He’d gotten so used to silence over the past two weeks that hearing himself talk on and on felt strange. He felt the echo of his own voice inside himself.
After he’d heated enough hot water and poured it into the tub, he heated more for her to rinse her hair and set the pots beside the tub. While she was in the bathroom, he sat down at the old Olivetti typewriter that had belonged to his mom. It felt comfortable hammering away at those dinosaur keys. He put on his glasses and began reading what he’d written the day before.
He didn’t know how long he read. But suddenly he looked up to see her standing there beside his desk, making no noise, just standing there, her hair wet and tangled around her face, her wrists and ankles raw and ugly, her face shiny and clean, wearing his undershirt.
“Hi,” he said, taking off his glasses. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come out. When I work I tend to forget where I am. Why don’t you come over and sit on the couch.”
He took his own comb, washed it first, then spent the next ten minutes combing the tangles out of her hair. Then he put more medicated cream on her wrists and ankles and bandaged them again. He knew he had to check her over but he couldn’t see himself pulling off that undershirt. No, he’d have to be more devious. He rose. “Now, clothes for you.”
He wasn’t about to put her back into what she was wearing when he’d found her. He could only begin to imagine what sorts of memories those clothes would bring her.
“You’re going to be a Ralph Lauren Polo girl. What do you think?” It was a long-sleeved soft wool pullover sweater. At least it would keep her warm. No underwear, no pants, no shoes.
He handed her the sweater. “Why don’t you change in the bathroom?”
She left him. This time she came back in five minutes. He was gaining ground. The sweater came to her ankles, the sleeves flopping a foot beyond her hands. He rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. She looked ridiculous and endearing.
What was one to do with a little kid?
“Do you know the capital of Colorado?”
She nodded. He pulled out a map then realized he didn’t know if she could read. Well, it didn’t matter. She pointed to Denver. It had a red star beside it. So she lived in Colorado.
“That’s really good. I don’t think my nieces and nephews know the capital of any state, even Pennsylvania, where they live. Do you know where we are?”
Fear, cold, frozen fear.
He said easily, “We’re in the Rockies, about a two-hour drive southwest of Denver. There aren’t any ski resorts close by, so it’s pretty empty. Still, it’s a really pretty place. Do you watch Star Trek?”
She nodded, some color coming back into her face.
“I’m told the local folks call the mountain peaks opposite us the Ferengi Range.”
She opened her mouth and rubbed her fingers over her teeth.
He laughed. “That’s it. All the peaks are jagged and crooked and spaced funny. Ferengi teeth.”
The sleeves of his shirt were dragging on the floor again. He leaned forward to roll them up. She made that deep mewling sound and ran over to the wall by the fireplace. She curled up just as she had in the kitchen.
He’d scared her. Slowly, he got up and walked to the sofa. He sat down. “I’m sorry I scared you. All I wanted to do was roll up your sleeves. Your arms aren’t quite as long as mine yet. I should have told you what I intended. Can I roll up your sleeves? I think there are some safety pins in the kitchen drawer. If I can pin them up, you won’t have to worry about them.”
She got up and started to walk to him. One step, and she paused. Another step. Another pause, studying him, weighing if she could trust him, wondering if he wouldn’t turn on her. Finally she was beside him. She looked up at his face. He smiled and slowly lifted his hand. He rolled up the sleeves. Then he said, “I can try to braid your hair. It won’t be great but at least you won’t have your hair in your face.”
The braid wasn’t all that bad. He fastened the end with a rubber band that had come around the bag of peaches.
“The sun’s really bright. It’s not too cold out. If I bundle you up, would you like to go outside?”
He should have known. She was gone in a flash, into the kitchen. He knew she was against the damned wall. At least she didn’t lock herself in the bathroom.
What to do?
Whatever he did with her, he had to do it slowly, really slowly.
Thank God there were some old magazines in the cabin. He said, “Would you like to look at the photos? If you like, we could look at them together and I could read to you what they say about the photos.”
Finally, she nodded slowly. “First let me get those safety pins and fasten your arms up.”
Then she followed him into the living area. It was tough because she didn’t want to get anywhere close to him. The magazine ended up between them on the sofa. At least he got her to wrap the afghan around her.
He looked over at her and said, “Socks.”
She blinked and cocked her head to one side.
“I was worried about you walking around in your bare feet. Do you want to try some of my socks? They’ll look funny and come up to your neck. Maybe you could practice to be a clown. You could wear my socks and see if I laugh. What do you say?”
The socks were a big hit. She didn’t try to be funny, but she did give one tiny smile when she pulled them over her knees.
It took them nearly an hour to get through a People magazine from the previous October. He didn’t think he ever wanted to see a picture of Cindy Crawford again. She was on every other page. He looked up after reading about a movie star’s painful reunion with her long-lost brother. She was asleep, her cheek on her hands, resting on the arm of the sofa. He smoothed the afghan around her and went back to his typewriter.
He nearly knocked his glasses off he roared up out of his chair so quickly. That horrible low mewling sound was louder this time. She was having a nightmare, twisting inside the afghan, her small face flushed, strained with fear. He had to touch her, no choice.
He shook her shoulder. “Wake up, sweetheart. Come on, wake up.”
She opened her eyes. She was crying.
“Oh no.” He didn’t think, just sat down and pulled her onto his lap. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s all right now.” He held her close, gently pressing her head against his chest, pulling the afghan around her to keep her warm. One of his socks was dangling off her left foot. He pulled it back up and tucked her in tighter against him.
“It’s all right now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I swear it to you. No one will ever hurt you again.”
He realized that she was frozen against him. He’d terrified her but good. But he didn’t let her go. If ever she needed another person, it was now, and he was the only one available. He kept whispering to her, telling her over and over that she was safe, that he’d never let anyone hurt her again. He spoke on and on until he finally felt her begin to loosen. Finally, he heard her give a huge sigh, then, miracles of miracles, she was asleep again.
It was early afternoon. He was getting hungry, but it could wait. He wasn’t about to disturb her. She was nestled against him, her head nearly in his armpit. He rearranged her just a bit, then picked up his book. She whimpered in her sleep. He pulled her closer. She smelled sweet, that unique child sweet. His eyes feral, he said low toward the window, “You come anywhere close, you bastard, and I’ll blow your head off.”
3
THE MORNING RAIN slammed against the cabin windows, driven hard by a gusting westerly wind. Ramsey sat beside her on the sofa, one of the many novels he’d brought with him to the cabin in his hand, reading quietly to her as he’d done for the past three days. She was getting more at ease with him, not jerking away from him anymore if he happened to startle her.
The two of them were sitting on the sofa, a good foot between them, his voice quiet and deep as he read to her. He said, “Mr. Phipps didn’t know what he was going to do. He could go back to his wife and deal wit
h her, or he could give up and leave her to all the men who wanted her, all the rich men who would give her what she wanted. But then, he’d never given up in his life.” He paused. What was coming, he saw in a quick scan, wouldn’t be good for a child. No, thinking about killing his wife wouldn’t be cool for her to hear. He should never have begun this one. He cleared his throat.
The words blurred as he said quietly, pretending still to read, “But he realized that he had another choice. His little girl was waiting at home for him. He loved her more than he loved himself, and that was saying something. In fact, he loved his little girl more than he’d loved anything or anyone in his life.”
She was sitting very quietly beside him. That foot was still between them. He had no idea whether or not she was listening to him. At least she was warm. She was wearing one of his undershirts, a gray one with a V-neck, a cardigan sweater over it that nearly touched the floor, and the afghan pulled to her chin against the chill of the incessant rain and wind. He was getting better at braiding her hair. If she weren’t so very silent, perhaps with a small smile on her face, you could take her for any kid, sitting next to her dad, while he read her a story.
But she wasn’t like any kid. Slowly, he looked back down at the book. He said with a feeling that was suddenly crystal clear and true inside him, “He wanted his little girl to know that she would always be safe with him. He would protect her and love her for as long as he lived. She was sweet and gentle and he knew she loved him. But she was scared and he understood that. She’d been through so much, too much for a little girl to have to bear. But she’d come through it. She was the bravest little girl he’d ever known. Yes, she’d survived it, and now she would be with him.
“He thought of the little mountain cabin in the Rockies with its meadow of brightly blooming columbine and Indian paintbrush. He knew she’d like it there. She’d be free and he’d hear her laugh again. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh. He walked into the house, saw her standing there by the kitchen door, holding a small stuffed monkey. She smiled at him and held out her arms.”
He turned to her and very slowly, very lightly, touched his fingertips to her ear. “Do you have a stuffed animal?”
She didn’t look at him, just kept staring straight ahead out the cabin windows, at the gray rain he wondered would ever stop. Then she nodded.
“Is it a monkey?”
She shook her head.
“A dog?”
She turned to him then and tears pooled in her eyes. She nodded.
“It’s all right. Hey, he’s not stuffed, is he? He’s a real dog? I promise, you’ll be back soon enough with your dog. What kind is he?”
This time she reached over for the pen and paper he’d set on the table by the sofa the previous evening. This was the first time she’d paid any attention to it. He felt a leap of hope. She drew a dog with lots of spots on it.
“A Dalmatian?”
She nodded, then she smiled, a very small smile, but that’s what it was, a smile. She tugged at his sleeve. She actually touched him.
“You want the story to go on?”
She nodded. She moved just a little bit closer to him and snuggled down into the afghan. He said, “Funny thing, she wanted a dog, but she loved her stuffed monkey more than anything. His name was Geek. He had very long arms and a silly brown hairy face. She took him everywhere with her. One day when she and her daddy were walking across their meadow in the mountains, they heard this loud sound. It was a milk delivery truck. ‘Why did it come up here on our mountain?’ the little girl asked her papa.
“ ‘He’s bringing us our weekly milk supply,’ her father said. Sure enough there was milk in the truck, but what the man had really brought was a litter of puppies, all of them pure white. Soon the six puppies were yapping at each other and chasing each other around the meadow, hiding in among the flowers, rolling over on their backs, all in all having a wonderful time.
“But Geek wasn’t happy. He sat on the porch, his long arms at his side, watching the puppies steal the little girl’s attention. He heard her laugh and saw her play with the puppies, saw them climbing all over her, licking her face, whining when she didn’t scratch their tummies quickly enough. His monkey head dropped to his legs. He was very unhappy.
“Then suddenly she came back to where he was sitting on the porch. She picked him up and gave him a big kiss on his hairy face. ‘Come and play with the babies, Geek,’ she said to him. ‘Daddy said they have to go back to their own home soon. The milkman just brought them here so we could play with them.’
“When Geek thought about it later, he realized that he’d liked the puppies, once he’d gotten used to them. They were sort of cute. Now that he thought about it, just maybe he could find a puppy and bring it to the little girl. He went to sleep snuggled up next to her, and he dreamed about a little white puppy that would have black spots appear on it when it was older.”
Ramsey made a big production of closing the novel. “There, what do you think of Geek the monkey?”
She picked up the pen and paper. She labored over it a moment, then sat back. He looked down to see a stick figure little girl holding what must be Geek. She was hugging him tightly and she was smiling.
“That’s great,” he said. Was she sitting right next to him? Hot damn, she was.
It was he who fell asleep, his head flopped back against the sofa. When he awoke several hours later, she was snuggled against him, her head on his chest, boneless as children are when they are utterly relaxed. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She smelled like his shampoo mixed with little kid. He liked it. He eased her off him, covered her well, and went to the kitchen. He made himself some coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and listened to the rain pelt against the cabin roof.
She’d been with him nearly four days now. There’d been no sign of anybody near the cabin. He’d rather wanted the man who’d abused her to show up. He’d like to have the chance to kill him himself. Where was that bastard? Probably long gone. How much longer should he keep her with him, hidden away from the outside world? At least he didn’t have to worry about her health. The second day he’d given her a third of one of his sleeping pills. When she was deeply asleep, he’d examined her again, checked all the bruises and welts, applied more antibiotic cream, then covered her again. She was healing nicely. She’d never stirred, thank God.
He wondered if she really had a Dalmatian. He realized, too, that he’d put himself in the place of her real father. Well, too bad. As long as she was with him, she was his. But what about her parents? Had they been there when she’d been taken? Maybe they were responsible, maybe they’d allowed it to happen? What were they like? No, it didn’t matter, at least not yet. But, of course, it did matter.
He felt good. This was the first time she’d actually gotten close to him. It had taken his falling asleep for her to get closer, but it was a start, a definite start.
He smiled toward the stove, got up, and opened a can of chicken noodle soup. She liked the soup with toasted cheese sandwiches.
THAT evening after they’d roasted the last two hot dogs, eaten the rest of the baked beans and he’d managed to make some strawberry Jell-O that wasn’t rubbery at the bottom, he said to her, “Why don’t I say some girl names. If I happen to hit your name, you can nod three times or pull on my arm, or kick me in my shin. Okay?”
She didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change. Her lack of enthusiasm didn’t bode well.
“Okay, let’s give it a shot. How about Jennifer? That’s a really pretty name. Is it yours?”
She didn’t move.
“How about Lindsey?”
Nothing.
“Morgan?”
She turned her back on him. That made her feelings clear enough. She didn’t want to play a name game. But why?
“Draw me a picture of your mommy.”
She turned back in an instant. Her fingers fluttered over the blank sheet of paper. She didn’t look at hi
m, just stared at that paper. Then she began to draw. It was a stick figure wearing a skirt, sneakers, and a head of curly hair. The figure was holding what looked like a box with a knob in the front of it.
He said then, “That’s just excellent. Is her hair dark brown like yours?”
She shook her head.
“Red?”
She smiled hugely and nodded. Then she drew more curly hair around the stick woman’s head.
“I guessed red because it’s my favorite color. She’s got really curly hair? Is it long?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Okay, it’s medium. Is she holding a box?”
She shook her head. She pointed to people on the cover of a magazine on the coffee table. Then clicked her index finger again and again to her thumb.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s a camera. She’s a photographer?”
She nodded, again pointing to the pictures.
“And she photographs people?”
She nodded happily. Then, suddenly, her face fell. She was thinking about her mother, missing her, wondering where she was, and there was not a thing he could do about it. He said, “Now draw me a picture of your daddy.”
She clutched the pen the way one would a dagger. Then she made that horrible mewling sound in her throat.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here. You’re safe.”
Then, somewhat to his surprise, she began to draw a man stick figure and he was playing a guitar and his mouth was open. Her father was a singer? Then she pressed down so hard the pencil tip broke. So could her father have been the one who’d left her vulnerable? Abused her? No, certainly a father wouldn’t do that to his own kid. Yeah, right. With everything he knew about life, everything he’d watched and dealt with, he knew, of course, it was very possible. He wanted to ask her questions about her dad, but seeing her reaction, he let it wait.
She wadded up the paper. She slowly pulled away from him and drew up into a ball, pressed against the back of the sofa.
The Target Page 3
