by S. B. Caves
Fred shook his head, his face flushed with rage.
‘My daughter will hurt you if you try anything stupid, make no mistake about it. But if you cooperate, here is my promise to you: if you leave me a contact number, I will call you in a few days’ time and let you know where you can find your van. You’ll probably want to tell the police that you were robbed. But if you don’t try and pull anything on us, you’ll have the van back by the end of the week.’
‘You gonna phone my boss too? You gonna stop him from firing me? Huh? I got a wife and kid at home. What am I supposed to tell them when I can’t pay the fuckin’ rent?’
‘If they fire you because you were robbed, you can sue them for unfair dismissal,’ Francine said, and wondered how exactly she’d acquired that knowledge. Perhaps she’d seen it on Judge Judy, or maybe she’d just made it up.
‘Yeah, right. You’re putting me out of work, you know that? You’re taking the food out of my baby’s mouth. You’re—’
‘We’re not having a debate about this, Fred,’ Francine snapped. The pain roared in her skull and she cringed against it. ‘You’re going to do exactly as I say or you’re not going to go home at all. Do we understand each other?’ When he didn’t reply, she repeated, ‘Fred, do we understand each other?’
Through clenched teeth, he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Just do as you’re told and you’ll have us out of your hair in no time.’
Francine looked at Autumn, but she was staring out of the windscreen, beguiled by the world ahead of her. Her eyes flashed with excitement as she drank in each tree, each passing car, the array of street lights. She was drunk on freedom.
Francine reached down and clasped her daughter’s other hand and watched the world with her.
* * *
They turned off at the exit for Sycamore. The Clucky’s logo wasn’t lit up, but there was already a queue of cars for the breakfast drive-thru. Fred stopped the van just before the entrance of the parking lot and left the motor idling.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’ he asked.
‘Get out and ask someone in there if you can use the phone. Call the police, I guess,’ Francine said.
‘What’s all this about?’ Fred shook his head. ‘Ain’t nobody gonna believe that I got stuck up by a little girl with a knife and a crazy woman.’
‘They will,’ Francine said with a sigh. ‘Maybe not right away, but in time they will.’
‘So I’m free to go?’
‘Free as a bird,’ Francine said. He opened the door and jumped down, his face blotchy and worried. ‘Fly away now, Fred.’
She watched him waddle off before getting out of the van and making her way around to the driver’s seat. Autumn shifted over to the passenger side.
‘Are you okay to drive?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Where are we going now?’
‘Home. We aren’t too far from my apartment, but it’s a bit of a drive yet. We’re going to park this thing up in a back road a couple of blocks away from my place and walk the rest of the way.’
Francine started slowly and cautiously, getting used to the weight of the vehicle and her limited sight. She could just about see through one eye, but the vision was misty. She rejoined the highway and stuck to the far right lane. She kept her speed steady and did not try to overtake any other vehicles. There was no need for unnecessary risks. It would be a mighty fine shame to have gone through everything they had only to lose it all in an auto wreck.
‘So what are we gonna do, Mom?’
‘The first thing is to go home and rest. I think both of us have earned that much.’
‘Are we gonna get in trouble?’
‘I think we have a lot going for us right now, and a bit of a head start, but we need to be really smart. See how things play out.’ Francine was silent for a long time, breathing raggedly through her mouth. Her tongue was coated in the taste of her own blood. ‘When I spoke to Lena, she told me that she was the one who helped lure you away that day.’
‘She didn’t have a choice. She’s the only reason I survived out there as long as I did.’ Autumn’s voice cracked. ‘But she isn’t the reason I was taken.’
‘What do you mean?’
Autumn clutched the big book of names to her side. ‘I mean we were both unlucky.’
Francine thought she understood what her daughter meant but didn’t press her. There was a lot the two of them needed to talk about, a whole junkyard of questions that needed to be sifted through. But that would come later. For the time being, they were alive and together. And that was good enough for her.
‘You know we’re going to have to run, don’t you?’ Autumn said. ‘They won’t let something like this drop.’
Francine almost laughed in spite of her injuries. ‘Lena did warn me. She wanted to go to Hawaii.’ She choked on the last part of the sentence, feeling a rush of gratitude for Lena. ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. She hasn’t steered me wrong so far. I don’t have a lot of money, but your father does. He can get us set up somewhere.’
‘You’re not together any more?’
‘No. He has a new wife, and they’re expecting a child.’
‘Really? I guess my return might take some of the shine off that.’
Francine shrugged. ‘He’ll be over the moon to see you. I’m sure of it.’
‘And then we head off into the sunset.’ Autumn laughed, but there was nothing behind it. ‘There’s one other thing I think we need to factor into our plans, Mom.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s that?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
31
Nothing could have prepared Francine for the waves of emotion that crashed over her upon their return to the apartment. It was like time was overlapping on itself. There were instances when she saw the little girl she’d lost at the mall, and then there were flashes of complete ambiguity where she didn’t recognise this young woman at all. Autumn was at once both her daughter and a complete stranger, and the conflict this caused was staggering. Francine knew it would be a very long time before she got used to it. Still, the complicated clash of happiness and regret that throbbed inside her could never outweigh the exhilaration. Not in a million years, because there, sitting across from her at the kitchen counter, was her daughter. They were no longer rushing, no longer fighting or frantic with fear; they just stared at one another, admiring, examining. Beneath the inescapable cold lights of the kitchen, Francine relished every freckle and line on Autumn’s face. But it was her eyes that drew her in, the large black pupils that shone like polished onyx. In those eyes, Francine could see her own reflection, and the sensation sent tremors down her back.
She poured herself a large measure of vodka and drank it down in silence. After a couple more refills, she ran Autumn a bath. Autumn removed her clothes and, with her mother’s help, stepped into the tub. The water blackened instantly. Francine took a sponge and gently began to rub the girl’s back, clearing away the dirt and grime, revealing the pink and purple welts. Autumn sat with her knees pulled into her chest as her mother poured water over her scalp, untangling the clotted curls, combing out the kinks with her fingers.
‘Are you hurt anywhere, baby?’ Francine asked, barely able to hold back the tears. What kind of a question was that? She’d been hurt all over, tortured for years. Where did Francine get the nerve to ask this child about pain?
Autumn shook her head. In her own time, she stood up, reached for a towel and wrapped it around her waist, then stepped out of the tub. She drained the murky bathwater and began running the hot water again. ‘You’re hurt, though,’ she said gravely. ‘Your face is a mess.’ She picked up the sponge from the side of the tub, dabbed it in the running water and gently swabbed her mother’s brow. ‘You’re bleeding. And I think your nose is broken.’
‘I’ll live,’ Francine said, and smiled. Speaking made her face throb.
‘You need a doctor,’ Autumn said, twisting the tap to shut off the ho
t water. ‘And your head is cut all up here.’ She delicately touched the tender skin just above Francine’s eyebrow. ‘Get in the tub.’
Francine slowly undressed, wincing as she performed the task. She stepped into the bath, collected some water in her hands and splashed her face. It stung ferociously.
‘Don’t,’ Autumn said. ‘Let me get that glass out. Where do you keep your tweezers?’
Francine pointed at the medicine cabinet. Autumn located the tweezers and pulled out a bottle of aspirin, then had another quick search for Band-Aids. When she’d found them, she laid the items out on the sink and sat on the edge of the tub. ‘Tilt your face up to me,’ she said, and Francine obeyed.
Autumn went to work. Francine did not move. In truth, the pain no longer registered. Autumn carefully stuck Band-Aids over the cuts to seal them, then gently touched the line of Francine’s jaw, feeling for displacement.
‘I can’t tell if it’s broken,’ she said. ‘I’d say your nose definitely is. You need to get to a hospital.’
‘I just need some rest is all.’
Autumn said no more. Instead, she helped her mother rise from the tub and bundled a towel around her. They went to the bedroom and dried off.
‘Go in the wardrobe and find something to wear. My long T-shirts are in the bottom drawer there,’ Francine said, removing the towel and drying her hair with it. Each motion she made over her scalp sent echoes of dull pain through her head. She picked up a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, slipped into them, then climbed into bed. Autumn got in and curled up against her.
‘Are we gonna be okay?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
Francine paused, thinking of how best to construct her answer. The truth was that no, she wasn’t sure, but she had a pretty good feeling they could get through this if they stuck together and played it smart. She opened her mouth to say as much, but Autumn was already asleep, snoring gently into Francine’s neck. Francine kissed her on the forehead and breathed in the smell of her.
‘Thank you, God,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you so much.’
She closed her eyes.
* * *
At 10.37 the following morning, Marsha Grains received an internal call from reception. She had been in the middle of crafting an email to an agent regarding an official offer for her client’s first baby photos. Her manicured fingernails clicked at the keys as quickly as the raindrops that pelted the pavement outside the office. The shrill drone of the internal ringtone was a sound that Marsha no longer even noticed amidst the cacophony of the manic press room. The ringing died; she looked at the phone once, and then her eyes flicked back to her screen.
‘Marsha?’
She unglued her eyes from the email and turned to Sharon, the receptionist, who was standing tentatively next to her desk with a notepad in one chubby hand and a pen in the other. Her face was slack with apprehension.
‘What is it, Sharon?’ Marsha asked, continuing to type.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you, Marsha. I um … I tried to call you, but …’
‘Yes, yes, spit it out. What’s up?’
‘I have a lady on hold who says she needs to speak with you urgently.’ Sharon exhaled the sentence seamlessly, not daring to falter for a second.
‘Where’s she from?’
‘From?’
‘What company?’
‘Oh, she isn’t with one.’
‘What’s her name?’
A twitch of anxiety pulled Sharon’s mouth down at the corners. ‘She wouldn’t say.’
Marsha spun in her chair to face the receptionist. ‘Well, did she say what it’s about?’
‘Yes.’ Sharon nodded eagerly and dictated from her pad: ‘“It’s a matter of great importance, life and death, the biggest story of the year.”’
‘What story?’ Marsha asked, irritated.
‘She wouldn’t say.’
Marsha linked her fingers and cracked her knuckles. ‘Give her my email.’
‘I … I tried that already but she said it was no good. She said she had to speak to you directly.’
Marsha felt her temper rising. She hated interrupting her emails to take calls; it completely threw off her rhythm and pace, but now that seemed to be well and truly gone and Sharon was still casting a shadow over her.
‘All right, put her through.’ She fluttered a hand at the receptionist to shoo her away.
The phone rang and Marsha snatched the receiver out of the cradle. ‘Got it.’ She waited for Sharon to fumble with the phone on her end. When it clicked, she said, ‘Hello, this is Marsha Grains.’
The sound of a woman clearing her throat, and traffic in the background. ‘Hello, Marsha. Do you have a pen to hand?’
‘Yes. Who is this, please?’
The woman ignored the question. ‘Glenn Schilling’s wife has been abducted and Glenn himself might be dead.’
‘What? Who is this?’
‘He owns an apartment in Little Peace. His wife should still be there. Now do you have that pen?’
Befuddled, Marsha’s brain seemed to stutter. ‘Yeah, yeah, I have a pen.’
‘Write this down. If you take the Magenta Highway towards Oldcole, there’s a turning called Stack’s Point. It’s not marked on the road signs. It’s an old dirt road that leads to what I assume is private property. Have you written that down?’
‘Stack’s Point, Magenta. What is—’
‘Just listen, please. Take the dirt road leading from Stack’s Point and you’ll find one of Schilling’s cars, or you should do if they haven’t moved it. He’ll be in the trunk. In the trunk with him will be a backpack with some DVDs. I’m sending a sample of one of the DVDs to your office for your attention. It will show Schilling and other men abusing children. Are you with me so far, Miss Grains?’
‘Uh … yeah, I’m with you. That’s a very serious allegation. How do you know all this?’ she asked, pressing the palm of her hand against her free ear to block out the office babble.
‘That’s not important.’
‘Look, can we meet up and discuss this, face to face?’
‘That won’t be necessary. All you have to do is go to Stack’s Point. But be quick. I’ve already called the Scribe and the Daily News, so they have a head start. Of course, you won’t take any of this seriously until you receive the DVD. When you get it, watch it to confirm what I’ve said. Then you should sell it to Fox News or CNN if you want to make a real splash.’
‘Okay, so when will—’
The line went dead.
Epilogue
The Christmas tree was much too big for the front room. It looked ridiculous, especially the way the tip of the tree curled against the ceiling and the chunky, glittery gold star hung down onto the branches below. Will had made this exact point at the market, but Sheila insisted. ‘It’ll be so majestic,’ she said, and continued to hammer him to death with the adjective until he relented. Now, glowing with multicoloured lights – not all white like he wanted – the tree looked anything but majestic: it looked tacky and garish. The baubles were different sizes and styles and were strewn about randomly, and the tree limbs dripped shiny tinsel. Will hated everything about the tree, the same way he’d grown to hate everything about Christmas. ‘But you can’t be a Grinch this year,’ Sheila said. ‘This year has to be special. A time for new beginnings.’
Sure, Will thought. *Because I can just turn it off and on like that. It’s so goddam simple, isn’t it? *
Ultimately, though, he knew she was right. To be anything other than jovial, especially considering their new blessing, would make him a fucking asshole. On Christmas Day he would take five minutes to himself, pour out a large measure of whiskey and swallow it down while thinking about his elder daughter, and then he would return to the festivities. At night he would say a prayer for her, perhaps even shed a tear or two.
They sat on the sofa staring up at the TV above the blazing fireplace. They were watching
Guys and Dolls. An odd choice of movie for Christmas Eve, Will thought, but that was what was on and they were going to watch it, apparently. There were comedy specials on the other channels, or Scrooged with Bill Murray – Christ, he loved the hell out of that movie – but they were stuck watching Brando in the least Christmassy movie he could think of.
‘I need a refill,’ Sheila said, peeling away from Will. Immediately he felt about ten degrees cooler without her clinging to his chest like a leech.
‘Should you be drinking so much?’ Will asked, knowing that she had plenty of formula in the cupboard and bottles of expressed breast milk filling the fridge. He’d made a joke earlier about putting a splash of rum in the milk for the baby to help her sleep, and Sheila had admonished him as if he were serious. Perhaps it was his tone. He was more than aware of how grouchy he was being. He’d done a lot of media recently and squeezed in as many gigs as he possibly could. Christmas was good for business.
‘I’m going to have one more,’ she said, pouring a large glass of sherry. ‘Did you want one or not?’
‘Could you grab me a beer?’
‘Beer?’ She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Come on, Will. It’s Christmas. You can drink beer any time of the year.’
‘I can drink sherry any time of the year too, but I happen to hate the stuff and I’ve already had one fucking glass of it. I’d like a beer, please.’
She huffed. ‘What about some mulled wine?’
‘I guess I’ll get the beer myself.’ He stood up and she stepped in his way, her palms pressed against his woollen sweater.
‘No, sit. I’m sorry. Let me get it, please. I want to get you a beer.’ She smiled at him hopefully. He turned away and sat back down.
