“That’s them,” I said with a nod.
Jerry and Roy were shuffling down the steps in heavy workmen’s boots, lighting cigarettes and swigging Red Bulls. Jerry grabbed the keys from Roy, there was a brief argument over who would drive and then they went around the back of the trailer to where the van was parked. A moment later, the van drove away. Neither of them even glanced in our direction.
“Okay,” I said, pulling Tom’s hat off my head and opening the door of the truck. “You keep lookout and I’ll search the trailer. Text me if you see them coming.”
“Wait! Why am I the lookout?” Tom asked.
I shrugged and hopped out of the truck. “Because you don’t fall asleep on the job,” I said, shutting the door behind me. The real reason was that I knew more about Helen’s murder than Tom did, and I didn’t want him to miss any key pieces of evidence. But I knew that pointing that out would only cause an argument.
I meandered over to the trailer, casually glancing around to make sure no one was watching me. Then I ambled up the steps and pushed the door open. In a stroke of luck, the door was so old and warped with moisture that it hadn’t closed properly.
I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. The trailer was dank, and I was immediately assaulted with the overpowering smell of stale cigarette smoke and wet mold. There were empty cans of beer and overflowing ashtrays everywhere, and the floor was littered with graying socks and crumpled jeans. I quickly scanned the floor for the missing mitten, just in case, but of course it wasn’t there.
The addition held a card table covered in empty bottles and sticky playing cards. Beyond that was a couch, which had been half made up with sheets and blankets. It was possible that both men lived here, then, which made searching for evidence easier. If they had killed Helen, and there were clues to be found, they would probably be in this trailer.
I began to search the cabinets, finding nothing but shot glasses and mugs from Bass Pro Shops. I didn’t really know what I was looking for. Helen had been dumped in those woods naked, so any women’s clothing would be important. I also had an inkling—probably from watching too much TV—that some murderers kept trophies or took pictures of their victims, although I didn’t relish the thought of finding gruesome photos. Still, one couldn’t be picky about their murder evidence.
The trailer contained surprisingly little stuff, and I quickly exhausted the kitchen cabinets, the clothing on the floor and the storage area above the bed. I found evidence that these men were big drinkers (the empties everywhere), horny (a couple of boxes of condoms and a stack of Playboys) and major fans of hard rock (the Iron Maiden T-shirts on the floor), but nothing to prove that they were killers.
I opened the closet between the bedroom and the kitchen. Inside was a box full of hunting knives and two crossbows. They were hunters, of course. I knew all of this stuff could be completely innocent, but it did seem like a lot of weaponry. I glanced at the knives and wondered if they’d been carrying them when they found me in the parking lot. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
I was searching through the box, gingerly pushing past the crossbows, when I spotted it. A small black leather satchel shaped like an envelope. I extracted it from the box and opened it. Inside was a slim stack of pictures, taken in the summer, judging by the sparkling lakes and denim booty shorts on the girls. The trailer I was standing in wasn’t in any of the shots.
The pictures all featured girls in various states of undress partying with Jerry, Roy and some of their friends. The girls looked like teenagers, even though their heavy makeup seemed a bid to look older. I flipped past shot after shot of naked girls passed out on beds and topless girls with heavy-lidded eyes perched on Jerry’s lap. The girls all had glassy expressions and sweat-dampened hair. I flashed back to the offer the men had made to me in the parking lot. They clearly had some experience getting underage girls drunk. I thought of Chloe and that terrible night when Matt and Devon had sex with her at the party. That night, Chloe had looked just as helpless as these girls.
I felt nauseous, but I made sure to examine every picture, looking for Helen. She wasn’t there. None of these photos seemed recent, although some of the indoor ones could have been taken at any time of year; there was no way to tell. I was just tucking the envelope back into the box when my phone buzzed.
“They’re back!” Tom’s text read. But it wasn’t necessary. I could hear the car door slam and voices arguing. I froze for a second, my feet rooted to the spot as I considered what the men would do when they found me with their box of weapons and collection of incriminating pictures. The sound of feet thudding up the steps snapped me out of my paralysis and got me moving faster than I would have thought possible.
I stepped into the closet and shut the door quickly, my calves brushing against the hunting box behind me. The closet door folded in the middle, and I could see through the crack between the hinged panels. At first, I could hear nothing over the sound of my own rapid pulse in my ears. The fear made me queasy, and I felt my stomach clench as I realized how serious this situation could turn. I was trapped in the trailer of two dangerous men in the middle of nowhere. Tom was outside, but what could he do against two men defending their property? It would take a long time for the police to get out here. Too much time.
Jerry and Roy came shouldering into the trailer carrying multiple cases of beer. Tom and I had assumed that they were going to the Trapper and would be out of the house for hours. Instead, they’d been on nothing more than a beer run, a quick jaunt into town before settling in for the night. I really wasn’t having much luck lately.
“Just leave them on the counter,” Jerry said, hefting his two cases up with a grunt. I could see the men’s plaid-flannel backs moving around in front of the door crack. They were barely two feet in front of me. I tried to slow my breathing, afraid that some hunter’s instinct in them would sense the presence of cornered prey.
“Want one?” Roy asked as Jerry moved toward the couch.
“Yeah, and grab the weed too,” Jerry said.
I watched Roy grab two cans in his meaty paws and pull a baggie of weed out of a kitchen cabinet. I shut my eyes as he turned around, scared he would notice the watery blue eyeball staring at him through the crack in the closet door. I held my breath as he moved past, his shoulder brushing the door and causing it to rattle.
The men sat down on the couch, leaving me with a view of nothing more than their forearms and the edge of the card table. I watched two sets of hairy arms crack open beers, the sound like a belch slipping from an embarrassed dinner guest. Then one set of hands began to roll a joint, the large fingers clumsily dropping the rolling papers.
I took the time to text Tom, my hand shaking as I shielded the light of the cell phone from the crack in the closet door. “I’m hiding,” I wrote. “I don’t know what to do.” I felt completely vulnerable, just a stupid teenage girl in over her head. I slowly reached behind me, feeling for the box of weapons while trying not to make any noise. My fingers brushed across the handle of a knife. Slowly, almost painfully so, I pulled it out of the box. I was terrified that the weapons would all clank together, or, even worse, that I would inadvertently set off the crossbows. I didn’t start breathing again until the knife was in my hand and a glimpse through the closet crack proved that no one had heard me. I wasn’t sure if the hunting knife really made any difference—it was hard to imagine me stabbing anyone, and a lot easier to imagine me being attacked by one of the hunters—but it was comforting to hold.
“The girls coming over?” Roy asked.
“Yeah, any second,” Jerry said. “I can’t wait to see her. She’s so fucking worth it, Roy, I don’t care what you think.”
“But what if her old man finds out? He’ll have us fucking killed; he’d just ask one of the bikers that hang around that place.”
“Jesus, he owns a bar, not the Mafia. I’m not gonna be scared shitless by a bartender,” Jerry said. The joint was ready and I heard a lighter click.
> “But there’s plenty of other pussy at the Trap. Why does it have to be her?” Roy asked, his voice tight as he held in the smoke.
“She’s something else. No girl’s as hot, or as much of a freak in the sheets,” Jerry said.
This scintillating conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door, and then two women were shuffling into the trailer. I balled my hands into fists and mouthed obscenities. I needed fewer people home, not more! What was next, a kegger?
My phone vibrated, and I carefully checked the screen. Tom had texted: “More people arriving. Hang tight, I’ll figure something out.” I clenched the hunting knife harder, trying to quell the waves of panic rolling through me.
“Hey, babe,” Roy called from the couch. “Help yourself to a beer.”
The two women moved in front of the closet, and I realized with surprise that I recognized one of them. It was the waitress from the Trapper. Suddenly, I understood what Jerry and Roy had been talking about when they said they didn’t want to ruin the bar because of a piece of pussy. Jerry was dating the waitress, who was also dating the bar owner. I tried to tell myself that none of that meant they weren’t Helen’s murderers, but it certainly didn’t strengthen the case against them.
I didn’t recognize the other woman, but she looked like all of the other females I’d seen in the Trapper, middle-aged with bushy hair and a Harley-Davidson tank top revealing drooping bra straps. I watched Roy amble over to her and give her butt a lusty squeeze. She laughed and I rolled my eyes. I wondered if these women would like Jerry and Roy so much if they knew the things they did with teenage girls.
Everyone went back to the couch and passed the joint around as they drank. I stared hungrily at their beers, my mouth as dry and papery as a hornet’s nest. I also needed to use the bathroom and knew that if I didn’t get out of this closet soon, I was going to have to wet myself. The thought of silently peeing myself in the closet was a depressing possibility. Detective work really was getting less glamorous by the day.
“Fuck, I really missed this inside,” Jerry said, finishing his beer and cracking open another one.
“Yeah, no booze, no pot, no girls. It’s bullshit,” Roy said.
“What, you guys didn’t like prison?” the waitress said sarcastically. “That’s the point, fuckhead!”
“Hey, fuck off,” Jerry said, his voice turning dark and serious. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about so why don’t you shut your mouth?”
“Okay, chill,” the waitress said nervously. I gritted my teeth, suddenly concerned for her. Jerry seemed like he had a vicious temper, and I didn’t know what the others would do if he lashed out at her. Jerry sprang up from the couch, and I watched him pace back and forth in front of the others, my vision still obscured by the angle of the closet.
“Don’t tell me to fucking chill! You’ve got no fucking idea. A bar fight gets out of hand and suddenly we’re locked up for six months? September to March, Roy and I are stuck in that shithole?”
“But we’re out now,” Roy said, trying to placate Jerry. “First of March, we walked outta there and we ain’t going back ever.”
I considered the photos of underage drunk girls and prayed that Roy was wrong. Those pictures had all been taken in the summer. Was the only reason they stopped because the two of them had been in jail? I could only hope they would find themselves back inside soon.
My cell phone buzzed and I glanced down, forgetting to shield the screen. The text from Tom said, “Get ready to run.” When I looked back up, I saw Jerry standing in the kitchen, a strange look on his face. He had cocked his head and was staring at the closet. I felt everything in the world grow still as I realized, with frightening certainty, that he had seen the light from my phone. He may not have understood what it was, but he was about to find out.
Jerry slowly walked toward the closet, his footsteps as heavy as my heart, which was pounding painfully. I could hear his breathing, spitty and rattled from all the smoking. I could even smell the cigarettes and pot smoke on his skin. Jerry rested his hand on the closet door and I gripped the knife tighter, desperately trying to decide how I could get out of this situation, how to avoid the inevitable.
Suddenly, there was a loud smashing sound outside, followed by the noise of a car alarm going off.
“What the fuck?” Roy asked, getting to his feet and looking out the back window. “Jerry? It’s the fucking van!”
Jerry swore and all four of them ran outside, their feet thundering down the steps. I stood in the closet for an extra second, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t know how long they would be behind the house, or whether any of them would spot me coming out the front door. But I didn’t have a choice; they wouldn’t be outside forever, and I couldn’t stay in this closet any longer. Eventually Jerry would remember to check in here, and then I would be stuck.
Saying silent prayers, I lurched out the open front door and quietly moved down the steps. I could hear them talking angrily behind the house, and I could even see the back of the waitress, who was standing much closer to the road than the others. There was nothing to do but run to the next trailer across open ground, hoping she wouldn’t turn around or walk back toward the front of the trailer.
I put my head down and ran, any conscious thoughts blotted out by the white heat of terror. I waited for the inevitable shouts as they noticed me, but they never came. Then I was behind the next trailer, and I could see Tom’s truck parked down the road. He must have moved it before he created the distraction. I ran over to it and climbed in, my hands scrabbling to shut the door as Tom drove away. I had never been happier to see anyone in my life.
“Did they see you?” Tom asked as we bounced down the rough road that connected to the highway.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, my voice high and wild with adrenaline. “What did you do?”
“Pitched a rock through their van window and ran like hell,” Tom said.
“Not exactly a master plan, but it worked,” I said, rubbing my sweaty face with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“What’s that?” Tom asked, pointing at my lap. I glanced down and realized I was still holding the hunting knife.
“Oh…I grabbed it when I was hiding. I didn’t realize I was still carrying it. But I’m not going back to return it,” I said with a laugh.
“Is it, like, proof or something? Did you find anything in there that connects them to Helen or Chloe?” Tom asked as the truck pulled onto the highway. He punched the accelerator and we took off down the road, my heartbeat dropping as the miles between me and Jerry and Roy increased.
“They didn’t do it,” I said quietly, realizing the implication of what Jerry and Roy had said to the women. “They couldn’t have done it.”
“Why?” Tom asked.
“They were in prison all winter,” I said. “They’re scumbags, but they didn’t do this.”
“Damn it. So this was a big waste of time,” Tom said mournfully. I glanced at him and couldn’t help noticing how good he looked in profile. He had saved me today, and I found myself briefly fantasizing about how I could thank him. I blushed and averted my gaze, staring at the hilt of the hunting knife.
“Not a total waste,” I said, waggling the hunting knife at him. “I’m now totally prepared in case the zombies come.”
Tom laughed and I turned on the radio. We listened to music in amiable silence until I felt him reach out and take my hand. It was funny. I was holding a giant dagger in my right hand and Tom’s hand in my left, but I knew which one made me feel safer.
Chapter Twenty–Four
March 24, 2006
Soon it was Friday. I couldn’t have been more relieved. It had been a crazy week and I wanted to do nothing all weekend but curl up on the couch and watch daytime television. I wasn’t done with Helen’s murder, but I knew I needed a couple of days and a good night’s sleep before I’d feel capable of continuing. Jerry and Roy had been a complete waste of time. It felt like I’d taken
three steps back in the investigation.
As I stood at my locker, I felt the promise of Friday afternoon in the looseness of my shoulders and the lightness of my legs. That sensation cut through the dull sluggishness of my sleep-deprived mind. I was putting myself on vacation.
Suddenly, I felt a dainty hand poke my back. I turned around and found Taylor Sullivan standing behind me. She was nervously smoothing the tips of her hair, the neurotic habit of choice for pretty girls. It was as if they were constantly improving themselves, whereas normal people’s tics (like nail-biting) engineered new flaws.
“Hey, Jenny…,” Taylor said, elongating my name and rolling her eyes in a way that suggested she was about to launch into a long-winded explanation of something tedious. Of course, that was just her voice, rendering even the most obvious sentence ambiguous.
“Hey,” I said shortly. The last time we’d talked, she’d told me about Helen’s body being found. Taylor had never been a bearer of good news.
“Look, I know we haven’t really been hanging out lately, but I just wanted to be a friend…,” Taylor began, crossing her arms. I frowned and shut my locker door.
“I don’t actually think we’ve hung out since the fourth grade. So yeah, not lately…what’s up?” I asked sarcastically. Taylor rolled her eyes again; apparently, a seven-year gap was insignificant. I could only assume the post-gymnastics Disney marathons would resume any day now.
“Jenny, we’re just all really worried about you. Like, that you’re losing your mind or something,” she said seriously, her words reedy and clipped. I said nothing and she continued. “Ever since, you know, Chloe, you’ve been hanging out with some really weird guys. Like a freshman? From the reserve? And Tom Grey, who’s totally going to, like, shoot up the school someday. And I wouldn’t want you to become one of those girls, who go looking for attention from, like, whatever guy will give it to them.”
Apparently, you could go through life invisible, evaporating bit by bit, as long as you didn’t stand out for the wrong reasons. But I was starting to believe that there were no wrong reasons. Maybe everything good started with paying attention to others.
The Lives of Desperate Girls Page 15
