by J. D. Barker
“I didn’t want to shock you. I don’t want to hurt you. Please don’t make me hurt you again,” the man said. “You can have the clothes back when we’re done. It’s better this way, you’ll see.”
Lili understood what would come next, and she tried to mentally prepare herself.
The man wrapped one arm around her back and the other under her knees and lifted her from the ground. Although he appeared sick, he was surprisingly strong. He lifted her over the freezer filled with warm water and gently lowered her inside. Lili was five-two. Her toes brushed the far side as her legs drifted out, flattening. He held her up at the shoulders, keeping her face above the water.
“Warm, isn’t it? Nice.”
The warm water was oddly comforting; it felt like slipping beneath the surface of a pool, allowing the water to hold you as you drift along. Lili noticed the feeling returning to her fingers, her arms, the warmth massaging her limbs back to life.
“Close your eyes, relax,” he said in a soothing tone, his lisp barely catching. Calm. “Take in a deep breath, a nice, long breath.”
Lili did as he said, not because he told her to, but because she wanted to. She allowed her lips to part and pulled in the basement air, allowed it to fill her lungs, a breath like those she learned in yoga class, a cleansing breath, deep and full.
“Now let it out slowly, feel the air leave your body,” he said in a whisper. “Feel every bit of it.”
Lili released the—
The man pushed at her shoulders and plunged her into the water with such force, her head banged on the bottom of the tank. Her legs kicked and her arms flailed. Her fingers caught at the top edge for one brief second before the smooth plastic slipped from her grasp.
Lili could hold her breath for a long time, almost two minutes the last time someone timed her. But that only worked when she filled her lungs with fresh air first, when she was prepared. She hadn’t filled her lungs, she’d emptied them, just as the man asked, and when he pushed her beneath the surface she inhaled instead, her body’s attempt at grasping for air. Instead of air, she gulped down water and immediately coughed, expelling it even before her head hit the bottom, expelling the water only to inhale more. The water filled her throat, her lungs, resulting in a pain so severe, Lili thought she might implode. When she stopped kicking, when she stopped flailing, the pain went away, and for one brief second Lili thought she would be okay, she thought her body had somehow found a way to survive on water, and she went still. She saw the man looking down at her from above with those gray, bloodshot eyes, his mouth agape. He was distorted through the water, but she could see him. Then everything went black, and she saw nothing at all.
12
Clair
Day 2 • 9:13 a.m.
Clair and Sophie Rodriguez pulled up to Lili Davies’s house on South King Drive and parked Clair’s green Honda Civic behind two news vans. Both had their satellite antennae raised, but there was no sign of the reporters or the camera operators.
A light snow filled the air, leaving the sky a hazy white.
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” Clair said, rubbing her hands together.
“I never understood that expression,” Sophie replied, eyeing the vans.
“Witches get no love.”
“Oh, I know that feeling.”
Clair glanced over at her. “What happened to that guy you were dating, James, John, Joe—”
“Jessie. Jessie Grabber.”
Clair chuckled. “Really, that’s his name? Grabber?”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
“I’m sorry. It’s a bit high school to make fun of a name, but come on, Grabber? No sneak attack down at Lover’s Lane with a name like Grabber.”
“Well, he was anything but. I think that was part of the problem. I was hoping for a little something, but he was nothing but a gentleman. All the way on through date number four I got nothing but a peck on the cheek. A girl’s got needs.”
“Like witches.”
Sophie nodded. “Like witches.”
“I’m still not warm.” Clair frowned.
“Me either.”
“Witch tit.”
“Witch tit.” Sophie shivered.
Clair shuffled in her seat, looking up and down the street, then pointed at the graystone beside them. “That’s Lili Davies’s house, right?”
“Yes, 748.”
“And her school is where?”
Sophie pointed out her window. “Four blocks east of here. You can nearly see it.”
The snow shifted from tiny flakes to something a little larger than Clair’s favorite breakfast cereal, and her body gave an involuntary quiver. She zipped her jacket all the way up, wrapped a heavy-knit purple scarf around her neck, and donned a fluffy pink cap. When she turned back to Sophie, the woman had done the same. “You look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”
Sophie smirked. “You look like Willy Wonka’s long-lost sister.”
“Perfect. Let’s do this.” Clair tugged at the door handle and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The snow was about two inches deep and still coming down, flying at her at an angle. She jogged in place for a second as Sophie rounded the car, her breath leaving a white plume in the air. The two women started walking east on Sixty-Ninth Street, hunched against the snow.
They crossed Vernon Avenue, and Clair stopped, staring ahead. “If I wanted to grab a girl, that seems like a good spot.”
She stared at the dark tunnels one block up where the Skyway crossed over Sixty-Ninth Street, three lanes of traffic running in each direction. At approximately fifteen feet per lane, that meant she was looking at a space about one hundred feet wide with only a small break at the median in the middle. Although three lights burned under each section, they offered little to break up the gloom.
Clair looked up at the sky, searching for the sun. “What time is sunrise?”
Sophie tilted her head, a line appearing between her brows. “About seven or so.”
“So our girl made this walk about two hours earlier in the day, a little after the sun poked out. If it came out at all. This stretch is fairly deserted now, but that may be different closer to school time. Still, though, someone could easily park around here, maybe feign a breakdown, then grab her when she walked by. The tunnel would be my bet; everything else is fairly wide open.”
They had reached the start of the underpass. Sophie pressed a hand to the concrete. “This is a good neighborhood. There’s not a bit of graffiti on these walls and no sign of homeless activity. I can’t imagine someone could stand around very long without getting noticed.”
They followed the sidewalk under the Skyway, their footfalls echoing off the walls. When they came out the other side, Sophie pointed. “There’s her school.”
Wilcox Academy was a private school housed in what appeared to be a repurposed factory or warehouse building. The red brick façade was immaculate. It could have been built a year ago. The parking lot beside it was posted FACULTY ONLY and was full. A public lot sat across the street, most likely utilized by the students.
Clair pulled open the large glass door, and both women stepped inside, a wave of heat wafting out. “This makes me want to hop back in the car and drive straight to Florida.”
“Can I help you?”
Clair turned to find an elderly security guard sitting at a table to their left. She took a step forward, and a buzzer went off.
The guard pointed toward the entrance. “Metal detector built into the door frame.”
Clair showed the man her badge. “I’m Detective Norton with Chicago Metro, and this is Sophie Rodriguez with Missing Children. We’re investigating the disappearance of one of your students, Lili Davies.”
The security guard’s smile fell away. “Heard about that on the way in. I’m so sorry for her family. She’s a good girl.”
Sophie’s head tilted slightly. “You know her?”
He nodded. “This is a small school, only about two hundred
kids total. I see each of them every day, hard not to get to know them. I’m former Pittsburgh PD, retired about six years ago. If there is anything I can do to help, I’m here for you.”
“What can you tell us about her?” Clair asked.
“Like I said, never gave me any trouble. Usually got here around seven thirty or so. Many of the students hang out across the street there in the lot until first bell, but not her. She’d try to beat the crowd and get up to class. Not too many friends.” He waved a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, she was well liked, just a bit of an introvert. Could always tell there were big plans cooking behind her eyes. Always thinking, that one.”
Sophie glanced out the window at the cars across the street. “Did she ever ride in with anyone?”
He shook his head. “If she did, I never noticed. If I saw her outside, she was usually coming up the walk the same way you did.”
Clair pulled off her hat and scarf. “What about Gabrielle Deegan? Do you know her?”
The corner of his mouth turned up, and he brushed at his chin. “Gabby can be a bit rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl too. The two of them are together a lot, a bit of yin and yang thing there.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked down the hallway, then turned back to them, lowering his voice. “I have to be a bit hard on her, you know? Being the law here. But I see her for what she is: just a girl looking for some attention. She’s not fooling me none. She’d never admit it—in fact, I bet she’d outright deny it—but I think she may be one of the smartest students here. I think she acts out because she’s bored, not because she’s a troublemaker. She’ll come into her own one day. Until then, it’s my job to steer her away from big trouble and let her get away with a bit of little trouble, find that balance. Every class has at least one.”
“Do you know where we can find her?”
“I’ll call upstairs, see if I can get someone to bring her down for you,” he replied, reaching for the phone on his table. “Watch your wallets and jewelry.” He winked.
13
Porter
Day 2 • 9:14 a.m.
Porter and Nash stood at the Reynoldses’ back door, staring out into their yard.
About fifty feet out, toward the left corner under a large birch tree, a snowman stared back at them.
The beady black eyes glistened under a stovepipe hat. The snowman was tall, at least six and a half feet, maybe more, the body thick and wide, glistening with ice, a red rose at his snowy lapel.
The arms were fashioned from tree branches, each capped with a black glove. The right hand held the handle of a wooden broom. A corncob pipe jutted from the corner of its makeshift mouth, and dark blood trickled down from an icy neck.
Snow fell, filling the air with a white haze. The scene was so odd, so picturesque. Porter felt he was looking at the page of a childhood storybook, not a real yard. There was a swing set off to the far right and woods behind the yard.
“Nobody in your family made that?” Nash asked.
Mrs. Reynolds had her arms wrapped around her son. “No.”
The single word escaped her lips, but she didn’t take her eyes off it, this stranger in her yard.
Porter tugged at his zipper and reached inside his coat, retrieving his Glock.
Brady’s eyes went wide. “Whoa, is he going to kill the snowman, Mom?”
“I’m not going to hurt the snowman. I’m worried he may try to hurt me,” Porter said quietly. “Did you see anyone else out there? Anybody at all?”
“No, sir.”
“How about you and your mother go back into the living room for a few minutes? Think you can take care of your mom while my partner and I check this out?”
Brady nodded.
Porter looked from the boy to his mother. “Go along now.”
When they were gone, he turned to Nash. “Stay here and keep a bead on those trees back there.”
Nash withdrew his own weapon, his eyes scanning the woods.
Porter stepped out the back door, into the falling snow. From somewhere in the back of his mind, an old children’s song began to play.
Small footprints littered the newly fallen snow, crisscrossing the yard near the door, then petering down to a single set ending at the snowman. Porter followed the footprints as best he could, taking small strides so he could place his feet where the child had rather than create another trail. Snow had fallen most of the night, a few inches at least, but it seemed inconceivable that someone could build such a thing without leaving any tracks. His eyes drifted to the broom perched in the snowman’s hand. He supposed it was possible that whoever did this used the broom to sweep away their tracks, but that didn’t explain how they got the broom back into his hand without leaving a final trail. Porter also noted that their yard was fenced. A four-foot chainlink. The gate leading to the front yard was open.
Porter saw a faint trail leading from that gate to the snowman. Not footprints, more of an indent, as if something heavy had been dragged from the front of the house to the back, to here.
He stood in front of the snowman.
It towered over him by nearly a foot. From this angle, the smile upon its face, made from tiny pieces of a broken branch, looked more like a smirk.
Porter remembered building hundreds of these as a kid—pushing the snowball along until it became a snow boulder, too heavy to push at all. Normally, a snowman is constructed by starting with a large snow boulder at the base, then placing another smaller one on top of that to form the torso, then another at the very top to take the place of a head.
This snowman was not constructed that way.
The snow on this snowman had been packed in place. Someone took the time to sculpt the snow into the shape of a snowman rather than use the far faster traditional method.
All of these thoughts rushed through Porter’s mind in an instant as he glanced over the creation from top to bottom, his eyes finally landing on the dark red at the neck—dark red seeping through the white like a giant snow cone.
Porter snapped a branch of a nearby oak and, using the splinted end, carefully plucked at the snow beneath the darkest red spot, where it congealed at the base of the neck. Whoever built this had sprayed the snow with water as they worked, causing it to harden into ice—another trick Porter learned as a child. If made properly, a snowman would be as sturdy as a stone statue, standing tall for the remainder of the winter. If you failed to harden the snow, chunks would break away with the first sun. By midafternoon, half your work would be piled at the ground.
Porter used the stick to break through the ice and to scrape away the packed snow, digging deep enough to reveal the torn neck of the man beneath.
14
Lili
Day 2 • 9:15 a.m.
It hurt.
It hurt so bad.
Lili’s body convulsed in one big spasm as her lungs fought to expel water, to cough it out. She inhaled in a quick gasp even though she didn’t want to, she didn’t want to breathe in more water, she didn’t want to die. She did inhale, though, the motion as involuntary as listening, and this time her lungs filled with air. She coughed again, ridding her lungs and throat of more water. This was followed by another gasp.
She was cold.
So cold.
No longer in the water but lying on the concrete floor.
Her eyes snapped open.
The man was above her, his palms pressing down into her chest.
As her eyes met his, he stopped. His eyes went wide, and he leaned in, his stale breath rushing over her face. “What did you see?”
Lili gulped another breath of air and swallowed, then another after that.
“Slow down, you’ll hyperventilate.” He reached for her right hand and pressed his thumb into her wrist. “Your pulse is still a bit irregular, but it will even out. Lie still. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, calming breaths.”
Lili forced her breathing to slow, doing as he said. Sensat
ion returned to her fingertips, to her toes. She was so cold. She began to shiver uncontrollably.
The man reached for the quilt and draped the sour material over her body. “Your body temperature began to drop the moment you died. It will return to normal in a moment. What did you see?”
She tried to blink away the haze from her eyes, but it hurt to try and keep them open. The thin light seemed incredibly bright, hot, burning. When she pinched her eyes shut, she felt a light slap at her cheek.
Died?
“What did you see?” he asked again. He rubbed her arms through the quilt, the friction slowly warming her.
“I . . . I died?” She coughed again, the words scratching at her throat with the last bit of water.
“You drowned. Your heart stopped for a two full minutes before I brought you back. What did you see?”
Lili heard the words, but it took a moment for them to sink in. Her brain was sluggish, thoughts moving slowly, groggily.
Her chest hurt. There was a deep pain at her ribs. She realized he had probably performed CPR to expel the water and kick-start her heart. “I think you broke my ribs.”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her limp body. “Tell me what you saw! You have to tell me now before you forget! Before it goes away!”
The pain at her chest burned like a knife gouging her belly—Lili shrieked.
The man released her, pulled back from her. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You just have to tell me, and this will all be over, just tell me.”
Lili thought about it then, her mind jumping back to the moment she plunged beneath the water, the moment she . . . had she really drowned? She remembered breathing in water, consciousness pulling away. She remembered blackness.
She remembered nothing.
“I didn’t see anything. I think I passed out.”
“You were dead.”
“I . . .” Her words drifted off. She didn’t remember anything at all.
He was staring down at her, his bloodshot eyes wide and wild, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth.
