but I knew where one was. I went along the side of the main house, headed for the boathouse. I caught a glimpse of a car in the parking area in front of the boathouse, not in the usual parking near the front gate, but hidden from view from the highway. Mom’s car!

  I took another look at the main house. A thin wisp of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney as though a small or dying fire burned on the hearth grate. Mom!

  With a burst of joy, I ran to the back door.

  CHAPTER

  51

  Inches away from busting through the door, the thought that I should be cautious hit me. I skidded to a stop and looked through the window. The pass through from the kitchen to the living room framed the sight of my mother––tied to a wooden chair.

  She was looking right at me, without any sign of seeing me. Then, just once, she rolled her eyes to the side warning me that someone was out of my line of sight.

  Shit, that was close.

  I crouched and rushed back to the boathouse on my tiptoes. I crept under Dad’s boat and called Steven.

  Damn. Voicemail, and he’s sketchy about checking his messages. “Mom is tied up in the living room of our main house on the lake. I’m hiding in the boathouse. I don’t think I’ve been seen, but maybe––cause I wasn’t careful. Get help! Text me back, I’m putting my phone on vibrate,” I whispered into the phone and then I texted. “I c mom tied up lake house ck vmail get help”

  I couldn’t think what to do next.

  Dad would still be in court at this time of day.

  I was afraid to call 911 for fear that local sheriffs won’t know how to deal with the situation without Mom getting hurt, but I didn’t know what else to do. I had no idea how many people were in the house or where they were.

  I crawled out from under the boat. I was so scared, so nervous; it was hard to calm down enough to slow my racing thoughts, to think straight.

  I decided to locate how many people were where, and then call 911 with the info. I slipped through the partially open garage doors and stole across the lawn to the bushes under the dining room window. I saw the back of a large, brawny man sitting on the sofa opposite Mom. If there was anyone else in the room, I couldn’t see him.

  I crawled to the bedroom window and looked in. No one in there.

  If there was no one in the bathroom, there might be just one person watching Mom.

  The bunkhouse, as we called the cabin that consisted of four bedrooms and a bath, had high windows. All of the curtains had been closed for the winter. There was no sign they’d been disturbed.

  I would check the main house one last time, and then call. Still no sign of anyone else.

  I hurried to the far side of the boathouse and dialed 911.

  My heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the ring of the phone. “If this is an emergency please stay on the line, your call will be answered in the order received . . ."

  "Name?”

  “Alexandra Nichols.”

  “Nature of your emergency?”

  “My mom is being held captive at our cabin on highway––"

  Out of nowhere a hand reached from behind me, grabbed my phone, and flung it into the lake.

  CHAPTER

  52

  “Oh no!” I screamed and attempted to turn around, but my arms were jerked behind my back.

  I was shoved around the corner of the boathouse, bounced off the front bumper of Mom’s car, and manhandled toward the porch of the main house where I stumbled up the stairs.

  The brawny man inside jumped up, opened the windowed door. I was pushed into the room and landed on my knees, barely missing the open fireplace.

  Mom screamed.

  I screamed.

  Two men growled.

  I rolled over and saw a three hundred pound, scary ugly man.

  I cowered.

  “Where’d ya get dat one? Hey, she’s da one we shot. You didn’t kill her?” said the brawny man who’d been watching Mom.

  “Shut the fuck up. Tie’er up. I gotta make a call.” The man who had thrown me on the floor slammed out the door to the front porch. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but he was definitely upset. Finding me here wasn’t a pleasant surprise.

  Mom’s captor pulled another chair in from the dining room, shoved me onto it, and used a cord to fasten my hands and feet to the rungs.

  The other guy, the huge fat one, came back inside. “He says just to keep’em here for another twenty-four. He’s still pissed off.”

  Whoever “He” was, both of these men were afraid of him. I hated to imagine how awful he’d have to be in order to scare barbaric bullies like these.
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  The two of them went out to the porch.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  She nodded. “Don’t talk,” she rasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She’d probably thought I was dead since the thugs thought they had killed me.

  We both strained to hear what was being said on the porch, but we could only make out scattered words. Like “dumbshit,” or “cocksucker” or “fuckup” or “supposed to get the papers.”

  Mom whispered, “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “I left a voicemail for Steven.”

  Mom groaned. She knew the chances of Steven checking his voicemail as well as I did.

  “I started to call 9-1-1.”

  “They said they shot you.” Mom’s voice cracked. She choked back a sob.

  “I’m good.”

  “They’re coming back,” Mom hissed through closed teeth.

  Fatty did not come inside. He hulked around the corner of the house.

  Brawny came into the room, heaved himself onto the sofa. “Lady, why don’t’cha have a TV here?”

  Mom was silent.

  We had no TV because this is where we came to get away from the world.

  He fidgeted, picked up a three year old Vanity Fair, thumbed through a few pages, looked at the photos, threw the magazine across the room in Mom’s direction, and stared at her as though his boredom were her fault.

  She wasn’t the reason he never learned to read. If he’d been her child, he’d have been a reader.

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, fingered one out, and lit it. Poor Mom, no one was allowed to smoke in the house. On the porch yes, but not in the house ever. Even in the worst storm, smokers were expected to step outside. What kind of a barbarian smoked inside these days?

  Of course there were no ashtrays, but that still was no excuse for letting ashes drop to the cushions. At least, when he finished the cigarette, he flung it into the fireplace.

  “Whacha lookin at, bitch?”

  I dropped my eyes to my lap. No point in antagonizing the guy.

  We sat in silence. Brawny’s eyelids slowly closed, his head nodded, he snored like a grizzly bear.

  Was it possible that my 9-1-1 call was long enough to be any use?

  Did Steven get the voicemail? Or the text?

  He must be wondering where I was by now. What would he do? Would he have the same hesitation I did to call authorities?

  In retrospect, I realized I should’ve called Detective Schmidt. He could’ve coordinated efforts to rescue Mom.

  Would Steven be smarter, calmer than me? I hoped he wouldn’t come looking for me by himself.

  My limbs were starting to numb. How had Mom withstood days of this? Her eyes were closed. Her head nodded forward. I hoped she was just asleep.

  My mind raced with questions: I had no answers.

  Who were these two goons? They worked for someone, who?

  I’d heard the word “papers”. Did they mean Dad’s file? There was something in that file that for some reason was okay for Dad to see, but not for me to read.

  There were the papers and reports from the case file. The police had those too so I eliminated them as being the problem.

  There were notes from Dad, and the letter from a law firm. I tried to remember the names on the letterhead, but drew a blank.

  Before I was shot at, while I raced across the campus, something about this had become clear. I mentally retraced my steps. I’d cut behind the Faculty Club to Faculty Glade, passed still another bear statue . . . Bing! A bear, what about a bear? I was afraid of bears, but so what?

  I had sat down on a bench in the lawn outside Kroeber and pulled a wad of papers out of my pocket: including a letter and a note in Dad’s handwriting, “Ask Tom.” An overheard conversation. Could I remember a conversation that had taken place forty years ago, in another lifetime? I closed my eyes, took several deep cleansing breaths, did my best to relax. I let my mind float.

  “You asshole, why did you bring that girl to the ranch? A complete stranger, for god’s sake?” Was that Jamie’s voice?

  Yes, I took several more deep breaths and tried to forget who was in the room. Shit, could I even possibly do this. I let my mind wander to the happy times in this room. More cleansing breaths.

  “You didn’t mind havin’ her. Besides, it’s water under the bridge. That train left the station. The question now is, how the hell do we get rid of her? I found a guy who’ll help us with our problem.” I had been pretty sure at the time that was Tom speaking.

  “What do ya mean?”

  “I met this guy. He’s nuts, but hell, if he gets caught, he’ll get the blame.”

  “You told some guy you met drinking at the Monkey Inn about our problem? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “He’ll get the blame. He’s a low life, a loser. We’d have complete deniability.”

  “What about our semen? Did you forget that?”

  “So they get some blood types.”

  “Multiple blood types that all just happen to match the four of us!”

  “She’s a whore. It happens. So what?”

  The big ape on the sofa grunted, snored louder, and slid down toward a more prone position.

  I came out of my reverie knowing that was all I’d heard that day. Of course, back then, they didn’t have DNA testing. No one could use DNA to tie criminals to their crimes.

  Had they killed this Jennifer person?

  More likely she’d ODed. And they didn’t want to report it to the police. They wanted someone else to move the body. Was that someone else the Zodiac?

  And the bear?

  I’d been afraid of bears my whole life. My Dad, Jeff, had tried to get me over my freak-outs to even teddy bears. There was a bear statue in the park that had outstretched arms; he tried to get me to play on it. I screamed bloody murder when he lifted me into its arms. We were walking with one of my “uncles” at the time.

  It was Tom. Tom spotted the bear statue, “Let’s put her on that,” he’d said. That bear seemed gigantic. I must’ve been six. I was so scared I couldn’t breath. Dad pulled me off the outstretched arms of the bear and held me to him while I sobbed all the way back to the house. What had they been talking about?

  “Remember the guy that Lexi was with that night?” Daddy asked Tom.

  “Derek?”

  “Yeah . . . you remembered his name?”

  “Hell. Everything about that night is seared on my brain.”

  “He’s turned up.”

  “Really, ok.” Tom said. “That’s a little scary.”

  “Why is that, Tom?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  “He says his dad was the Zodiac.”

  “Hmm, I thought that case was closed.”

  “Not exactly, there was a guy, named Arthur Allen that the police were sure was the Zodiac, but there wasn’t enough evidence to indict. And you couldn’t pick him out of a line up.”

  “So, will you re-open?”

  “It’s not up to me, but I’m certainly not pushing it. His father’s dead, so what’s the point?”

  Tom nodded.

  Dad continued, “It would be helpful if I knew what your problem with this case is. I’ve been through the file and I’ve never seen any links to anyone besides Lex. You couldn’t ID Allen. That was for real, right? It wasn’t just a matter of not wanting to get involved?

  “But I was involved,” Tom hesitated before continuing, “I couldn’t stand the thought that I might’ve led the Zodiac to Lexi. It’s a huge relief to hear that Derek was the link.”

  “What were you talking to this guy about?”

  “Just shooting the shit.”

  “Anything to do with Jennifer?”

  “What?”

  “I know there was a girl named Jennifer at the ranch around the time Lexi was killed.”

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  “A reliable source,” Daddy had said, “th
at’s not the point. Did she have something to do with the Zodiac? Did you mention her to him?”

  “I may have, in only the most general way.”

  “What’s that mean?” Daddy startled me, barking at Tom that way.

  “We were talking about free love, promiscuous girls. He had a thing about them, pretty down on them, you know. Hell, if my memory serves me well, the guy did bear some resemblance to that Derek that Lexi was with that night.”

  “Did you tell him where Jennifer was?”

  “I may have.”

  Daddy moved me from his arms to his shoulders. “Tom, did you do anything I would want to prosecute? Tell me straight.” Daddy could sure sound scary sometimes.

  “No, I swear. None of us did anything illegal. I just happened to have a conversation with the guy, and I was scared that he might have followed me to your house, and that was how he saw Lexi. That’s all.”

  “Did he go to the farm?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “Did you tell him where the farm was?”

  “Maybe. We were drinking. Hell, I don’t remember every damn word.” Uncle Tom got agitated.

  The sound of a loud grunt brought me back to the present.

  Brawny was awake. He stood up, stomped his feet. “God damn fuckin’ cold in dis fuckin’ place. How come all da firewood’s buried under snow? What kind of idiots store firewood where you have ta dig through snow ta get ta it?”

  The firewood wasn’t actually under snow; I wondered why he thought that, maybe the other guy had told him that so he wouldn’t have a fire, so the smoke wouldn’t be seen from the road?

  “There’s firewood in a box on the front porch,” I said.

  “Used dat up.”

  “There might be more in the boat house.”

  “That big garage lookin’ thing?”

  “Yeah. Want me to get you some?”

  “How stupid do ya think I am, huh?” Brawny glared at me.

  “There’s a pile on the left when you go through the big double doors.”

  “Aah, I can’t leave here.” He settled back down on the sofa.