Birthday Girl

by Matthew Iden

  Elliott turned to Amy, but just as she opened her mouth to say something, there was a bang as the ornate door behind Noah flew open. Judge Cranston stood in the doorway with a look of fury on her face and her robes billowing behind her like wings.

  “Noah! What the hell is going on?”

  The young clerk straightened like a marionette yanked by its strings. “Your Honor?”

  “Kim just marched through my well like she owned the goddamned place, ignored my warning, then walked straight down the damn aisle like a goddamned bride at a wedding. Is she on drugs?”

  Elliott grabbed Amy’s arm. “Thanks for your help, Noah.”

  As they left, they heard Judge Cranston bark before the door swung shut, “And who was that? What in the world is happening?”

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Amy said as they hustled down the hall, her voice tight. “That woman was Sister.”

  “I think so,” Elliott said. “Can you call Dave? We don’t have a clue where she lives or where she’s going.”

  Amy pulled out her phone and speed-dialed the detective’s number as they walked. “No answer.”

  “Shit,” Elliott said, frustrated. “All right. Let’s get out of the building, at least. If Judge Cranston is on the warpath, we’re going to get swept up by security.”

  “But then what?”

  “I don’t know. We can find her address somewhere. Tax records, maybe, or some kind of internet search. Maybe phone the utilities and try to con them,” Elliott said, but his voice faltered with doubt even as he said it.

  They hurried down the stairs, through the lobby, and burst out of the glass doors, earning a glance from the security guards.

  “If we can get a taxi, we’ll just talk him into driving us and worry about paying him later,” Elliott said as he scanned the street. He swore. There wasn’t a cab in sight.

  But as they stood there helplessly, a nondescript blue Crown Victoria pulled to the curb. The passenger’s side window came down, revealing Dave Cargill’s bald head and accusing stare.

  42

  Charlotte

  Holding her breath, Charlotte opened Charlie’s wardrobe with trembling hands.

  It had taken forever for the others to move around the house until she could be alone long enough to get into Charlie’s room. No matter how many times Charlotte forgave her, Maggie wouldn’t leave her side, weepy and apologizing for betraying her secret to Sister. New Charlie was morose, moving quietly around the house with his head down like a haunted spirit. Buddy was manic and sprinted up and down the steps shouting until she thought she was going to kill him. Tina stalked the floors, tracking the others with watchful eyes.

  Finally, hours and hours after Sister had left for the day, the others had settled into their routines—New Charlie in the living room, Maggie asleep on their bed, Buddy in the kitchen banging on the table, Tina probably in the cellar planning her traps. Occupied long enough for her to slip into Charlie’s room unseen.

  She didn’t know why today was particularly dreadful, but from the moment the front door had slammed, she’d felt a knot forming in her belly. Maybe it was a stray look from Sister over breakfast or the accumulation of the too-deliberate kindnesses the woman had been showing her lately. A month ago, Charlotte would’ve been bewildered at the treatment.

  Now, she was just scared. Knowing what she knew about Old Charlie, about the trunk in Sister’s room, about Sister’s plan for a birthday party for her soon . . . circumstances felt like the arms of a giant clock—second, minute, and hour—coming together at midnight, a fairy tale written just for her. Except in this story, she knew, there were no pumpkins or princes; at the stroke of twelve, Sister would kill her.

  So, she’d made up her mind to do whatever it took today, now, to try and escape. With any luck, she reasoned, the little knot of wood that had fallen out meant that the plywood covering the dining room window was old and rotting. If she kicked and pushed and pounded on it for the rest of the day, she might just be able to punch a hole large enough to squeeze through.

  It was hardly a plan at all, but she was running out of options and time. The only other thing she needed was Charlie’s little bundle, his escape stash.

  Stretching, she ran her fingers along the inner frame of the wardrobe, frowning when she couldn’t find it. In a panic, she climbed halfway into the wardrobe, pawing at the far corners until she hissed as she caught a splinter in her thumb.

  “Looking for this?”

  Charlotte whipped around. Tina stood in the doorway, smirking, holding the bundle looped over one finger.

  “Give me that,” Charlotte said, trying to make her voice sound commanding, but it came out with a quaver.

  “Why? It’s not yours,” Tina said. “It’s Charlie’s, if it’s anyone’s.”

  “I found it first. And I need it now.”

  “Why?”

  Charlotte stared at the girl, wondering if a lie would mean anything at this point. She was minutes away from kicking her way out of the house, for crying out loud; there was no hiding what she was planning now. “I’m leaving, Tina. I’m getting out of here, and I’m going to get help.”

  “You’re not leaving,” Tina said with a little laugh. “No one leaves here.”

  “I am. And I need that bundle to do it.”

  “A couple of quarters? A tiny knife? That’s going to get you out of here?”

  “It can’t hurt,” Charlotte said. “I’ll use whatever I can to escape.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to leave? Why can’t you just do what she wants?” Tina’s voice cracked. “Why can’t you just be part of the family, like the rest of us?”

  “Because you’re not my family,” Charlotte yelled, suddenly furious. She’d wanted to scream the words since the moment she’d come here. “She’s not my sister.”

  “She could be.” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “She’s better than what we came from. What you’ll go back to.”

  “No, she’s not,” Charlotte said.

  “You wouldn’t know, because you’ve never tried,” Tina accused.

  “Tina, this is not our home. She is not our sister,” Charlotte said, struggling to find the words. “She collects us, then kills us. She killed Charlie.”

  The other girl froze, her face stuck in an expression of disbelief. “Charlie left.”

  “Left where, Tina? Where do you think Charlie went? If you know, tell me.”

  Tina’s mouth opened and closed silently. “He’s just . . . gone. We have a new Charlie, now.”

  “She killed him, Tina. I watched her drag his body down the steps,” Charlotte said, then paused dramatically. “And, you know what? You’re next.”

  “No.”

  “We’re all next, Tina,” Charlotte said, holding the girl’s eyes with her own. “She. Kills. All of us.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re . . . you’re bleeding.”

  “That’s part of it,” Charlotte said, nodding, her voice low and reasonable. She started walking across the floor toward Tina. “Sister doesn’t like change. She doesn’t like me. But soon it’ll be your turn. She’ll throw a party for you.”

  Tina’s face screwed up. “Shut up.”

  “There’ll be big glasses of milk . . .”

  “Shut up.”

  “. . . and cake . . .”

  “Shut up!”

  “. . . and candles. You’ll fall asleep and, in the middle of the night, Sister will wrap you in a blanket and drag your body down the steps.”

  “Charlotte, shut up!”

  “My name’s not Charlotte. And yours isn’t Tina.”

  “My name is Tina!” the girl screamed. “It’s Tina, it’s Tina, it’s Tina!”

  Suddenly they both froze. Even through the walls, they could hear a rushing sound emanating from outside, growing in intensity. The sound of tires on gravel. The sound of Sister coming home.

  Tina’s face, twisted and d
istraught a moment before, lit up triumphantly. With a whoop, she spun on a toe and ran for the stairs.

  Behind her, Charlotte sank to the floor, knowing she was about to die.

  43

  Sister

  Never in her life had she felt like this, almost drunk with confusion, her head ten times its normal size and filled with helium, ready to float away. The paper flower that was her heart was being crushed in a fist. The feeling was so strong she groaned and rubbed her chest.

  And, on top of it all, the horrible, pressing sense that time was finally running out, a sense of urgency so strong that she could taste it on her tongue like a squeeze of lemon. Chased by it, she flew through the intersections and down streets, onto ramps and along the highway faster than she’d ever dared before. Some kind of strange luck was with her—traffic melted away, and the police were absent. There were no sirens, no flashing lights, no cars chasing her down.

  Her car fishtailed as she spun onto the long dirt road to the house. Gripping the wheel as though it was a life ring, she flew up the final hill, her tires spitting rocks and debris as she went. She came to a rocking stop in front of the door, then dashed out of the car and onto the porch. Cursing and crying, she unlocked the door with shaking hands, finally throwing it open with a bang. Momentum shut it with a soft click.

  In the hallway near the steps, eyes wide as saucers, cowered one of the girls. Which one was it? So many children . . .

  “Tina,” she said, then sprang forward and pulled the girl into a hug. “Where are the others?”

  “They’re . . . they’re around,” the girl said. “Charlie and Buddy are upstairs and Maggie’s in the living room. But, Sister, Charlotte is—”

  Without letting go of the girl, Sister staggered over to the foot of the stairs and called, “Charlie! Buddy! Maggie! Come down here, now! This instant! Where is Charlotte?”

  Feet hit the floor nearby and a moment later the two boys peeked down the hall, Buddy from the kitchen, Charlie from the living room. “Yes, Sister?” Buddy asked.

  “Come here. Quickly! Grab the others. Do it!”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  In a moment, the children had gathered in the hall, looking at her warily. She forced herself to slow down, if only for a moment, looking at them one at a time. Tina, loyal sweet Tina, looked ready to cry, as if she sensed what was coming. Buddy was as blank as ever, while Charlie—the new boy—still had the look of a whipped dog. Charlotte was surly, rebellious, and Sister felt her eyes narrow as she looked at the girl. She regretted having not removed her earlier, but there wasn’t any help for it now.

  She gestured impatiently for them to come close, close enough to touch. Reluctantly, they shuffled around her, but now that the time had come, she felt herself choke up. She swallowed the pain and the grief, trying to smile.

  “I know this is very strange, my coming home like this. I have what may sound like an odd request, but you must not question me. Is that clear? Good. We’re all going to take a little afternoon nap right here in the kitchen. I want you to go grab all the pillows and blankets from the living room.” When she saw that only confused them, she groped for some incentive that would make them stop thinking. “Afterward, I’ll go out and bring home pizza for all of us. How does that sound?”

  Their little eyes lit up so brightly she almost burst into tears. As they left to grab pillows, she turned and went into the kitchen. It took all of her strength to shove the farmhouse table against the far wall away from the center. She then took the threadbare tea towels and aprons from the drawer and shoved them into the gaps in the plywood covering the windows. Once she was done sealing the room, she walked up to the stove and spun the dial on the oven. The sharp stink of natural gas was immediate.

  She turned when she heard the children come back, trailing the square cushions and pillows and blankets cannibalized from the couch and chairs. They stood in the doorway uncertainly.

  “Come, come,” she said, gesturing. She pointed at the floor in front of the stove. “Over here, lay the pillows here. Get close, now. Yes, lay down, Buddy.”

  “Sister?”

  She raised her head. Charlotte was looking at her with wide eyes. “Yes? What is it?”

  “There aren’t enough pillows for everyone,” she said, gesturing. “Should I grab some more from upstairs?”

  She glanced at the floor. The girl was right. Even with every pillow from the couch, there were only enough for a few of the children and none for herself. For a moment, she considered simply lying down—did it really matter?—but the thought of her last moments on that cold linoleum floor repulsed her.

  “You’re right, Charlotte. You and Tina grab what you need from the bedrooms, please, and come right back.” She called after the two as they turned to go. “And some pillows for me, as well.”

  Tina had an odd expression on her face, reluctant and questioning, then turned and followed Charlotte out of the kitchen. Seeing that look, she started to call her back, but Maggie chose that moment to tug on her sleeve. She looked down at the little girl.

  “Sister, you look scared. Should I be scared?”

  She got down on her knees to be on the same level. “No, honey. There’s no reason to be scared at all. No one’s going to hurt you like they did before. I’d never let that happen. Do you believe me?”

  Maggie smiled, her cherub’s cheeks round. “I believe you.”

  The look on the girl’s face broke her heart and this time, she did start to cry. She pulled Maggie close in a hug, aware that the others looked at her in alarm, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Waves of fear and loneliness and hurt built up over decades came plowing through her relentlessly, and she could only sob and squeeze the tiny doll in front of her.

  44

  Elliott

  Elliott looked at Dave, shaking his head. “How in the . . . ?”

  Dave looked over and grimaced. “You might have a bunch of psychology degrees, Elliott, but I’ve got twenty years on the street.”

  “You knew we’d head for the court.”

  “Of course,” Dave said. “Once you’d sunk your teeth into that lead about Cranston, I knew you’d head for the court. I’ve been hanging around Moultrie waiting for you for so long the guards started to get nervous.”

  “Thank god you were there.”

  “I guess so,” Dave said. “But where are we going?”

  Briefly, Elliott told him about their encounter in Cranston’s office with Noah and Kim Reston and filled in all the parts they’d surmised.

  He stopped abruptly. His friend’s face had drained of color, leaving it the same shade as his stained white collar. “Jesus, Dave. What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Dave rasped. “I . . . just can’t believe this has been going on right under my nose this whole time.”

  “Years, maybe,” Amy said.

  “So you think she’s the ‘Sister’ Jay Kelly mentioned?” Dave asked, wiping a hand across his face. “You’re absolutely positive?”

  “As sure as I can be of anything right now,” Elliott said. “The intern said that Reston had a traumatic childhood, possibly even a murder in the family. And the woman is obviously on the run. When we started naming the children, she must’ve panicked.”

  “Speaking of which,” Amy said from the back seat, her voice tight, “can we please talk about it on the way?”

  “Can you look up the address by name?” Elliott asked Dave, gesturing at the police laptop mounted from the dash. His friend turned the laptop on its pivot so that it faced him and tapped the keys.

  Ten seconds later, he grunted and turned the laptop off. “Split Ridge Road, past Rockville. Almost to Poolesville.”

  “That was fast,” Elliott said, looking at Dave.

  “Modern technology and big data,” the cop said. “Hold on.” They pulled away from the curb fast, cutting off another car. Dave hit his police squawker and punched the gas. Elliott frowned, looking at the sweat t
hat had popped out on Dave’s forehead, and opened his mouth to say—

  Amy tapped him on the shoulder. “Elliott?”

  “Yes?” he said turning, his question forgotten.

  “Why is she doing this? It’s what I don’t get about the whole thing. What is her motive?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” Elliott said. “We’re missing the why.”

  “Maybe there is no reason,” Dave said gruffly. “Some people just snap.”

  “There’s always a reason,” Elliott admonished, then thought of something. “Your phone has internet, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I see it? We already know a couple key things about Reston. Maybe we can dig up some more.”

  “You sure you know how to use that thing?” Dave said.

  “No, but Amy probably does.”

  Reluctantly, Dave fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it over his shoulder to Amy. Elliott turned in his seat to face her.

  “Noah said he thought there might’ve been a murder within the family and that she still lived in the house where it happened.”

  “So search for Reston, Split Ridge Road, murder, I guess?” Amy said, tapping her way through the search terms.

  “She looked to me like she was in her midforties, so whatever trauma she experienced ‘as a kid,’ as Noah put it, would’ve been thirty to forty years ago. Look for a scan of an archived article.”

  Bent over the phone, Amy picked her way through websites and search screens for several minutes. “Found it. ‘For five generations, the Reston family lived in relative isolation in the last house on Split Ridge Road . . . until the tragic events on Friday night.’”

  “Can I see that?”

  Amy handed Elliott the phone and he skimmed the contents, grunting once or twice as he read the article. When he’d finished he put his head back, thinking.

  “Find anything?” Dave asked, his voice tight.

  Elliott sighed. “The mother apparently had a psychotic episode after the father abandoned her for another woman. There were seven children, and she killed them one by one as they came home from school. Only Kim Reston and a brother survived.”