by S. B. Caves
‘You’ve got secrets here, haven’t you?’ she said aloud.
She sat down in the leather chair and took a moment to really look at the room. It was a library full of journals and other hardbound books, just like one of the rooms she’d peered into earlier. Why would he need two rooms like this? If Cindy hadn’t reacted the way she had, dragging herself down from her high to try and prevent Francine from progressing, then she might have thought nothing of it. However, now she recognised the phoniness of it all: the vast rows of books that all looked alike, the lack of detail in the interior decoration that was so prevalent throughout the rest of the mansion.
She did a slow lap of the study, running her finger along the books, perusing the spines. There were encyclopedias, atlases, medical journals. Nothing jumped out at her, but she was absolutely certain that there was something here. She marched back to the master bedroom and found Cindy gnawing at her restraints like a wild animal snared in a trap, her bumpy spine like a dinosaur’s back.
‘You trying to run out on me, Cindy?’ Francine asked, beginning to enjoy this character she was playing.
‘Please … let me go. I won’t call the cops. You can take whatever you need …’
‘Shut up and listen to me very carefully. I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to give me honest answers. If I think you’re lying, I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?’
‘I don’t know what you want …’ Cindy mewled, twisting away.
‘Settle down. I want you to tell me what’s in the study.’
Cindy’s already dilated pupils seemed to expand like puddles of oil. ‘Books, my husband’s writing stuff …’
‘Cindy. Don’t play with me.’
‘There’s nothing down there. It’s just the other part of the house.’
‘So why doesn’t Glenn like people going there?’
‘It’s where he goes to think.’
‘I’ll bet it is. Cindy, you’re going to tell me what he’s hiding in there.’
She shook her head and her eyes darted away. ‘Nothing,’ she said, slack-jawed. ‘It’s his study … What’re you talking about, hiding? He’s a goddam fucking celebrity, a—’
‘You’re lying to me, Cindy. I can always tell when I’m being lied to, and you,’ Francine removed the gun from her pocket again so Cindy could see, ‘are a bad liar. One more chance. Please, Cindy. Know that I am serious.’
Cindy nodded miserably.
‘Good. So I’ll ask again. What’s he hiding?’
‘I … I honestly don’t know. If I knew, I would tell you. Please …’ Cindy’s head dipped defeatedly. Twin runners of snot streamed from her nostrils and collected in the ledge of her collagen-curled upper lip. The pillow behind her head was sopping wet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
Cindy’s eyes became wild with terror.
‘I’m the mother of Autumn Cooper-Wright. She was kidnapped almost ten years ago. Your husband knows her. And judging by the look on your face right now, I’d say you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.’
17
‘You’re crazy. Don’t you know they’ll lock you up? You’ll go to prison for the rest of your life.’ Cindy’s voice was shrill with panic.
‘Who’s going to lock me up?’ Francine asked, rubbing her thumb over Cindy’s clammy forehead. ‘Nobody knows I’m here.’
‘Glenn will be back soon.’
‘Do you think I’m scared of your husband?’
‘I don’t … I don’t …’
‘You don’t know? All right, I’ll tell you. Right now, you hold the key to the rest of your life. This house is full of secrets, isn’t it? Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret of my own, Cindy. I wasn’t sure before, but now I truly think I have lost my mind. And thinking about my daughter, what your husband has probably done to her, it makes me want to put this gun in your mouth and blow your fucking brains all over this bed. I really want to do it, too. Believe me, Cindy. I’m itching to hurt someone.’
Before she had a chance to reply, Cindy urinated in the bed.
* * *
Francine pushed Cindy down the tunnel with the gun pressed against her back. Cindy, now dressed in a silk nightgown at Francine’s insistence, laboured along, her shoulders hunched, her footsteps unsteady. She sobbed as she walked, explaining that she and Schilling were on the verge of divorce, that they should never have married in the first place.
‘If I’d known … I would never have got involved in any of this … You don’t know what it was like for me.’
Francine resisted the urge to prod her for details. She knew that engaging in any kind of conversation would sidetrack Cindy, and right now she needed her scared and willing to cooperate.
‘Here we are,’ she said, lowering the gun. ‘Show me what it is I’m looking for.’
Cindy turned, the flesh around her bloodshot eyes puffy and crinkled. ‘I want to thank you. I really want to tell you how much I appreciate this.’
‘Appreciate what?’
‘You coming to my rescue.’
‘I’m not here to rescue you,’ Francine said, her voice weighty with disdain.
‘Maybe not in that way, but you’ve given me the chance to be free. I’ve kept his secrets too long. Much too long.’
‘Well now’s your chance to unburden yourself. Make sure you do it properly.’
Cindy took a breath. ‘Before I show you, I just want to … explain. I’m not like him. You have to believe me. I’m nothing at all like him.’
‘I believe you,’ Francine said slowly. ‘Speed it up.’
Cindy gave another sob, then retreated to the corner wall and grabbed hold of the bookcase. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘It’s behind here,’ Cindy said. ‘His thinking room.’
Francine walked carefully to the bookcase. The shelves were lined with botanical reference books. ‘Behind here?’
‘Yes. I swear. Just pull.’
With her left hand, Francine gripped the shelf and tugged. She felt it loosen against the wall. A couple of books fell. She pulled harder, and there was a click as the shelf dislocated entirely. She pushed it to the side, marvelling at the ingenuity of the design, and saw a narrow staircase ascending.
‘You first,’ she ordered.
There was a noticeable change in air density with the bookcase open. Francine could already feel her guts churning, a feather stroking the nape of her neck. She followed Cindy up into a small dark room. ‘Turn the light on,’ she said.
‘There isn’t one. Only the TV.’
‘Well turn that on.’
Cindy fumbled around in the dark until the blue glow of a screen brightened the musty space. Seeing how small the room actually was made Francine’s chest tighten. Her heart began to pound as claustrophobia crept up on her. On the floor, dozens of shiny discs gleamed in the TV’s light. At a glance there might have been close to a hundred, possibly more. She saw the red standby light of the DVD player and reached down and pressed play, then waited for the DVD to load. The screen came to life and revealed the inside of a house. It wasn’t Schilling’s, though; Francine could tell that even through the cameraman’s shaky handiwork.
Naked, mostly bloated men with limp dicks lined the corridor. They were smoking and drinking out of fancy glasses. There was laughter too, tumbling off the paisley walls. The cameraman weaved through the house, coming to a cluttered kitchen where a saggy middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair was tending to a tray of hors d’oeuvres and cackling at some unheard joke. The cameraman continued the tour and appeared on the threshold of a smoky room that had been stripped of furniture, where a very young, blindfolded girl was standing at the centre of a circle of jovial men. The cameraman yelled something, and the men all smiled at the camera and waved. On the other side of the room, a woman with short hair spoke casually to a very old man as though the lewd act were not happening.
Francine w
as clutching the gun so hard that the criss-cross grip on the handle bit into the flesh of her palm. She wanted to shoot the TV and then put another bullet in Cindy’s head. She fixed her gaze on the floor, but was unable to escape the pitiful moans. ‘No more,’ she pleaded. ‘Stop it.’
‘It isn’t me, I swear to God. I promise it isn’t me. I don’t go to these things. You believe me, don’t you? I swear.’
‘Turn that fucking thing off!’
Cindy scrambled for the DVD player and ejected the disc. ‘You have to believe me … it’s nothing to do with me. I stay at home … I stay at home …’
Francine bent down and picked up a handful of the DVDs, shoving them into her jacket pocket. The newspapers might like to see them. That was something she could think about later. Right now, she needed to leave. She grabbed a fistful of Cindy’s hair and forced her down the stairs. When they were back in the study, she made Cindy close the bookcase so that it was just as she’d found it. Then she motioned with the gun for the other woman to exit.
Back in the foyer of the house, Francine could just about make out the guard at the gate.
‘See that guy?’ She pointed through the huge window by the front door. ‘Call him and tell him to take off.’
Cindy walked to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. ‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Francine asked, without taking her eyes off the guard.
‘George has worked for Glenn for over thirty years. He’ll want to know why I’m sending him home, and even then he won’t take my word for it.’
‘You’re his boss. Make him do it.’
‘I’m telling you, he won’t,’ Cindy whined. ‘I can phone him and speak to him, but all he’ll do is come up to the house and check in on me. You don’t want that, do you?’
‘Then you’d better think of something to send him packing.’ Francine looked over at the antique grandfather clock. ‘Is that the right time?’
‘Should be.’
‘Your old man is off the air in ten minutes. We want to be out of here before he gets back.’
‘We?’
‘Do you have a sister?’ Francine asked.
‘Yes. I have two.’
‘Names?’
‘Kelly-Jo and Loretta.’
‘Phone George and say Loretta is at the airport. She’s just flown in and doesn’t have anyone to pick her up. Tell him that you can’t send a cab to get her because …’ Francine had to pause for thought. ‘Tell him that Glenn should have already cleared this with him. Make out like it was Glenn’s mistake.’
Cindy pressed a button on the dial pad and put the conversation on speaker. Francine watched George through a gap in the curtains as Cindy began spinning her tale.
‘Well what time is she supposed to land?’ George asked with a mixture of annoyance and panic.
‘I think her flight touches down at ten. Oh, please tell me you’ll be able to get her. I gave her your name and everything, so if I tell her to get a cab, she’ll have an anxiety attack. I swear I could just kill Glenn for this.’
‘I won’t get there for ten,’ George replied. ‘She might have to hang around.’
‘I’d prefer that than for her to get in a cab. I’ll phone her as soon as she touches down and let her know you’re waiting.’
‘What about the gate?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Cindy gave an effortlessly lilting laugh. ‘I don’t mind going out to open it. God, you make me feel so lazy sometimes, George.’
‘I don’t know about this, Cindy. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to have a limo pick her up?’
‘Oh God no. She hates fuss. Please, George; it would really put my mind at rest if you could do this for me.’
There was a pause. Francine stared at Cindy.
‘All right, well I’d better skip to it,’ he said grumpily. ‘I’m gonna have to put my foot down to get there in time. Let’s hope there isn’t any traffic.’
Cindy hung up, and Francine watched as George opened the gate and set off down the street to his car.
‘What do we do now?’ Cindy asked.
‘We need to wipe all the security footage on the cameras. Then I’ll let you grab your pills. I don’t want you going through withdrawal on me.’
‘My pills? What’re you talking about?’
‘The ones next to the bed. You can bring whatever you think you’re gonna need.’
‘Are you taking me somewhere?’
Francine didn’t reply.
18
The trolley was loaded with meals consisting of tinned mackerel, a hunk of bread, an ice-cream scoopful of salty mashed potato, and a freckled banana for dessert. There was a tower of plastic cups, to be filled with tap water from the dented metal jug. It was the same supper every day for the girls in the cells; boring, yes, but a damn sight more nutritious than the crackers and runner beans they used to get. With all the girls that fell sick while they were pregnant, someone suggested that maybe the issue arose from them not getting enough vitamins. Some of them got scurvy; their gums would bleed raw, and the sharp edges of the crackers would scratch them even worse until they had to spit blood after every bite of food.
Autumn opened the wicket and slid the tray of food through the black rectangle until the pale, needy hands came out to receive it. You don’t know how lucky you are, she thought, remembering the taste of blood in her own mouth, the sores that would erupt on her skin.
She came to Janet’s cell, pulled the wicket down and peeked through the rectangle. ‘How’s the belly?’ she whispered.
Janet stepped forward rubbing her stomach. ‘Getting big. My back hurts.’
‘It’s a boy,’ Autumn said, pouring her a cup of water and sliding the tray in.
‘You think so?’
‘Most definitely.’ She gave Janet an understanding smile.
‘How can you tell?’
Autumn shrugged. ‘Just can.’
* * *
She’d had three boys and one girl herself, or at least that was how she remembered it. It had always been difficult to discern after the birthing process what sex the baby had been, as it was snatched out of her so quickly and whisked away, never to be seen again. In her memory, unreliable as it was given the overwhelming pain and exhaustion of the ordeal, Autumn could remember seeing her three sons for maybe a couple of seconds each as the nurse bundled them into her arms, red and gory. She could remember their high, piping screams and the way they kicked the air. And then they were gone.
She had had her first child at thirteen. It got easier after the first one; she came to recognise and anticipate the pain, and knowing just how bad the labour would be somehow took some of the strength away from the terror. But that first one was scary. She knew exactly what Janet was going through with the back pain; Autumn’s first boy had been so big that he’d pushed against her spine and distended her stomach grotesquely, and they’d talked about cutting him out early. In the end, though, he’d fought his way out, and Clarissa, one of the older girls at the time, had made it clear to anyone who would listen that Autumn was going to die trying to deliver him.
But Autumn didn’t die. She endured pain beyond comprehension, agony that transcended physical feeling. It went on and on, a seemingly endless tide of suffering. She was strapped to the bed, lorded over by men she knew and some she didn’t – any one of whom could have been the child’s father – as well as some of the more experienced girls who’d helped with births in the past. In the chair in the corner of the medical room sat Daddy, his black cane across his lap. He was present at every birth, no exceptions. He had given instructions to observers and nurses alike, and then chastised Autumn when she screamed too loudly. ‘It doesn’t hurt that much, for God’s sake,’ he said, the contempt dripping from his words. ‘Be a woman, will you!’
The men had smiled at her, patting her head as though she were a dog that had just fetched a Frisbee, the excitement shining in their eyes. Th
e other girls went about their work, doing everything they could to ensure that the baby lived; Autumn was obviously a secondary concern. The pain ballooned through her as the baby made its exit plans, reaching an awful crescendo until somebody said, ‘There’s the head.’ At this, one of the men helped Daddy out of his chair and he took centre stage, standing at the foot of the bed with a VIP view. A thin smile appeared at his lips, and even in her ungodly state, Autumn would always remember how he balled his frail, veined fist and punched the air victoriously.
* * *
‘Any more bleeding?’ she asked Janet now, checking to make sure the guard at the end of the corridor was still reading.
‘Just spots here and there. Is that normal?’
‘Sure,’ Autumn said, not really knowing if it was or not. She had a feeling that Janet’s baby would make it, but she’d been wrong in the past. ‘Gotta go, okay?’ She reached through and squeezed Janet’s hand, then pushed the trolley on to the next cell, the wheels squeaking as it rumbled over the uneven tiles.
When she came to the last cell and opened the wicket, no hands reached out to retrieve the tray. Autumn bent down and peered in. ‘Everything okay in there?’
‘Hey!’ the young guard yelled, looking up from his book. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Just seeing if India is all right.’
‘Well don’t bother. Leave the food and move on.’
Autumn chanced another look. ‘Sir?’
The guard stood up. He was new, recruited after Leslie’s unfortunate passing. Rumour around the dorm was that Daddy wanted to run a tighter ship in the wake of Lena’s breakout and had ordered military expertise. This one took his work extremely seriously, it seemed. Ever since he’d started, Autumn hadn’t seen him wear anything other than army fatigues. He was always clean-shaven, with shiny boots, an army-issue cap covering his head and partially concealing his eyes. At first, Autumn had thought his blotchy red cheeks were the result of the chill in the air, but upon closer inspection it seemed to be some sort of birthmark.
