by Liz Coley
In therapy, Girl Scout had given a good description of the rustic cabin where she had lived—the physical cabin, that is. She had recalled some landmarks along her home-bound route. And she gave Dr. Grant permission to pass on the information. It was enough.
The two Forestry Service special agents assigned to the Angeles National Forest had finally located the site of the remote hand-built cabin deep in the thousand square miles of the San Gabriels. The cabin was off the grid and far from any known trails, farther still from the fire access roads that crisscrossed the mountains.
Brogan was sober as he told her, “A sophisticated scrubber was attached to the chimney to conceal evidence of smoke. Without that, we might have found you years earlier.” Regret deepened his voice.
“We’ve found positive forensic evidence of your presence there, Angie. Matching hairs and fibers. Ropes and shackles. We’re sure it’s the right place.”
Her hair and fibers. Bits of herself. Left behind. Angie felt queasy instead of elated.
Brogan went on, unusually oblivious. “Judging from the dust and cobwebs, it’s been abandoned for weeks.”
Mom gasped. “So he’s gone? Just vanished?” She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.
Brogan rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently, like a friend.
It occurred to Angie how much of a lifeline he must have been for her mom during the last three years.
Dad threw his arms up in dismay. “That’s it? No arrest? No trial? No punishment?” he roared right in Brogan’s face. “That guy should hang for what he did!”
“This is far from over,” Brogan assured him. “Now we switch to a manhunt. No personal information was found in the cabin, so we’re searching the area for more clues as to the identity of the abductor. Hang in there. I’m sure we’ll soon have all the answers.”
Ropes and shackles. Scabs and skin. Angie’s stomach lurched. Mom yelped and reached for her. But it was too late. She found herself covered in vomit.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She spun as her legs threatened to buckle underneath her. She breathed slowly through her nose, trying not to let the dizziness knock her down.
Brogan patted her back and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. He offered it to her lamely. “My fault, Angie. I’m sorry. Too much, too fast. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mom reached around Angie’s waist. “If that’s all, Phil, I’ll take Angie upstairs to clean up.”
Angie glanced back to see Brogan watching her with sad eyes. His shoulders heaved once with a deep breath. Then he dropped to the mess on the carpet and began dabbing at it with his handkerchief.
Mom started the shower running. “I’ll wash your clothes, hon. Just hand them out to me.”
Angie stripped off her sour-smelling jeans and sweater and passed them through the cracked door. She locked it tight, against intruders, against the world. Her stomach still churned like an epic battle was taking place inside her body.
The mirror wasn’t steamy yet, and she couldn’t help being drawn to it. She stared herself in the eye, except it wasn’t herself she was looking for. “What do you guys know?” she asked the reflection. “I know you’re holding out on me. Why?”
She thought about the derelict porch where everyone had gathered for the moments before Little Wife was shut off. The walls between them had been down for just a few minutes. It had felt like total honesty. Now they’d walled her off again.
“Where are you?” she whispered. “Please.” A presence stared at her from her own eyes, and behind her back, a shimmer in the shower mist suggested that a larger person stood behind her. Hallucination?
She blinked hard, and the mist was only mist. She climbed over the edge of the tub, pulled the curtain, and let the hot water cascade over her shoulders. Then she sat on the rubber shower mat, closed her eyes, and invited the water to rain down on her. Heat flowed over her like caressing arms, and she had the strongest feeling now that someone was willing to talk to her, to meet her on another plane. Eyes tight, she dived back into the image of the porch. She summoned up her memory of the railing, the pillars, the rough, splintery floor. The patter of the water faded away. Birds were singing, faraway song sparrows and warblers.
“Who’s here?” Angie asked, trying to focus.
Gray wood, chipped boards. A porch. They gradually resolved into a setting Angie recognized.
Girl Scout raised tearful eyes from her sewing and glanced toward the empty spot where Little Wife’s rocker used to sit. Tattletale was nowhere in sight. “She’s too young for this,” Girl Scout explained. “I sent her to ride. I have to leave too. Angel’s coming now.”
A sound like trumpets and wings broke the stillness, and the terrible whiteness of Angel arrived. His cheekbones were cut from crystal. His brow was tall and smooth, a halo of thick black hair rising from it. Snowy wings closed behind his back, and at his side hung a jeweled sheath. The gold handle of a short sword rested close to his waist. His black eyes held pinpoints of flame that settled on Angie. She trembled inside. What was this magnificent creature doing in her head? Surely he hadn’t come from her.
“Angela, Pretty Girl, you cannot call me to your aid again,” he scolded so gently.
“But … but I didn’t call you,” she protested. “You just … you just came when I needed you.”
His lips tightened into a grim line. “Then you must destroy me.”
Angie gasped. “No. I could never do that!”
“You will,” he said firmly. “You must. You will do to me what you did to the other one, the Little Wife.”
Angie felt compelled to argue. “But you’re so strong and beautiful. I need you. I don’t want to delete you. Can’t you stay with me? Forever? You’re my inner strength.”
The angel shook his dark curls. His voice was pure music. “You have your own strength and beauty and beyond that, innocence. I am only a danger to you now. It is far better if I go unremembered.”
“But why?” Angie demanded. “Because of Greg? That’s ridiculous. He had it coming.”
Angel stood glowing before her. He didn’t reach for his sword this time. His hands were tucked behind his back, hidden in his folded wings. “Angela, our Pretty Girl, please listen. Girl Scout and the Little Wife suffered much, and for so long. Then the lonely one called me into existence. It was finally unforgivable, what the man had done. She called me out of herself, out of her pain, out of the strength of her love. She sat and rocked in the dark, alone, locked in. She rocked and sang and sobbed and prayed.
“I was the answer to her prayer, her avenging angel. When I appeared before her, she said only, ‘Save us.’
“And I replied, ‘Arm me, and my hands are yours.’
“From the folded blanket on her lap, she pulled a sword of silver brilliance. ‘Save us,’ she said again fiercely. ‘Swear it.’
“I held the sword high and gave her my oath. Strength filled my arm. Sun shone around me, and I spread my wings in the heat of the day. I had no heartbeat drum to follow yet, or eyes to truly see. I was only her thought, but it was good to be alive. It was nearly my time.
“I waited while the others won his confidence, so he would never see my black eyes watching him from within, planning salvation. Girl Scout, so clever, won some release from the shackles. I put a glow on her pale cheeks, which he believed a glow of love. Little Wife made him happier, more secure in her love. He slept so deeply the night I came for him. And what Little Wife told you was true. She never woke as I severed her bonds.”
Angel stopped speaking, and the rainfall patter of the shower grew louder again.
She felt the weight of her body enclosing her. “What did you do?” she asked.
But Angel was fading away. His eyes were large and full of remorse.
“Come back,” Angie called. “Don’t leave. Please.” She reached for him, grabbed for his sword belt to hold him.
“No!” His wings unfurled, impossibly huge and white. He thru
st out his hands to push her away. Blood dripped from his fingertips.
“What the hell did you do?” Angie cried out in her mind. “Oh God. What?”
The musical voice became hard and brittle as porcelain. “You can’t be allowed to know. If you know, then they will know. Before the questions come, before the walls come down, I have to die.”
Abruptly, the presence was gone and an icy-cold sensation took its place. Chill all around her. Chill raining down. Angie shivered, aware again of her surroundings.
Oh, the shower. The water had run cold. And she’d lost her connection.
With a regretful sigh, Angie opened her eyes. A shocked moment later, she screamed. The water lapping around her legs was red with blood.
REPUTATION
“HON, HON. ANGIE. CALM DOWN. IT’S OKAY.” MOM PATTED Angie through a thick blue towel. “Just terrible timing, is all. Welcome to womanhood.”
Angie still trembled, as the last of the water slipped down the drain. She had a hideous feeling that it was more than her body maturing. It was a message of some kind, a parting message from Angel. They were bathed in blood, together. Her heart pounded, still reacting to the rush of adrenaline.
“I have to call Dr. Grant.” Maybe her psychologist could help her understand what had just happened. Whatever it was, it was bad. Of that she had no doubt.
“Are you that upset?” Mom asked. “We’ve never bothered her on a non-appointment day.”
“Considering how much you guys pay her, I wouldn’t call it bothering,” Angie snapped. “She said she’d be there for me if I had aftereffects. Well, I’m having them.”
“Okay. Of course.” Mom hesitated. “Is it something you can talk to me about?”
“No way, Mom.” She wasn’t about to share her worst suspicions with her mother.
She retreated to her room, clutching the mini-pad Mom had handed her wordlessly. When she came out again, dressed, Mom was on the phone in the master bedroom. “No, I’m sorry,” she was saying. She put a finger to her lips when she noticed Angie peeking through the door. “No. No comment … No, we will not be making a public statement today… . Yes, that’s true. September eighteenth … How would you feel? … Because we needed our privacy. We still do. Please don’t call again.”
She slammed down the phone on her nightstand. “Blasted reporters.”
“What?”
Mom ran her hands through her curls. “Oh, the questions. That’s the third call today.”
Angie’s heart raced. “What are they asking?”
“Crazy stuff,” Mom said. “Just ridiculous. You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do. I had to ditch them at school today. I need to be prepared.”
Mom huffed impatiently. “All you have to say is ‘No comment.’”
“Mom. Just tell me.”
She plopped into a chair and rubbed her cheekbones hard. Her fingers left red streaks across them. “They want to know why we didn’t contact them sooner. Why we’ve had the ‘lost girl’ home for two months and haven’t shared the news with the public. They want to know whether we’re hiding something.”
Angie’s heart skipped a beat. “Like what?” Her vision darkened for a second, but she pulled herself back. No one was taking over for her. She had to handle this. Still, she couldn’t shed the image—Angel’s hands dripping with blood.
She heard male voices in the living room, raised in excitement.
She and Mom hurried downstairs to see. The living room was full of policemen. Why were they still here? Brogan was on his cell phone, and Dad was pulling the curtains across the front window. “News trucks,” he said. “Right on our street.”
“How absurd,” Mom said. “Detective, can you get rid of them?”
The doorbell rang. One of the policemen went to answer it.
“Get rid of those damned reporters, will you?” Brogan said to him. He slipped a hand into his pocket. “We’ve called in the L.A. County coroner’s forensics team for the next step. Forensics will go over everything with a fine-toothed comb—working the cabin, working the site, looking for graves.”
“Graves!” A small shriek escaped Mom.
Brogan pinned his gaze on Angie with a sad twist to his mouth. “Angie beat the odds, however she escaped. You know that.”
She tried not to flinch. Yeah. However. She had the weirdest feeling. She broke away from his sympathetic look. She couldn’t take it.
Brogan misunderstood. He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Angie, is there anything, anything at all helpful you can tell us before the report comes in? If you can handle it, I’d like to take you up to the cabin when they’re done—see if it triggers any memories. Or more confessions from your inner informants. Anything that would help us find this guy.”
Knees weak and feet filled with the urge to flee, she tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Maybe. I don’t think it would help. I don’t remember anything.” It was true, literally. She didn’t remember anything. Surely Angel did, however. Angel with blood on his hands, begging to be deleted before his memories infected innocent Angie. Oh God. She’d never get that picture out of her head, even if she did erase Angel.
She wiped her hands on the seat of her blue jeans.
Brogan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Right. Okay. We’ll be in touch.”
“What do I do about the press?” she asked. “They were all over school this afternoon. Now they’re all over our lawn. They’re going to follow me everywhere, aren’t they?”
“Don’t tell them anything,” Brogan advised. “Call me if you need to.” He left, taking all the oxygen with him.
Greg and Livvie had declared an all-out war on Angie—calling the press was only the first shot across the bow, ushering in a week of torture. Now her phone number was showing up in the bathrooms, both male and female. There were graphic descriptions of what she would and wouldn’t do with boys, girls, and animals, plus crazy claims of what turned her on—all untrue, all disgusting.
Angie started carrying around a small can of red spray paint to wipe out these little bombs of cruelty, as well as the crude drawings that often illustrated them. Now she wished she’d made more friends at school so she’d have more defenders, or at least more people who would recognize this as a hate campaign. But having painted herself as a blank, she left herself open to being painted in whatever colors Greg and Livvie picked.
Her friendship with Kate the leper didn’t help, but no way would she give up Kate. Kate held Angie’s head above water every day and yelled, “Just keep kicking and breathing.” Figuratively, that is.
“Did you see the new one in the stairwell?” Angie asked, threading her hair through her palms over and over. Her lunch tray sat untouched, as it had all last week, ever since the discovery of the actual cabin.
Kate rolled her eyes. “That’s not physically possible,” she said. “Not even for gymnasts.”
Angie groaned.
“It’ll pass,” Kate assured her. “It did for me. Worst case, they’ll repaint over the summer. The school is starting to look like it has chicken pox with all your tagging.”
“What I don’t understand is, why Liv? I mean, sure, I can understand why Greg would be pissed. But why is she helping smear me? She won. She’s got Greg. And … we used to be friends.”
“It’s the only way she can deal with taking Greg back and not feel like she’s eating your leftovers, so to speak. It’s how she changes the story of you dumping him into him dumping you because you’re trash—sorry—in her words.”
“Pathetic. How long till it all blows over?”
“Hey, relax,” Kate advised. “We’ve got our beloved five-day Thanksgiving break starting in a few short hours. They’ll lose momentum.”
“Doubt it,” Angie said. “They’ll stuff themselves on turkey and pumpkin pie and come back mean as ever.”
Darn Thanksgiving weekend anyhow. Dr. Grant was already at her sister’s out of town. Although Angie had pleaded with her about er
asing Angel, Dr. Grant told her they couldn’t possibly do the next deletion any earlier than next Monday after the holiday—the facilities simply weren’t available. So Angie had to brood on her worries like an old hen until they were fully hatched. Any second now, Brogan would have a story put together, right or wrong.
Here’s how it would read. Angie had clearly lived in the cabin—hair and fibers everywhere. She’d been carrying a shiv away from the scene. Then a body would be found, with his throat slashed, or his wrists slashed, or his torso stabbed, or some other cause of death requiring a sharp, pointy implement—only Angel knew for sure. All the DNA evidence would come in next, linking the man to the cabin and Angie to the man. It made a neat, tidy package suggesting that Angie killed her captor (because who would blame her) and was faking amnesia and DID to get herself out of whatever they do to juvenile murderers. They’d stuff her under a lie detector. They’d hypnotize her and force Angel’s confession.
It would never stay secret. And even if what Angel did was ruled self-defense or justifiable manslaughter or something like that, no one would ever, ever look at her the same. Her life might as well be over. It was all coming down soon. She could feel it looming.
Kate snapped her fingers in front of Angie’s face. “Hey. Snap out of it. You’re sinking into self-pity again.”
“Not pity,” Angie said. “Just a reality check.”
“The guys want to double-date later tonight, but I’m not taking you along if you persist in acting like you’re getting hanged in the morning. I’ll take one of your other personalities. Who’s the funnest?”
“Depends on your idea of fun,” Angie said. “If you want to play dolls or dress-up, I’d suggest Tattletale. She’s six. If wreaking dreadful vengeance with a flaming sword is more your style, I’d send Angel. But he’s a guy, so perhaps not exactly right for Abraim. And if cooking over an iron-bellied stove trips your trigger, Girl Scout’s your girl.”
“Aw hell,” Kate said. “We’ll take Angie. She just better be in a better mood.”
Angie scowled. “Okay. I’ll try.”
But what she learned at home that afternoon didn’t help her lighten up. Exactly the opposite. Grandma and Yuncle Bill had been invited for Thanksgiving.
