She has her own routine and timeline for the night she disappeared. If it’s the same person who kidnapped Bristol, there will be commonalities.
I have information bookmarked on her –social media provides a glimpse into her life...but ends a couple hours before she vanished.
I glance over her snapshots. She has the same hair color and eyes, only no freckles. Smooth pale skin. Similarities, both were close in age – she was eighteen at the time of her disappearance a little over two months ago. Both are from small towns. Scanning the news articles, she was visiting Hawaii from Kansas City. Her parents weren’t on this trip, she went missing when she was with a group of friends out at the bar. She never returned to their beachside rental. They assumed she had gone home with someone until she never reappeared.
There might not be any ties between the girls, two separate monsters may be responsible, but my gut tells me that’s not the case.
Something nags at me...they look a lot alike, more like sisters than Bristol and I do.
The lack of viable leads boggles my mind. But truth is, I haven't focused on anyone else that could have taken my sister because in my mind, there was no one else.
We were with two boys, one notorious for drugging girls.
Will.
39
Bristol
Beeping. All I hear are short, quick warnings.
Words murmur from above me, but exhaustion makes it hard to try and understand. There’s a loud commotion, wailing, coming from below or inside me.
Hands press down on my chest, can’t they see I’m sleeping?
I drift back into my subconscious, mumbling as I hear my name called.
When I wake up, I expect to see the room instead of a metal bed, the four walls bland and cream-colored. A picture of a cerulean blue ocean stares back at me. My ears crane to hear all the noises – the sound of traffic outside, car horns beeping, the low hum of equipment, and people chattering excitedly.
A television hangs down from the ceiling, except it’s flat, unlike the bulky ones from my childhood.
Glancing around, I realize I’m hooked up to machines, IVs, and the metal bed moves up and down, a hospital-grade one. The realization should comfort me, instead I’m immobilized. Does The Mole know I’m here? Is he waiting for me? My eyes dart back and forth, scanning the small room.
A soft knock on the door startles me. The man named Max, my lifesaver, enters with an older gentleman in a white lab coat.
“You’re up,” the man with glasses and a stethoscope says, “I’m Doctor Peters. You have this young man to thank for saving you and your little boy.”
“Ah…I’m not that young.” Max laughs. “But forty is the new thirty.”
“Little boy?” My voice softens. Instinctively, I reach down with my unbroken arm to my belly, the bump covered by a thin cotton blanket and a plain pink hospital gown. The color pink makes me nauseous. I tighten the material around my middle. “He’s alive?” The relief’s palpable on my face as I relax against the pillow.
“Close call, you were having back contractions, causing him to be stuck in a perilous position. We got him though. Five pounds, eight ounces later.” He pats my knee. “We’ll bring him in after you rest. Speaking of giving birth, how’re you feeling?”
“Like I just had fifty pounds removed from my body.” I shrug. “No big deal.” My thoughts drift to the baby boy and The Mole, and a sinking feeling curls in the pit of my stomach. “My baby, is he being guarded?” My mouth twists in concern. “He needs protection.”
The doctor and the dark-haired man exchange a look. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Bridget Masterson?” The doctor checks his clipboard, focusing too hard on the paper in front of him.
“Yes, that’s me.”
His eyes aren’t unkind, but his voice betrays doubt. “It can’t be you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bridget’s only been missing for a couple months. According to her family and friends, she wasn’t pregnant at the time of her disappearance.”
Gaping at him, I clamp my fingers into the firm mattress.
“Do you know who you are?”
I say nothing, peering between the doctor and Max.
He pats my arm gently. “Don’t worry, the authorities have been notified. They can sort this all out. We just want to focus on getting you better.”
“Is he here?” I’m frantic. “Don’t let him near the baby.”
“Who?”
“The Mole.” I’m exasperated, rolling my eyes.
“Um…no one is around the baby or you besides myself and our team of nurses. This is a secure floor.” Doctor Peters squeezes my hand reassuringly. “The police will want to help you, ask you questions.” He gives me a warm smile. “We’re so relieved you’re safe.” Checking my pulse, he makes a few notes on a skinny-looking computer thing, then asks Max to step out in the hall with him, leaving me alone.
I hear their voices, both soft, but the more persistent one belongs to Doctor Peters. He’s telling Max he thinks I’m covering for someone who hurt me, clearly the victim of domestic abuse. He’s unsure if I’m delusional and manifesting a fake alias because of severe PTSD.
Because I know of Bridget, he speculates I read about her in the paper recently. “Maybe she’s doing this to get attention,” Doctor Peters offers. “She’s obviously been through an extreme amount of trauma.”
Straining to hear, they speak in hushed tones, and unable to make out the rest of their conversation, I close my eyes.
A vivid image takes hold in my mind, The Mole strangles both the baby and I, one in each arm, his choke hold on each of our throats.
Struggling to breathe, I gasp for air, uninterrupted tears wet my cheeks and trail down my neck. The door to the room opens and closes and my lids jerk open, confronting the intruder.
It’s Max.
He watches me, his brown eyes darkening. “Bridget?”
I don’t answer, looking down at the tremors in my hands.
“Bridget?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember your real name?” He asks. “Or are you also a Bridget, just with a different last name?”
Wiping my nose, I don’t answer.
He points to the only seat in the room, a plastic blue chair. “Mind if I sit?”
A simple shrug is all I can muster.
“I’m just glad you’re safe and you’re both…” he stammers, “you and the baby are both okay.”
“When can I hold him?”
“Soon, I’m sure.” He leans on his elbows. “But right now I’m just trying to figure out why you have Bridget Masterson’s ID and debit card on you.”
Faking a yawn, I deliberately close my eyes.
“I’ll let you sleep, but I just want to let you know I’m here if you need anything. It sounds like you’ve been through quite an ordeal and need a friend.” He stands, stopping at the foot of my bed. “I know you don’t know me, but if you have something to hide, you can tell me…or if you need help…”
I remain mute, waiting for the sound of his footsteps on the tile.
Considering my options, being confronted by the police or a complete stranger, albeit one that saved my life, I whisper his name. “Max?”
The steps pause, “Yeah?”
“Thank you for saving our lives.” Tears form in the creases of my eyelids. “You have no idea what you saved us from.” He stands there, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. After a minute of silence, his footfalls echo out of the room, the door silent as it shuts behind him.
I drift in and out of sleep after he leaves, one stop from a social worker introducing herself, another the intrusion of two detectives. I’m asked questions about my injuries, the baby I just gave birth to, and my identity, or lack of one.
“Did you see a doctor during your pregnancy?”
“What was the due date given?”
“Where do you live?
“How old are y
ou?”
“Can you tell us about the burns on your body?”
“In addition to the burns, who physically assaulted you?”
“Do you personally know Bridget Masterson or just read about her?”
I’ve gotten good at acting after all the years under The Mole’s thumb. I play dense, confused, and tongue-tied. Severely underweight, my real age is hidden by the fact I can pass for a fifteen-year-old, the age I’m assumed to be by a round of doctors.
A nurse with a sunny disposition finally brings my baby to me after I refuse to answer any more questions until I can hold him. Tears stream down my cheeks, I didn’t think I could cry so hard or feel so attached to a tiny newborn. His miniature hands and feet are swaddled in a blanket, his button nose looks like mine in my baby pictures. I instruct myself not to consider The Mole and what features he might have of his. That’s tarnishing this sweet, innocent baby.
Counting his fingers and toes, I squeal as he pushes his little fist in the air, a battle cry following. The nurse smiles at us, giving me pointers as I gently rock him in my one good arm.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I cradle him to my chest.
The moment’s bittersweet, my family nowhere in sight at this celebration of life. And really, it’s a re-birth for not only being returned to society, but for the new life created.
Questions keep coming from the police, repeating over and over the next week. I make up small details to feed to the detectives, still hiding who I really am.
Max visits every day, a permanent fixture by my side as he keeps an eye on me and the baby. He holds him, cooing and burping him as if it’s second nature. I assume he’s got his own kids with a wife or girlfriend, but I don’t see a ring on his finger. I assume he’s being nice, knowing that I’m fragile. He feels sorry for me is all.
The more he sits by my side in the hard plastic chair, the more we talk. I’m careful not to dredge up the past or any details that can tie me to my old life or The Mole. I only allow myself to lie, except for the admission I’m from Nebraska. My focus stays on the present and getting acclimated to the strides that have been made with technology and the Internet.
Everything’s slimmer like the television – phones, computers, even the portion sizes of food. He shows me his phone, I’m amazed at the apps and the invention and lightning speed of what’s known as Wi-Fi. Careful not to look anything up about my past, I play crossword and puzzle games.
Max sometimes stays the night, his head lolled back against the chair. When he’s there, I sleep better, feel more protected if The Mole comes back. One night I fall asleep, holding my baby boy, his little fist wrapped around my pinky finger. It’s the best rest of my life. When I wake up, Max’s chest is rising and falling, his snores short and peaceful in the chair beside us.
Some nights are harder when I let my mind wander. I think of Bridget, guilt enveloping me. The other girls that’re dead or missing. How many are there? Tears flood my cheeks when I think of Bridget stuck in the room with The Mole.
Eventually, I have to talk, knowing my time’s limited, and wanting freedom, I make up a story. Confessing I am eighteen, just like they guessed, originally from a small town in Nebraska, and scared of my abusive boyfriend, I flee to Hawaii. They ask why Hawaii, I admit it’s as far as I could get from him without leaving the country. I’d only been here a few weeks when I fell off the cliff, everything chaotic in my head from the concussion.
Amazingly Max never tells them I had Bridget’s ID, credit, and debit card in my slipper. I attest to the police I pretended to be her because I’m terrified of my ex finding me and Bridget Masterson and I both share the same first name.
They can’t disprove this, so they grudgingly release me. The hospital needs my bed and I’ve got no health insurance, so their hands are tied. I’m required to maintain a place of residence and social work visits for at least six months. This means a local women’s shelter to begin with, so a watchful eye can be kept on me and the baby.
The day I’m slated to leave, I’m sitting in the lobby, my eyes glued to the television, making sure there’s no evidence that a Bristol Bellamy has been found. Even though my name didn’t come up when I mentioned Nebraska, paranoia sets in.
Slumping in my seat, relieved, the focus is on weather, the political climate, and the high-speed chase that involved a pedestrian fatality.
I’m safe, at least for the moment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall, dark-haired man with olive skin, dressed in business casual clothing, the only thing missing a tie.
He looks frantic, footsteps hurried, his wingtip loafers tapping on the tile floor. Instead of stopping at the nurses station, he continues walking straight towards me.
My heart palpitates, wondering if this is a news reporter coming to get the scoop.
I wring my hands in my lap, anxiety spiking as I think of bolting out another exit.
As the man walks closer, I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Max, unrecognizable to me since he’s not in gym shorts and a sweatshirt, his usual attire.
“Thank God, Bridget,” he sighs. “I’m glad I caught you.” He motions to the chair next to me. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I know you’re leaving today…” He tilts his head towards the outside, “But I wanted to see if you’d be opposed to my own thoughts about your living situation. I spoke to Doctor Peters and the social worker assigned to your case.”
I pick at a ripped cuticle, expecting him to explain his idea. Instead he asks, “Do you need a ride?”
“No, they’re providing transportation.” I bite my lip. “I’m just waiting for the nurse to come down with the baby. Then a driver will take us to the shelter.”
“I’m worried about you adjusting to another new environment.” He pauses a moment. “It must be scary to be in a new state, disoriented, and have a newborn to take care of.”
“Yeah, but at least I’m away from him.” I switch topics. “What’re you dressed up for?”
We’ve never talked about his profession. “Oh, I’m a vet.” He glances down at his clothing.
“A veterinarian?”
“Yep, a doctor of the animal kind.” He raises a thick brow. “You thought you got saved by a regular guy, not the animal whisperer.”
I laugh, slow at first, a genuine smile rising to the occasion.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He leans back in the chair. “It’s been on my mind, bothering me.” He taps his fingers on the leather arm rest between us. “I don’t want to bother you with it, but I have to know.”
He’s pensive, his dark eyes clouding over with apprehension.
“Yeah?” I cringe, hoping it’s not about The Mole.
“Will you level with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I found you in a remote area after a nasty fall, you refused to go to the hospital even though you were in labor, looking like you’d been starved and beaten for longer than a few months.” He gestures to the revolving door separating us from the outside. “You’re scared of someone more dangerous than a high school boyfriend, and you’re in hiding. Care to elaborate on any of this?”
My face burns. “No.”
“I want to help you, Bridget,” he lowers his voice, “if that’s your real name, which I don’t think it is.”
I glance at him warily.
He ignores my hesitation, speaking softly. “I found the ID and credit card of Bridget Masterson in your slipper when I found you. But you’ve never told me where it came from.” He reaches in his back pocket, pulling out the ID.
My heart thuds in my chest, concentrating my focus on my hands.
“I’ve Googled missing girls in Nebraska…”
I’m unsure what ‘Googled’ means, but I’m not going to ask.
He reads my mind. “Do you know what ‘Google’ is?”
“No.” I shrug.
“Exactly, bingo.” He snaps his fingers. “
You haven’t been missing for a few months, you’ve been missing for a lot longer than that. If I had to guess, I’d say at least seven to eight years, maybe more.”
“Maybe so…” I shrug. “I wish I could remember, be more helpful.”
“I don’t know who you are, if you even know, but there’s a list of missing girls from Nebraska. He stares at my lowered eyelids. “A ton that start with the letter ‘B’.”
Careful not to raise my voice or act defensive, I ask. “Why didn’t you turn her ID over to the cops?”
“Because there’s a lot more to this story than you’re telling me. But you’ve got a name, and you need help.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “And I want you to come live with me for now, to get on your feet.”
There’s silence as we both collect our thoughts.
“Look…I want to help you. Let me help you.”
“I don’t know you…”
“Understandably, you’re scared. I don’t pretend to get it or the gravity of what happened to you.” He turns to me, compassion in his eyes.
“Max…”
“Google my name, Max Fletcher.”
“I don’t know how…”
“See, if you’re searching for someone, you’re definitely going to need my expertise.” He runs his hand through his dark, wavy locks. “Especially if you haven’t been exposed to technology. We’ve come a long way since then.”
“I don’t want to go to the shelter,” I say firmly. “I just want to disappear again.”
“To where?”
“Away. In hiding. Can you help me with that?” I consider my options. “Is there a bus station?”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. Biting my lip, the idea of staying with another man frightens me.
Holding up a hand, he says, “You and the baby will have your own bedroom at my place. Plus, you’ll need assistance. Doc said it’ll be another week or two before you can stop wearing the sling.” Before I can answer, the nurse interrupts my dark, troubled memories of the room. She’s been a constant presence with both the baby and I, and she’s sad to see us go, even though she doesn’t know who I am, she’s seen the progress we’re both making.
Into the Night Page 28
