And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  “They have bathrooms at Kmart,” said the one in the back.”

  “You can wait. We’ll be at the hospital soon.”

  “I gotta go real bad,” the one in the front said. “I’m not kidding.”

  “Just hold it.” All that talk about restrooms made her own bladder threaten to contract.

  Then the one in back, the one in the dress, started to cry.

  “That crying is not necessary,” she warned. “You’re not babies anymore.”

  Then before Marge had even started the engine, the one in front yelled at the top of her lungs, “Help!!!!”

  Marge hurriedly started the engine, checked to make sure the back windows were rolled up, which they were, and turned on the airconditioning to mute the crescendo of yells. Concentrating on her driving, Marge heard snippets from the backseat.

  “You’re a liar!”

  “Take us back!”

  “Stop at a phone. We want to call Grandma.”

  “Go back to the mall.”

  “My dad’s gonna find us.”

  “You’re gonna be in big trouble, lady.”

  That Marge had not liked. She did not like to be called “lady.” She wasn’t going to take disrespect. So she abandoned the plan to stop for cheeseburgers and fries and a shake and headed directly to Holly. Soon the blacktop ran out and the Escort bumped along unpaved roads.

  As she approached the turn off Oakhurst onto Parker, both girls were screaming bloody murder. Marge slowed to a near stop, grabbing the one in front’s arm, and turning to face the one in the back. “Stop that right now! You’re my responsibility now!” To Marge’s horror, the one in front bit her arm, drawing blood, and the one in back yanked hard on her hair. She couldn’t reach the one in back, but she slapped the one in the passenger seat, hard. “You behave or I’m gonna beat the shit out of you!” Nice had not worked. She’d had to go to mean.

  The girls shut up and settled back into their seats and Marge drove the short distance to her driveway, slowing at the approach to make sure that the coast was clear. Monday morning was trash pickup and this was about the time Sunday night that residents would be dragging their plastic bins out to the road. With that ruckus going on in her car, she’d been distracted. She couldn’t swear that no one had seen her. Making her turn, she’d not dared to glance out, fearing someone might appear, catch her eye, and expect her to stop and chat. Marge might live in isolation, but she was not antisocial and she could do chitchat.

  Of course, when Marge turned off Parker road into her dirt driveway, the girls realized that they were not to be reunited with their sister in a hospital. They started to screech louder than ever. Coming to a stop as close as possible to her house, she’d acted quickly, jerking one out of the front seat with one hand and reaching into the backseat for the other one. A girl in each hand, she shoved them toward the door. Both girls were jerking violently, trying to break loose. Too bad, they’d have some scrapes and bruises, something she didn’t want. Shifting both girls’ wrists to one hand, she freed the other hand to unlock the door. She yanked them both inside, locking the door behind her, and dragging them down the basement steps. Once down there, Marge didn’t care how much noise they made.

  Now five days later, Marge fingered her right arm just above the elbow, still sore from where Jessica had bit her. The bruises on her legs where both of them had kicked her were turning a purplish yellow.

  Dwelling on how she’d gotten the girls in the first place seemed to calm Marge, but when she tried to focus on the here and now, that someone must have seen her, she felt numb and queasy, and the pounding in her head got worse. That’s when she’d heard the crunching noise, the wheels of Spanky’s pickup coming up the gravel driveway. If Spanky found the girls, there’d be complications. Those little girls were her responsibility.

  CHAPTER 36

  U.S. Treasury Department Confirms that Ten Big Banks Will Repay Funds.

  — Business News, Friday, June 19

  Keith Franklin did not go home after his forty-eight-hour interrogation at the FBI office on Michigan Avenue. He’d had his share of trouble with the law, but not at the federal level. He wasn’t going to fuck with those bastards. He’d answered their questions, even those that seemed to incriminate him. When the feds cut him loose, he hadn’t had the guts to face his wife. So he headed directly to his mother’s place on Clairmont Avenue on Detroit’s near west side. She still lived near the epicenter of the 1967 Detroit riots, but in a small house rebuilt since the fires had devastated a twenty-by-twenty block area of shops and homes.

  “Go home to Penny,” Daisy Franklin had advised. “You have no right trying to track down Katie Jones. Now look at the trouble you’re in. FBI agents have taken my house apart and yours, too.”

  “Stalking is what the FBI accused me of. Ma, you don’t think I have anything to do with those children, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I know that you used me to get information from Lucy Jones about Katie. I thought it was innocent, just you wanting to know for old time’s sake. I didn’t think you’d try to follow her. I just don’t know what to tell Lucy. Son, is there anything you know? Anything that you can do to get those little girls back?”

  “I would if I could, Ma, but I think that it’s too late. The FBI thinks they’re dead.”

  “Lord, Jesus,” Daisy said.

  “And Ma, it is going to get real ugly for me. I’m going to be staying with you for a time.”

  Keith had set the Detroit Free Press on the kitchen counter and pointed to the front page. “They’re never gonna find Katie’s girls after all this time. Look at what the paper’s saying.”

  Daisy glanced down, for the first time seeing the police sketch of the woman who drove off with Lucy’s granddaughters. “Look at this picture, Keith. Do you know this woman. Does Penny know her?”

  “No,” said Keith. The woman looked like most middle-aged white women, overweight and saggy. Now was the time he had to tell her. “I had to tell the FBI about a woman that I have been seeing. A white woman. When Penny finds out, she’s — I’m fucked.”

  “A white woman?” Daisy reached again for the front page. “A white woman, you say. Not this white woman?”

  “Ma, I hafta stay with you until all this blows over. Penny’s going to make my life a living hell. She knows this white woman’s name. Jane Wise. She’s already called the Ford plant where she works. Raising hell.”

  “Son, you’ve given me so many worries. Why you carrying on with a white woman. Any woman? You’ve got a wife and kids. I just don’t understand.”

  “It’s not like I love Jane, it’s just that, you know, Katie got herself a white man and I — I don’t know, Ma. Maybe I deserve to go to hell, but I can’t get Katie out of my mind. I would do anything. Anything in my power. And I would. I truly would.”

  Daisy started to say something, then backed off as Keith slumped back in the chair, covered his eyes, and started to sob. Finally, his mother said, “Son, you can stay with me.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Father’s Day Sales Lag Last Year.

  — National News, Friday, June 19

  “Wonder what Jackie’s gonna say when she sees us?” Alex asked, raking her hand through chopped off curls.

  “She’ll laugh,” said Sammie.

  All three of the triplets had prided themselves on their long black hair. They argued about a lot of things, but not how Mom wanted their hair, cut just below the shoulder and naturally wavy. Whenever they wanted to individualize, all they had to do was put it up in a ponytail or twist. Now, when Sammie looked at Alex, she felt like she would cry again. That woman had cut their hair short and ugly.

  “What do you think Jack’s doing right now?”

  “She’s home. Talking to Mom. Saying that she misses us. Even though she always used to try to get away from us. Mom is telling her that she can have a pet like she’s always wanted. She’s getting very spoiled. And look at us. Rotting in this smelly basemen
t. We have to get outta here. I’m just trying to figure out how.”

  Sammie wouldn’t admit it, but if Jack were here, they would have figured out how to escape. Jackie was smart. She got all As in school and she read a lot of those girl-detective books.

  “I really miss baseball.” Alex swung an imaginary bat. “Wonder if the Condors lost a game yet? If Dad lets Jared play third, I’m gonna be so mad. Dad won’t give away my position, will he?”

  “Not to that Jared creep. He couldn’t make a play at third to save his life. Dad’ll keep him in the outfield. But he may bring Todd over to play short and make Jackie pitch.”

  “Yeah, Todd’s not bad, and he’s cute,” Alex said. “What Todd wants is to pitch. I heard his dad ask Dad about it.”

  “What did Dad say?” Sammie asked, her mouth sticky with peanut butter.

  “Don’t talk with your mouthful,” Alex stuck out her tongue. “He said that you’re better and that he had to go with his best. But if you’re not there, he’ll either let him try or bring Jackie in from short.”

  “Jackie loves short, she’s not gonna give it up to some boy, and she hates to pitch. I don’t know what Dad is going to do.” Sammie held up her half-eaten sandwich. “At least we get crunchy peanut butter. Mom only buys the smooth stuff.”

  “I sure do miss Jackie,” Alex said, inspecting her apple for defects. “And piano.”

  “No piano here,” Sammie proclaimed, the constant battle at the Monroe’s home: mandatory piano practice. Alex loved her music. Sammie hated it, and Jackie simply endured it, even though she excelled and was several levels above her sisters.

  “Yeah,” said Sammie, reaching for the board game. “Let’s play Monopoly. I can’t believe we don’t have TV. Can’t go outside. How long can she keep us here? Mom and Dad just have to find us.”

  As she counted out the money, Alex said, “Do you think Jackie’s really, really sick? Or do you think she’s back home with Mom and Dad?”

  “Mom and Dad would never go back to Florida without us.” But Sammie was not that sure. The woman who said that her name was Maggie had told them that Jackie had gotten sick in the movie and that she had to go to the hospital. So, Sammie figured, maybe Jackie was dead. Sammie refused to think about that and she certainly was not going to freak out Alex. But tears started to seep out of her eyes thinking about how sad her parents would be.

  “I gotta go to the bathroom.” Sammie got up and hurried to the tiny room in the far corner so Alex wouldn’t see her cry.

  On the way she kicked a blonde Barbie doll against the wall. “Barbies are stupid,” Sammie had told Maggie when she’d opened up the plastic boxes. “We’re way too old for them.”

  “Sammie, we have lots of them at home,” Alex had said. Sure, but they had all colors of skin: black, brown, and white. The ones Maggie bought them were all white.

  “Shut up, Alex,” Sammie had said. “Whose side are you on?” Sometimes Alex made her really mad, always trying to be so sweet.

  Sammie had been pretending that she wasn’t afraid of the woman who took them out of the movie, but she was scared to death. The woman did feed them, but she hurt them, too. She wouldn’t let them have a clock, but they knew that five nights had passed. That would make it Friday.

  “Maggie was really mad last night when we messed up everything,” Alex said when Sammie came out of the bathroom.

  “I still think we should have left it just like it was. If we act like spoiled brats, she’ll get mad enough at us, she might let us go.”

  “She hit us, Sammie.” Alex fingered the dusky patch on her left cheek. “We had to clean up. What does she want with us anyway?”

  Sammie didn’t know. She figured that it must be money. Wasn’t that what kidnappers wanted? Did her parents have enough money? Surely their Aunt Monica did. Everybody kept saying how rich she was. She even had her own airplane. Sammie hadn’t answered Alex’s question. She didn’t know what that horrible woman wanted or why she kept them locked up.

  Sammie plunked down on the lumpy sofa, thinking that it smelled like a wet dog. She stroked the scar on her left knee. A dog bite from a pit bull. She’d disliked dogs even before that and now she tried to avoid all animals and even hated the smell of them.

  For five days the same routine. In the morning Maggie brought Cheerios and a banana before she went out. A peanut butter sandwich in a brown bag paper bag for lunch. Dinner on a tray after she got home. Then she read them stupid books. Then it got dark. They played Risk for as long as they could see, but it wasn’t fun without Jackie.

  Most of the day they talked about how to get out. But they could not agree on an approach. Alex thought they should be good girls, pretend to be sweet, do what the lady wanted. Then, when she trusted them, she’d let them out and they could escape. Sammie wanted to make her mad, mad enough that she’d want to get rid of them. If that didn’t work, she planned to attack her. Last night, messing up the place, was an example of Sammie’s strategy.

  “She’s just going to get mad,” Alex had predicted. And, she’d been right.

  “I don’t care,” Sammie had said. “What’s she gonna do? Beat us up? Not give us any food?”

  “I just want to go home. I miss Mom and Dad so much. And Jackie.”

  Then they heard a motor outside and a door slam. Silent, they both listened.

  “I hear a man talking,” Sammie said. “Maybe he will save us. Sammie put her arm around Alex and they began to talk in whispers.

  CHAPTER 38

  Hunt for Sammie and Alex Monroe Focused on Oakland County.

  — Detroit Metropolitan News, Friday, June 19

  During the week, Spanky drove an eighteen wheeler up and down I75, but for weekends he had him a cool, white Ford F150. Marge marveled at how he loved that truck. She couldn’t care less about cars even though she did work in the Ford plant.

  She heard the big Ford’s wheels on the gravel driveway and the slamming of the back door, familiar sounds of Spanky announcing his arrival. Marge did not get out of bed, lying prone, paralyzed by fear and indecision. Her head was aching, going back and forth, trying to figure out what to do about her son. This time, she decided, she had to protect the twins. Even if that meant taking them away. In twenty-two years, she had never, not once, spent a night away from this house. Could she bear to leave it?

  Right now, could she just lay there, pretending to be asleep? Would he grab something to eat — the fridge was full of beer and plenty of that bologna that he liked — and go out to the bar like he usually did on Friday nights? Could she avoid raising his suspicion that something was wrong? She heard his clunky boots coming up the stairs.

  “Ma? What the fuck you doin’ in there?” Spanky said. “Shit, I was lookin’ all over. Makin’ sure you hadn’t passed in your sleep.”

  “I have a bad headache,” Marge said. “You know, a migraine.”

  She used to have them a lot when he was a little boy, but he probably didn’t remember back that far.

  “You know how you’re always telling me to take a vacation. I was thinking about that, and then the headache came on so I just laid down.”

  “You gonna be okay? I wanted to take you car shopping. About time you got rid of that piece of junk out there.”

  Marge started to object. She didn’t think it would be a good time to trade in her Escort. “Brown Escort,” had been in all the papers. “No need —”

  “But good idea, the vacation.” Spanky hovered over her, putting his big hand on her forehead. “No fever. Seriously, Ma, you got a lot of seniority. About time you used it, but about that car, guess it’s not a good time so I’m gonna go to town, get my pickup tuned. It’s been runnin’ rough. I need plugs, the works. Won’t be home ’til dinner. How ’bout some of your deep fried chicken? You gonna be okay to cook?”

  “I’ll be okay,” Marge said, trying to figure out what to do. Most important was keeping Spanky out of the basement until she could get the twins out.

  Once Spank
y left, she got up and pulled frozen chicken pieces out of the freezer. Spanky was right, she did deserve a break. While she was away, she’d miss her cronies at the Ford plant and her house on Parker Road in Holly, a suburb of greater Detroit, about seventeen miles from Pontiac. The town itself was small, but charming, peppered with antique shops and weekend out-of-towners. But Marge did not live in the town center. She lived in a plain two-story plank house, accessible only via a network of roads and situated so far off the unpaved road that it couldn’t be seen through the foliage in the summer by passersby. Plenty of mature oaks and leafy maples completely obscured the neighbors’ view on both sides. The house had been in Evan’s family, and he had signed it over to her when he left. Most women would be too frightened to live in such isolation, but not Marge, she appreciated the solitude.

  Marge was warming to the idea of a vacation. She had enough money saved up and enough time coming to her. Her boss would be pissed at the short notice, but she’d make up something about an elderly aunt. People did it all the time. Two years ago, Elmira went off with a man. Surprised everybody, but in two weeks she was back, glad to still have her job. In her case, that picture in the paper would be forgotten when she returned. She was sure of that. All she had to do was leave with the twins after dinner when Spanky left to go to the bar.

  Now she had to fix a fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings. Marge loved to cook for Spanky, and he loved her home cooking. Who wouldn’t, being on the road most every night? Then she remembered, she had to feed the girls before Spanky got back from the garage. Quickly she grilled two cheese sandwiches, opened a can of pears, and put everything on a plastic plate. Halfway down the stairs, she remembered their milk. Forget it. They could make do with water.

  While Scott was at FBI headquarters, Katie stayed with Jackie, accompanied off and on by her mom, her sisters, and Monica. Dr. Reynolds dropped by every hour or so to monitor her patient’s progress, or lack thereof. Katie was so appreciative of this calm, wise woman, who seemed to exude confidence. For the first time since Alex and Sammie were taken, Katie felt a tinge of rationality emerge from her shattered mind. She started to realize that she had to stay calm and logical and even optimistic. There must be something she could add, something she could do.