by Pamela Crane
And that’s when I knew there was only one way to make the stabbing pain in my chest stop.
Find Denny and his mistress and hurt them like they hurt me.
Chapter 13
Jo
Sixteen.
That was the number of sexual offenders listed who lived within five miles of Forest Hills Park, according to the online registry.
Sixteen men hiding perversions that would make your skin crawl.
Sixteen monsters who raped or preyed on children, still roaming free.
Sixteen predators who could have stolen my little girl.
Sixteen was a large number to look into, and I had no idea where to start. I’d skimmed over their profiles, but they all looked so … eerily normal. Like someone I’d pass in the grocery store aisle and maybe even offer a friendly grin. And how would I know when I’d found the man who took Amelia? I doubted he would just confess, or be holding a sign saying “I kidnapped your little girl.” Would my heart split with pain? Would my brain sizzle with subliminal recognition?
As I paged through each criminal, I felt nothing. Just an empty space in my head, a vacancy in my heart. Maybe it was too much at once. I needed to focus on one at a time, letting my maternal instinct guide me.
Adjusting my search criteria, I decided to narrow it down to a one-mile radius from the park, and this gave me three hits. One was a nineteen-year-old charged with indecent liberties with a seventeen-year-old minor. My three-year-old wouldn’t have been his target. Also, based on Abby’s description, he was too young.
Another perpetrator was charged with sexual battery of a fifteen-year-old girl. A teen victim. Again, an unlikely match.
The third, though—his record caught my attention:
Description: INDECENT LIBERTY MINOR
Victim's Age: 7
Offender's Age: 42
Primary Name at time of Conviction: GUNNER, MAXWELL
His charges specifically dealt with exposing himself to a minor. His victim wasn’t quite as young as Amelia, but he sounded like the kind of pervert who might take indecent liberties one step further into molestation, I thought with a cringe. Then one step more by abducting a child—perhaps my child. Each progression was a baby step into darkness. With his red hair pulled back in a stringy ponytail and sporting a wiry goatee, the image of my daughter’s kidnapper was born.
But based on Abby’s description, this man didn’t fit at all other than his height, approximate age, and build. Had he shaved his goatee, dyed his hair brown, and thrown on glasses as a disguise? It was possible, maybe even likely. I couldn’t risk not checking him out.
I jotted down his address, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door. Within the forty-eight-hour window of her disappearance, there was a chance Amelia could still be there.
Ten minutes later I pulled up to a white brick ranch-style home straight off a Better Homes and Gardens cover. Whiskey barrel planters, placed at precise intervals on either side of the stepping stone walkway, overflowed with colorful petunia blossoms, and neatly trimmed boxwoods and nandinas followed the brick around the corners, where they continued toward the fenced-in backyard. Not a piece of mulch was out of place as I walked up the sidewalk, wondering what kind of sicko tended to his garden so meticulously.
Perhaps a soft, feminine type … a child molester type. What better diversion for passersby than to distract from the old well in the basement where he kept his victims like a real-life Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. Was I as dumb as Clarice for coming here?
When I rang the doorbell, I felt a pinch in my palms and glanced down at my hands. I had been clenching them so hard that my fingernails bit into my flesh, marking it with angry pink semicircles. My jaw began to ache with the tense bite of anticipation.
I was a mother lioness ready to pounce and claw at whoever answered the door.
My little girl could be on the other side. My little girl could be waiting for me to rescue her. I wondered if I should just burst in, or manipulate my way inside. Should I call the cops? Or just play it cool and hopefully catch him off-guard? I had no idea how to handle it, but I knew—I just knew—that my baby was here. We would be reunited in mere moments. I could feel the hope surging as the door swung open.
And then just like that, my hope sputtered to a stop.
A woman who looked to be in her mid-seventies answered the door. Her short white hair was perfectly coifed, but her plump, wrinkled lips, painted a garish red, were comical—like the wax lips I used to buy at the dollar store as a kid. Her friendly smile revealed dentures that could have used an Efferdent bath. I caught a whiff of old-person smell mixed with a hideous floral perfume, a combination my waggish father used to describe as dog shit in a flowerbed. For all that, she looked like a doting grandmother ready to hand out home-baked cookies to trick-or-treaters. Not the sinister creature I had expected.
“Can I help you, dear?” Her voice creaked like old joints.
“I’m looking for a Maxwell Gunner?” I said, my voice lilting with a question.
“Oh, he’s at work, honey. And you are—?”
“My name’s Jo…y. Joy. I’m a … friend of his.” I’d almost forgotten what I was doing here.
A smile widened her floppy cheeks. “How wonderful! Would you like to come inside to wait for him? He should be home soon. I’ve got a pot of lavender tea I’m steeping as we speak.”
I fumbled for a decision. Would a creepy man who lived with his tea-drinking elderly mother be harboring a victimized child in his house? I suppose anything was possible, so I nodded. At least I wouldn’t need the cops to help me handle this woman if the need arose.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
She opened the door wide and waved me to follow her into the living room. “Have a seat and I’ll bring some teacups. It’s not often I get visitors, so this is a treat.”
The house was quiet. No sounds of crying children or fingers clawing behind a bedroom door. No flies buzzing around weeks-old leftovers or lonely light bulbs swinging from a stained ceiling. This wasn’t at all what I expected from a child abductor’s residence. Everything in perfect order—the mark of a woman with too much time on her hands and a touch of OCD.
I wandered to a well-polished upright piano with neat rows of framed pictures perched on top. Grainy pictures of a ginger boy in a crooked, shiny party hat blowing out birthday candles. Sepia pictures of a young mom version of Grandma Gunner holding the same boy in her lap, both smiling giddily. A young bearded man cradling a baby in a flowing white christening gown. An older version of that same man hefting a little girl on his shoulders on a beach outing. All so normal. All so family-like.
What could have possibly turned this average man into a child-molesting monster?
“That’s my Maxy—so happy, once upon a time,” a voice whispered behind my neck, startling me. Her sigh tickled my skin as she hung at my back. “You know, before all that stuff with Fiona’s mama.”
“Fiona’s mama?” I echoed.
“Didn’t he tell you? About how his ex tried to run off with his little girl and accused him of doing something unspeakable to little Fiona. Poor girl hasn’t seen her daddy since. Such a shame.”
Unless what the mother said was all true. It often started in the home—the tragedies.
“I’m sorry for what he went through.” Except I wasn’t sorry at all. The son of a bitch had my daughter.
“So handsome, isn’t he?”
“Um, very,” I replied. Bile churned in my stomach. I felt its sickly sweetness rising slowly to my throat.
Turning away from her collage of memories, we headed to the sofa.
Handing me a thin china teacup, Grandma Gunner sat primly on the floral sofa still wrapped in plastic. My rear glided back along the slippery cushion, making an embarrassing flatulent sound. I’d never understood the purpose of stripping a sofa of its purpose—to be comfortable—all for the sake of protecting it. Protecting it from what—being used?
&nbs
p; “So how do you know Maxy?” she probed.
I couldn’t tell her what really brought me to her house today: I think your son may have abducted my daughter. And now that I was here, I wasn’t so sure he was behind Amelia’s disappearance. But he had to be. He was the only lead I had.
“Oh, we met at the store.” As generic and safe a response as I could create.
“That’s nice. He’s a good boy, Maxy is.”
“I can tell. He’s got a good mama.” I smiled warmly, and I noticed a sparkle in her eyes at my forced compliment.
“Oh you hush, you sweet girl,” she said, dismissing my compliment with a humble wave. “I try, Lord knows I have.”
I sipped my bitter brew, sucking it down quickly to get it over with.
“When does Max get home from work usually?”
She glanced behind her, where a floral-painted porcelain clock ticked its hands toward one o’clock.
“He usually gets home by noon, but he must be working late today. He called in sick two days in a row, and without paid time off, he usually tries to make up the time the same week.”
“So he was home the past couple days?”
“Down with a cold something terrible. I just hope I didn’t catch it. At my age it’s hard to recover from viruses. I ain’t no spring chicken no more.”
If Max was home when Amelia was taken, then that eliminated him from the suspect list. There was no point sticking around only to get caught in a lie.
“I’m sorry to hear he wasn’t feeling well. But I don’t want to keep you. I can stop by another time.”
I rose from the stiff cushion and set my cup down.
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Yep, it’s not a big deal to pop by later. I really should get going, though. It was nice meeting you.”
“Pleasure was all mine, Joy. Come back soon.”
“I will,” I called behind me as I trotted to my car. While backing out of the driveway, I imagined the confusion on Maxwell’s face later that evening when Grandma Gunner announced that his good friend Joy had stopped by. I felt bad about my deceitful intrusion, since Grandma Gunner seemed so eager for company and I almost wanted to offer that to the lonely elderly lady.
Although I hadn’t gotten the answers I hoped, I couldn’t stop looking. There were clues out there. I just needed to find them.
Forest Hills Park was less than a mile away, where I planned to put up flyers on every square inch of hangable surface. By the time I arrived, the parking lot was practically empty as a handful of mothers dragged their fussing children home for after-lunch naps and pre-dinner television. As I stuck posters to trees, streetlights, garbage cans, and anything that would hold the flimsy pieces of paper with Amelia’s rosy cheeks and sunny smile, my eyes kept roaming back to the playset she was lured away from.
In the briefest of moments my world was torn from me.
In a single absent glance I never saw Amelia walk away, out of my life and into danger.
One backward look could have saved everything. And I hated myself for missing that chance.
It was all just too overwhelming. Everything began to spin. Like all the air had been sucked out of the world. I was going to faint.
I quickly sat on the nearest bench, head down between my knees, gasping for breath where there was none to be had. Choking on my memories, playing again and again in an unending loop, in a relentless game of what-ifs and could-have-beens.
Every panic-filled, guilt-ridden moment came crashing back upon me. Running through the park, screaming her name, hope dying with every passing moment and every failed endeavor. Every empty car and every discovered child who was not my Amelia, another rend on my soul. Until that final moment of defeat, where I became resigned to my fate, any hope for a “close call” perished as I punched in those fateful numbers. 9-1-1.
My finger hovered over the green “call” button on my phone. I hesitated. I didn’t want EMTs to rescue me. In fact, I wanted the pain, the panic. It was what I deserved.
Slowly, agonizingly, the moment subsided. A pinprick of oxygen was allowed back into my world, just enough for a trice of relief. My starved lungs attempted to gasp great gulps of air. Too soon. My pulse first crescendoed from the lack of sustenance, then diminished to a horrible conclusion.
I needed to calm down or I was going to die right here on this park bench. Part of me just wanted to let go. Maybe this was what I deserved for losing her. Jay certainly thought so. Maybe this would show them, prove to them that I wasn’t unfit.
No.
I couldn’t let go yet. Not while she was still out there. Not while she still needed me.
Through sheer force of will, I pulled a rivulet of air into my aching bronchi and compelled my heart to beat once … twice … thrice …
As the darkness subsided and I regained the use of my faculties, I realized I might never be able to set foot in this park again.
Chapter 14
Shayla
While Kelsey sat at our table sipping his room temperature Bud Light, I hunched over the bathroom sink grimacing at the mess I’d made of myself. My eyes stung from the tears I’d cried as I emptied my stomach into the toilet bowl five minutes ago. I washed away the runnels of mascara tumbling down my cheeks, the water cool against my hot skin.
My intestines bubbled and churned as I sipped lukewarm water from the faucet, hoping to wash out the taste of bile. I had a bad feeling it wasn’t the barbeque I’d eaten that sent me rushing to the bathroom. Perhaps it was nerves over what I was about to do to Kelsey, but I doubted it.
Then a thought crossed my mind. It crept slowly at first, hanging on the outer rim of my brain. My body shook with dread.
No, it couldn’t be right.
I counted the days.
Shit. My period was late. By at least a week. How could I have not noticed?
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a simple case of bad food. Maybe I was hitting menopause early. That had to be it, because anything else would be the death of me. I couldn’t handle another child; I could barely handle the two I had. And then there was the looming question of whose baby it was. Chances were a 50/50 split. Oh, God … I couldn’t be one of those. Better book my spot on The Maury Show now.
No, I couldn’t entertain the possibility of pregnancy. I needed to quash that fear right away. An unplanned baby tossed a wrench in the plan to destroy Kelsey … or maybe not. Perhaps it could work in my favor.
Rifling through my purse, I found my cell phone and dialed the most advantageous three numbers a violated woman could dial.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” the operator stated.
I inhaled a breath, prepping my voice for a convincing performance.
“I’d like to report a rape.”
While the police escorted Kelsey Gray into the back of a squad car to take his statement down at the Durham Police Station, I was given the okay to go home while Kelsey pondered who he was up against. I was no wilting flower that he could pluck out of its pot and toss away. I was a fucking redwood tree, stronger than steel. I’m unmovable, you bastard, and my roots are deep.
I averted my eyes as he passed me in the parking lot, afraid of what I’d see in them. Him being pissed, I could handle. But his creepy calmness as the cops showed up asking him questions gave me shivers. Something wasn’t right about a man with no reaction to a rape accusation. His smirk said it all: this isn’t over. Bitch.
I’d be ready for whatever he brought. I was ready for war.
Certain I’d made my point to him, firing the proverbial warning shot across his bow, all I wanted now was a hot bubble bath and a good book. But there was one stop I needed to make on my way home to Oleander Way.
It was the longest two minutes of my life. While the twenty minutes leading up to it were excruciating—searching for the fastest pregnancy test, then waiting in line to buy it, then sitting in the drugstore restroom stall peeing on the stick—the post-pee wait was even worse. Any woman could tell you t
hat two minutes felt like two hours when watching those blue lines form. A plus or minus—what would it be? A roll of the dice—pregnant or not? Life or death? A woman’s fate rested in such simple symbols. Those 120 seconds would redefine my entire life with a make-me-or-break-me finality.
I exhaled, not realizing I had held my breath the entire time.
It was the moment of truth. I stood and turned back to where I had placed the pregnancy test on the back of the toilet. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, looking away to prevent the inevitable just a little longer. Secretly hoping to catch it off-guard with my sudden glance in an effort to decree my desired outcome.
I held it in front of me, eyes closed, mumbling a fervent prayer in case God was listening.
And then I opened my eyes.
Chapter 15
June
My toes pinched in my too-tight sneakers.
My legs ached from running orders.
And my head throbbed from the weight of the world crushing it from all sides.
As my impromptu shift ended, I couldn’t find the strength to go home. I couldn’t muster the energy to console Mike, depressed and jobless yet again, as if his life was so difficult and mine so easy. I couldn’t referee another Austin breakdown, or Arabelle chastising Kiki and Juliet for messing with her stuff. My hell continued well past the doors of Jim’s Tavern, shrouding my home, my family, my very existence. There was no haven for me.
I had taken a roundabout route to Forest Hills Park, burning up the gas that was supposed to last for the week. Right now I didn’t care about gas or money or making it home. A moment to myself, a pinch of quiet was my only focus. After parking in the same spot I always parked in—a habit I saw no reason to break—I stepped into the chilly air and headed for the dusk-dappled trails, inhaling the clean, earthy scent of pine trees and honeysuckle vines. I followed the smooth concrete path through a copse of trees, nature tugging me into a reverie. There was something calming about the thicket of a forest, the expanse of a flower-mottled field, the trickle of an unbridled creek. It was just what I needed. This could be my haven.
