Jane Anonymous

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “We want to find him, but you have to help us too. Is there anything you can tell us about the place you were being kept? Anything notable—cars, building, or house color? Distinguishable architecture or landscape?”

  “It was up in the mountains.” I spiraled down like a funnel. “There were woods all around, and a pickup truck, plus a horse ranch.”

  “A building on a mountain?” Mercer’s forehead furrowed.

  “Maybe it was a house.” Hadn’t I remembered thinking that? When I’d gotten up to the second floor and seen the kitchen and the living room—that it’d looked like a normal residence. There was a back porch. “Wasn’t there?”

  “Wasn’t there what?” Mercer asked.

  “A back porch.”

  She jotted down the detail and added a bubbly question mark, which annoyed me just as much as her perfectly manicured nails.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I drove. Someone saw me. The lights went on.” My mind raced; my words couldn’t keep up. Where was my coil spring? No longer in the waist of my pants. “Did anyone report a stolen Jeep?”

  Bingo.

  The right answer.

  Someone ran to check; I heard the clobber of footsteps.

  “So let me get this straight,” Jones began, “you were being held captive at the residence of a Jeep owner. Is that where you believe your friend still is?”

  “I need to go.”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “No!” I shouted. “The horse ranch was somewhere nearby. At least, I think it was a horse ranch. There was a corral maybe and a paved street. A pathway in the woods took me to the house; it was behind a stone wall.”

  “The house with the corral was behind the wall,” Jones said to clarify.

  I think I nodded. I know I got up and went for the door. The knob turned.

  A third officer stopped me. His chest was like a wall. Still, I pushed against him, my wrists aching, my fingers tingling, imagining he was the monster—with his wavy hair and olive-toned skin. He grabbed my forearms and restrained me from behind, pinning me in place, flashing me back.

  “Just relax,” the officer said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The monster had said the same. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Shelley’s voice came next: He’s not going to hurt you.

  Mom always told me: “No one intentionally wants to hurt you.”

  Ms. Romer constantly reminded us: “If you’re smart, you won’t get hurt.”

  I opened my mouth to bite, wanting to sink my teeth deep into the monster’s flesh. But my mouth filled with the cloth from my bandage. There was a sweet, metallic taste. And a lavender scent: the smell of the detergent the monster liked to use when he washed my laundry, when I snuggled up in fresh sheets.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, imagining the bright white wall and my bright white bed, and Mason’s knock, knock-knock, tap, thud.

  Knock.

  Knock-knock.

  Tap.

  Thud.

  When I opened my eyes again, I was still in the hallway, but crouched on the floor. The officer’s arms were still restraining me. Had much time passed? Did I somehow fall asleep?

  “You’re safe now,” a male voice said.

  The words churned inside my belly, because safe wasn’t here. These people weren’t helping. No one was listening.

  “Jane? I’m here to help you.” Another voice. A female one; it had a soft, melodic tone.

  I saw her tan suede boots—the shearling kind. My gaze traveled as far as her knee. Blue jeans, the fringe of a purple scarf. Not a police uniform. She’d been called in. Just for me.

  The T-shirt still balled up inside my mouth, I crammed it in deeper—way down my throat—creating a gag reflex.

  Fingers poked at my lips, pulled at the cloth. Voices continued, talking as though I weren’t there, were no longer conscious:

  “She’s hyperventilating.”

  “She’s going to pass out.”

  “She needs a little something.”

  She.

  She.

  She.

  Because even they knew: I was no longer me.

  THEN

  52

  When I opened my eyes again, a white wall faced me. My sheets were white too, and so was my pillow. I rolled over in bed and stared up at the bright white ceiling, wondering if it’d all been a dream—busting through the wall, escaping from the room, grappling through the woods, and finding the Jeep.

  I rolled over in bed. The motion stirred the covers. Something hit the floor with a clatter. The coil spring? The toilet rod?

  “Jane?” Mom’s voice. She rose from a chair. Her hand clasped over her mouth.

  I sat up. I was in a hospital. A TV hung from the wall. A table was at my side; on it was a box of tissues and a potted plant. The leaves were red, yellow, and pointed; they reminded me of poison ivy.

  Mom’s mouth moved to form words, but only cries came out—soft, pleading whimpers, like a wounded bird, like she’d broken her wings.

  “Jane?” she repeated, shaking her head as tears streaked down her face.

  Was she happy or sad? I couldn’t tell. I could only feel a sense of confusion. What had happened? Where was Mason?

  Mom continued to cry.

  An overwhelming urge to make things better cauterized my every emotion. “It’s okay,” I insisted. “I’m in one piece.” Just broken into bits.

  Mom looked broken too—smaller than I remembered, fragile like a finch—with rounded shoulders and lines that cracked her face. When had she gotten so many wrinkles?

  “How did I get here?” I tried to grab at the ache in my head, discovering my hands had been bandaged. The glass had been removed. “Do I have stitches?” I tried to remember the sequence of events—looking into the two-way mirror, breaking down at the police station, seeing the pair of shearling boots … Had I passed out? Or did someone give me an injection?

  Mom dropped her keys; her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I recognized her dress: navy blue with a belted waist and a scoop neck, the same one she’d reserved for jury duty or parent meetings.

  She sat at the foot of my bed, as though any closer might’ve caused me pain. I wanted to ask if she knew anything about Mason, but before I could, she folded forward on the bed. Her tiny shoulders jittered. Thick, hungry sobs spouted from her mouth as though someone had died. Maybe that someone was me.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “He’ll be here,” she uttered, rubbing my leg beside my knee like a genie’s lamp, as though the old me might magically emerge.

  “Mom?” I asked.

  The rubbing got harder. A gurgling noise sputtered from her lips like she was choking on her own spit. She sat up. Her mouth stretched wide, and she began to wheeze—a gasping-sucking sound. Her hands pressed against her chest, over her heart.

  I looked toward the door. It was closed. My face flashed hot. A call switch sat on the table. I punched it with my bandaged hand—again and again. Mom’s eyes locked on mine; the pupils appeared dilated. Her tongue inched out, between her teeth.

  “Please!” I shouted, tearing out of bed, going for the door.

  A nurse intercepted and went for backup.

  A wheelchair was rolled in.

  My mother was rolled out.

  And just like that, I was alone again, in a stark white room.

  THEN

  53

  I wasn’t alone for long. A woman came into the room—midthirties, sleek black hair. She was dressed in a steel-gray suit. Her skin was the color of mocha. Behind her was an older guy—gray hair, dark suit, at least fiftysomething.

  “Good morning,” the woman said, extending her hand for a shake. “I’m Special Agent Ann Thomas, and this is Special Agent Nathan Brody.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  I looked toward the windows, but the shades were drawn closed. “What time is it?”

  The woman peeked
at her watch. “It’s 8:30 a.m. I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”

  “How is my mother?”

  “She’ll be fine. They’ve got her in a room.”

  “And my dad?”

  “Last I heard, he’d boarded a plane and should be here later this morning.” She pulled a chair from the corner—the one my mother had used—and sat down beside me, leaving the guy to stand. “He was away on business when he got the call that you were found.”

  “I escaped,” I said, correcting her.

  “Right.” She mustered a smile.

  The guy pulled a second chair from the hall and sat by the door, taking a notebook and pen from his jacket.

  “Is Mason still there?” I asked. “Did you find him … or any of the others?”

  “The good news is that we managed to find the location of the place where you were being kept.”

  “And Mason?”

  She shook her head. “Who is Mason? Could you tell me about him? How you met? What he looked like?”

  “He was taken, just like me. But I never saw him. He’d been sneaking around, inside air ducts, traveling all over the building, trying to find a way out. We used to talk through the wall. Sometimes we held hands.”

  “I see.” She nodded. “So there was a hole in the wall?”

  “Didn’t you find it? It was tiny, though, like for a mouse, so maybe you didn’t see it.”

  “We found a wall that’d been pretty smashed up. Know anything about that?”

  Oh, right. “I did that.” I gazed at my bandaged hands, both of them well padded in hospital gauze. Only the tips of my fingers were visible.

  “Pretty impressive.”

  “Did you also find the air ducts? They were up in the ceiling tiles.”

  “We’re working on it, still investigating the space.”

  How much time had passed?

  More than twelve hours.

  “Didn’t you find the other rooms where people were being kept?” I asked. “Were any clues left behind?”

  “Do you know Mason’s last name?”

  “Um, no.” I took a deep breath. Were those blades inside my chest?

  “How about where he was from?”

  “He said he grew up on a farm, that his father used to raise chickens and bees and sell eggs and honey.”

  “Locally?”

  “I’m not really sure. I mean, I think so.”

  “Do you know how old he was?”

  “Nineteen, but he wasn’t in school … unless Life School counts—traveling and sightseeing…”

  “Do you know how he got there—how he was taken, I mean?”

  “He was taken from a party.”

  “Whose party? What happened?”

  I told her the full story—about the girl named Haley and how the monster had duped Mason by goading him outside to check out a Camaro that didn’t exist.

  After a slew of questions about said party, Agent Thomas asked, “Is there anything else you can share about Mason that you think would help us?”

  I gazed toward her watch. Tick tock, tick tock. How much more time had passed?

  “Jane? Is there anything else you can share?”

  “Just that if it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t even be here right now.”

  Her eyebrow raised. “What makes you say that?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? He risked his life to be with me, to offer me hope, to get me things I needed.”

  “He was a faithful companion.”

  “You make him sound like a dog.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Your intention should be to find him.”

  “As I said, we’re working on it. We have a team of investigators going over every square inch of the place. If he’s there, we’ll find him. You can trust me on that. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to switch gears.”

  It wasn’t okay. I wanted them to leave. The guy sitting behind her—Special Agent Something—was feverishly taking notes, recording my every word.

  “Could you tell me what happened on the morning of Sunday, August 11?” she asked.

  What day was that? My face scrunched in confusion, but then the answer finally clicked: Sunday, August 11, was the day that I was taken.

  I methodically went over the details—from the rain that day to the boxes of honeycomb candles. I told her about the car trunk and waking up in a daze, able to see the guy’s face—his brown eyes, the mole on his lower lid … I also talked about my days in the room, with little interaction aside from talking to Mason.

  By the time she was finished, there’d been two hours’ worth of questions.

  No, the monster didn’t come into the room.

  No, I didn’t know who he was or why he took me.

  Yes, he may’ve looked slightly familiar that day at Norma’s, but I’m not really sure.

  No, he didn’t touch me in any weird way, as far as I knew. There was only the obvious contact made during the abduction.

  No, I didn’t see him after that first night and have no idea what his intentions were.

  Yes, there were others. I heard their screaming. I found a note scribbled on a bathroom tile. Mason had also spoken to a girl named Samantha.

  Finally, when it seemed she was somewhat satisfied, she stood up. “I’m going to have an artist come in to do a sketch of the suspect. Someone will also be coming to give you a thorough physical exam.”

  “And you’ll let me know when you have news about Mason.”

  “You bet.” She smiled.

  I curled up on my side. My stomach grumbled for food. It took me a bit to notice the tray on my table and the white plastic dishes, just like in the room. I lifted the dome-like lid, uncovering a biscuit and sausage patty, both drizzled with gravy the consistency of sludge. It made me want to heave. I needed something bland, craving the toast I’d had in captivity, with the crusty ends.

  Some guy knocked on my door. He was holding a pad of paper. “Jane Anonymous?”

  He sat beside me without waiting for a response.

  With my descriptions, he sketched the face of the guy who took me. He also drew the tree tattoo. “Someone will be back to have you look at photos. We’re also getting a computer composite done.”

  “Was that guy caught on surveillance camera?” I asked. “Have you heard anything about Mason?”

  No.

  And no.

  My head wouldn’t stop aching. My bandaged hands itched.

  Not long after he left, Special Agents Thomas and Brody came back. They had me detail, once again, every single speck of Sunday, August 11, that I could recall, right down to the fabric of the romper I pulled off the hanger in my struggle to escape (silk, for the record).

  After that, a nurse came in for my physical exam. Without uttering a single sound, she poked and prodded, inspecting every inch of my skin, my back, my teeth, my scalp.

  My every.

  Single.

  Open and exposed space.

  And when she was done, I rolled over in bed, facing away from the window. My insides shook. I couldn’t stop trembling. I imagined ice water inside my veins, that that’s what the nurse got when she took my blood: a vial of coldness, like from inside a corpse.

  I closed my eyes, trying to forget where I was. Eventually, I fell asleep and dreamed about Mason—about holding his hand through the hole in the wall.

  When I woke up, hours later, I could still feel the heat in the center of my palm, as though he were really, truly there. I snuggled up in the sheets, keeping my eyes closed, wishing the sensation were real. Was it so far-fetched to believe the investigators found him and brought him to my bedside?

  I opened my eyes to check, startled to find Dad there, sitting at my side.

  “Hey, sunshine,” he said. My old nickname. It no longer fit. He squeezed my hand. There were tears in his eyes. “Thank God you’re back.” He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around me.

  Sinc
e when did he talk to God? Why had he never introduced me?

  He stroked my matted hair. I still hadn’t showered. He smelled like ground coffee beans—like the kind he used to buy, kept secure in the silver tin.

  “I got here as soon as I could,” he said.

  Memories played on a projector screen inside my head:

  Dad scratching my back, on the living room sofa, when I was five years old and couldn’t sleep because of a bad case of poison sumac.

  Me, learning to tie, using red string licorice, making knots on my father’s wrists while he read me fairy tales.

  And me, sitting by the hole, while Mason asked me questions about why my father had stayed in bed on the morning that I went missing:

  “He’d been working until midnight the night before,” I’d explained.

  “But you said you were taken on a Sunday. Does your dad work Saturdays?”

  “He’d started to.”

  “Let me guess. Does he work in a hospital? Or at a twenty-four-hour call center?”

  “He works in a bank.”

  “Seriously? A bank?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird … working until midnight at a bank? Is it a twenty-four-hour branch?”

  An awkward pause had followed.

  “Jane?” Dad asked.

  I pulled away, breaking the embrace. A nurse stood at the door, her eyes wide and expectant, as though something magical were about to happen. She was hoping for a show. I could see it in the parting of her lips and the clasping of her hands. To her, this was like something you’d see on TV: a father reuniting with his long-lost daughter. For me, the memories wove a quilt that suffocated any possibility of goodness.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” the nurse said. “Jane, could I get you a snack or something to drink?”

  “Have you heard anything?” I asked her.

  “Heard anything?” she repeated. Her smile faded.

  “About Mason,” I said.

  “Mason?” Dad’s face was a giant puzzle. He was two steps behind.

  I didn’t have time to catch him up. “Has anyone heard from Mason?” I snapped.

  She turned away and left the room without a word. What did that mean?