Into the Night

by Marin Montgomery

  I’m relieved he’s been a happy baby so far. The stress of our situation and time spent without food and proper medical care nags at me. The nurse gives his tiny head a gentle pat as she tucks him into the crook of Max’s arm.

  He’s right, because my arm’s in a sling, I’m incapable of being on my own yet. Between the women’s shelter and his residence, he wins. I need his help if I’m ever going to locate Bridget. That’s what the authorities don’t know or understand, until she’s found, I might as well be her. We’re both still missing.

  It’s time to find The Mole.

  40

  Bristol

  Following Max to his vehicle, he waves to a tan Jeep, the model unrecognizable from a decade ago. I open the back door, a car seat already installed, prepared even before coming to the hospital. He’s more efficient than I am, still clumsy and awkward with a newborn, my healing arm deficient.

  When we’re settled on the soft leather interior, I glance at him, his eyes focused on the road. “Totally last-minute plan, huh?” I give a slight grin.

  “I’m prepared.” He shrugs. “Just like when I was hiking. Plus, my best friend has a kid. Him and his wife helped put it in. I had it backwards.”

  “Didn’t they ask what it was for?”

  “Yeah, I said I found out I had a child.” He snorts, “Illegitimate.”

  I cringe at the word, thinking of The Mole.

  Max notices and instantly apologizes. “Sorry, that was in bad taste.”

  “It’s fine.” I give him a tight smile. “Thanks for thinking ahead.”

  “Just a fair warning, I hope you like dogs.” He grins. “My best friend is eighty pounds and golden.”

  “I love dogs,” I say, “I had a dog once upon a time.”

  “Name? Breed? Boy or girl?”

  “Oggie, sheepdog mix, an overprotective and ornery boy.”

  “Is Oggie still around?”

  “No clue.” I sigh, my eyes trained on the rear view. “Probably not. That’s the thing about time. It doesn’t stand still even when we’re forced to.”

  Looking out the window, I’m overwhelmed by the difference in cars, buildings, and people. Some of the chains are still the same, but staring at the booming real estate and oversized signs, I wonder if my hometown has changed this rapidly.

  Max pulls onto a tree-lined street, about a mile from the beach. It’s a cute two-story bungalow with red clay tiles and Spanish stucco with a wrap-around porch.

  He gives me a tour, showing me the white bassinet his friends gave him for the baby. It’s already set up with a diaper changing table and plenty of baby clothes and toys.

  There’s a large, king-size bed, soft and luxurious. Two large picture windows are on either side, covered by sheer aqua curtains. The floors are a dark wood, and a fireplace rests to my left. The intricate carved mantel holds a couple of framed photographs.

  I feel bad. Max moved downstairs to a spare bedroom so I can stay in the master. My protests fall on deaf ears. I’d prefer to switch, feeling awful I chased him out of his room.

  “There’s two of you, it’s fine.” He points to the large walk-in closet and bathroom that’s the size of the room I was in. A large jetted tub and separate shower are decorated in a gray and white bathroom. A white bath robe and plush towels are the opposite of the threadbare cotton ones in the room.

  “Thank you.” I’m appreciative. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  “We’ve established you’re not Bridget,” he asks, “so what should I call you?”

  “Call me by her name until she’s found.” I’m firm. “This way, her name will always be on the tips of our tongue.”

  “Fair enough.” He helps me place the baby in the bassinet, his eyes shut tight as he breathes in and out, softly snoring.

  “Houston will be bounding in any minute.” Max warns. “We’ll have to make sure to keep the door shut so he doesn’t wake him.”

  As if on cue, a bouncing poodle mix comes bounding into the room, his tail furiously wagging. Max laughs, “and right on schedule.” He licks my hand, his rough tongue making me laugh. I forgot how much I missed having a pet.

  “I’ll let you get settled.” Max pats his dog on the head. “I’ll take Houston with me.”

  I pause, anxious. “Do you mind leaving the door open?”

  “No problem.”

  “I just don’t want to feel stuck,” I explain.

  “I know.” Max gives me a reassuring smile, his even teeth and laid-back demeanor a welcome change of pace from my former life where I was always kept in.

  It’s weird getting acquainted to a house instead of just four small walls that doubled as my prison cell. Being able to walk between rooms, shower or bathe when I want, consistently go outside, and not refer to Max as ‘sir’ are all changes from patterns that became ingrained.

  At first, the large rooms overwhelm me, my eyes dart to see what’s going on outside of my space.

  The ability to breathe fresh air anytime I want is incredible. The first rainstorm enthralls me. Max watches as I let myself out the back patio, the sound of the pounding almost cathartic. I stand outside in the middle of it with no protection as it pours, no umbrella or raincoat, letting it wash over me, the drops tickling my face, soaking my hair. It’s like a cleanse to wash away all the bad.

  Max stays inside with the baby, his eyes fixedly watching me, but different than how The Mole would stare at me. Max looks at me with concern, opposite of the hostility The Mole had.

  It’s amazing to be able to walk outside, exercise my legs, and watch my body heal. At least the flesh that can. The internal wounds will take time, if they ever close, and there will be permanent scars. For instance, the idea of being on the sand and near the surf terrifies me. Fearful, I don’t wander far from the house, lying in the hammock, swaying by the lemon and orange trees in the backyard, rocking my unnamed baby boy.

  One night, I’m fast asleep, or so I think, when I feel hands tugging on me. “Stop,” I scream. “You’re hurting me, stop touching me, no.”

  Houston barks, and wet licks cross my cheek.

  “Bridget, wake up,” a soft voice says above me.

  Flicking my eyes open, I’m drenched in sweat, the bed damp underneath me. Disoriented, I gaze around. Houston jumps on the bed, trying to nuzzle his way underneath my arm.

  “What’s happening?”

  “You were having a nightmare.” Max switches on the bedside lamp. “You have them almost every night. They’re more like night terrors.”

  “Would it help if I started shutting the door?” I swallow. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to wake you up.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m concerned about you.” He purses his lips, “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you if you’re in danger.”

  He struggles to find the right words. “I want to help…I just don’t know how and it makes me uneasy, that I don’t know enough about your situation to know what to do.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult.” I pull myself into a sitting position, my back resting against the pillows. “I can leave.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” He sighs. “I care about what happens to you and the baby.”

  “I appreciate your...”

  “Stop,” he holds up a hand. “Stop thanking me. I just want to help. But I need you to trust me to help you.”

  “I can’t be helped,” I mutter.

  His eyes disagree with my statement, they smolder with intensity. “Why won’t you name the baby?” he asks. “Don’t you think he deserves to have a name?”

  Staring open-mouthed, I tug at a loose string on the edge of the comforter. “I do.”

  He waits for me to continue my sentence.

  “But I don’t know if I can keep him.” I shrug, uncomfortable with discussing this personal struggle out loud. I’ve been questioning my role and ability as a mother, the stretch of time I’ve been in hiding has deemed me inadequate to care
for a baby, and I have no education, no resources. I’ve thought of adoption, putting aside my own selfish wants for the better of the little boy. I not only want him to have a good life, I need him to.

  He looks at me, baffled, as I meet his eyes, the brown of the irises staring at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You want to give him up for adoption?” He puts his hands on his knees. “Because you were…violated?”

  My mouth twists in a grimace. “Never mind.” The baby starts crying, ending our conversation. I rise to grab him, his wails carrying across the large bedroom.

  After that, Max learns to be careful not to press me. I’m easily distraught if I feel cornered or forced to re-live all the memories in a short span of time. I know he has questions –

  I can tell by the tight line his lips become, his inquisitive glances, and his well-intentioned but sometimes intrusive questions.

  The one thing I don’t have difficulty asking about is the Internet and how to use it. When I ask Max about the Google search tab on his laptop, he looks at me like I have three heads. Google was born in ‘98. The Internet was still dial-up and slow, social media wasn’t a regular or big thing. Cell phones were still becoming mainstream.

  I ask about Myspace and Max falls out of his chair, asking me how old I really am. I’ve only piqued his curiosity more with my questions and lack of computer knowledge. He shows me basic functions, then finds a free class at the public library for me to take one afternoon. He’s arranged child care for the baby so I can attend.

  The class is on the latest advances in computer technology and an introduction to the Internet. It’s a crash course that lasts three hours, advantageous to someone who’s been confined to a room for a decade. Everyone in the group is seventy plus, most are learning about email and Google.

  The librarian looks at me with curiosity, her experience not with someone who’s twenty-seven. Her eyes widen more when she has to help me set up a free email account.

  Afterwards, I go home and boot Max’s laptop up. I Google my disappearance, wondering if there’s any information dating back to 1998.

  There’s more articles than I thought I would find available. I’m impressed, my decade of hibernation kept me technologically stunted. I make a list of people who show up as witnesses, the places we went during our short stay, a timeline that’s somewhat faulty due to alcohol and roofies.

  Blair.

  My heartstrings tug at the thought of her.

  She’s not in California as The Mole told me, at least, not according to any records I find.

  No social media accounts come up for her.

  I stop searching. If I don’t find Bridget, I can’t have my family back. It hurts too much to be so close but unable to reach out. I push the loneliness out of the way, focused on finding her.

  Bridget Masterson.

  Googling her name, I check and see what information comes up, if it’s legitimate. I’m not sure how real what I’m reading is or if I’m being scammed.

  I know so much about Bridget, her stories might as well be mine, She was all I had to home in on during our time together in the room. She went to school at Kansas State when she suddenly disappeared, a native of the state. I can corroborate this.

  Photos show a happy-go-lucky girl, one like I used to be. She’s an only child. Her parents cry in pain about the trip she never came home from. Their tearful pleas for her safe return appear on the YouTube channel.

  The Sandlot? Hmm…unfamiliar. I wonder if it’s close to The Ocean Club.

  I have to go back to the bar.

  But first, I have some research to do.

  A man visiting from San Diego named Peter Riggs was questioned right after my disappearance. He found Blair passed out on the beach. I cover my mouth with my hand, reading his interview with a local newspaper. He told the reporter that he went to get her something to drink and she was gone when he came back. He was worried at first that she went missing too.

  My disappearance made the front page for a couple days, then subtly made its way to the back, small paragraphs smashed between natural disasters and local happenings. The caveat was always that I disappeared after a night of binge drinking and could’ve run away with a boyfriend.

  Right. At seventeen, on vacation with my sister.

  The investigators talked to the employees at the bar, but they denied seeing us. The owner said he didn’t have cameras, there’s no mention of the fake IDs, only that our names didn’t ring a bell. All they would share without a warrant was that Will had an eighty-nine dollar bar tab from that night and was with two girls, Leslie and Haley.

  I’m curious to hear what Peter Riggs has to say.

  I set up a Facebook account, using a dummy name and the email account I made in class.

  Disbelief furrows my brow as I scroll through tons of the same likeness. There’re multiple Peter Riggs. Without having any idea what he looks like, I can only guess his age. He was on vacation with his wife and college-age children, so he must be at least mid-sixties or early seventies by now.

  What if he’s not alive?

  The article mentioned he was jogging on the beach when he found Blair.

  I scroll through various runners’ groups using his name, nothing.

  Looking in San Diego, I Google his name and scan through the options. It amazes me how one search engine can pull up so much information on any person. This would’ve made my history papers a cinch to complete.

  One Peter is a retired teacher, another a police officer, one an internal med doctor.

  The retired teacher’s deceased. I find the obituary, breathing a sigh of relief when it says he had no kids of his own, only parakeets.

  I doubt it’s a police officer, since I figured the article would have mentioned his profession as law enforcement.

  Clicking on Peter Riggs in San Diego, California, I pull up his specialty clinic.

  There’s a man in his mid-forties on the website. My heart sinks, but I decide it couldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe they're related?

  There’s a phone number listed. I sit back on the floor against the bed, letting it ring as I pray this isn’t a wild goose chase. Houston comes and lays beside me, his head on my knee.

  A woman with a high-pitched voice answers. “Hi, Riggs, Foster, and Chaparral Internists. How can we help you?”

  “Hi, I wanted to speak to Dr. Riggs?”

  “He doesn’t start seeing patients for another hour. I don’t believe he’s in the office yet, but let me check.” She holds a hand over the receiver. I hear muffled yelling, her voice comes back on the line. “Nope, should be here in the next thirty minutes or so.”

  “Do you know if by any chance his father is around?”

  “Dr. Riggs?”

  “Yeah – is he also a doctor?”

  “He was a dentist.”

  “Was?” I clench my hands around the receiver.

  “He’s retired, lives in La Jolla,”

  I exhale. “It’s urgent I get in touch with him. Can you please have Dr. Riggs call me as soon as he gets in?

  She pauses. “He has a full schedule today, but I can certainly give him the message.”

  “Thank you, just tell him it’s about a missing person.” I leave the house phone number and hang up.

  Expecting to not hear from him for a couple of days if ever, I’m surprised when my cell rings with an unknown caller forty minutes later. I’ve just come back from throwing a load of laundry in the washer, something I had to be taught to do with the savvy machine Max has.

  “Hi, this is Peter Riggs calling for Blair...”

  “Hi Peter, my name is Blair Bellamy. I met your father on the beach in 1998 while on vacation.” I hastily swallow the word. An unexplained disappearance on a beach that results in your life changing doesn’t justify the word ‘vacation.’

  I explain the situation to him. “I just wanted to contact your father, see if he has any details or recollec
tion of that day. I want to follow up as she still hasn't been found.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember us going to Oahu and Maui then. Sure, let me give you his number. Can you wait a couple minutes? I just want to give him a heads-up you’ll be calling.”

  “Sure,” I say. “And thanks.”

  I pace the bare floors, the hardwood squeaking as I nervously walk off my anxiety. Houston stares at me with his big brown eyes. What if he doesn’t remember my sister?

  There’s no reason he would. To him, we were dumb teenagers making stupid decisions.

  Giving Dr. Riggs a fifteen-minute head start to talk to his dad, I dial the number.

  He picks up on the first ring. “I’ve been expecting a call all these years,” he whistles.

  I’m bewildered. “You have? No one’s ever contacted you?”

  “No, only the news.”

  I pretend to be Blair, acting like I’m still hunting for my long-lost sister.

  “I wondered what happened to you,” he muses. “It was such a weird situation.”

  “Did you see the articles on my missing sister?”

  “Yeah, but we left two days later. I left the police a message that I found you passed out on the beach, but no one returned my call. I figured they either found her or didn’t think it was necessary.” He sighs. “I should’ve kept up on it, but I came back home and I’m sorry...life got in the way.”

  There’s a lull.

  Peter mentions the ‘roofies.’

  I’m appalled to read police were concerned my sister was raped. I might’ve been trapped, but I didn't want her to have the same fate. The other news channels mention she was drugged. A test upheld it was Rohypnol. “That makes sense with how disoriented you were,” he says. “A young girl passed out on the beach is more than a night of drinking.”

  “Is there anything you remember that you would have told the police now?”

  “You were topless. Had lost your shoes and purse.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” I lie.

  “That day I know you got spooked because you thought I was turning you in to the police. I just want you to know – I was only calling the Coast Guard office. If your sister drowned, I wanted them to know she was potentially at risk.”