Birthday Girl

by Matthew Iden

  “How did they do it?” Amy said in a hushed voice.

  “Reston hid in the oven until the police found her. The brother they found in the woods.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “But do you see what she’s doing? Psychologically speaking?”

  She thought about it. “She’s trying to put her family back together.”

  “Yes. But just the brothers and sisters. She must hate her mother. That’s probably why there’s no sexual or physical trauma component with the kids we’re talking about—that wasn’t a trait she inherited, so to speak. The mother, before she snapped completely, never abused the children.”

  “Not physically, anyway,” Dave said, his tone grim. “But why, for god’s sake? Why is Sister killing them? Why would she commit the same crime as her mother?”

  “Oh my god,” Amy said suddenly. “They grow up.”

  Elliott nodded. “They age past the point of the sibling they’re supposed to have replaced. One day, Reston looks at a young man instead of a boy or a young woman instead of the little girl she thought was her sister . . . and doesn’t recognize them anymore. The fantasy breaks.”

  “That’s why she kills them on their birthday,” Amy said. “She anticipates them being too old.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How has she held it together for this long?”

  “She tells herself she’s helping these kids,” Dave said, his voice harsh, “saving them from broken homes where they would’ve been abused or assaulted or worse.”

  Elliott looked over, curious. “I think you’re right, Dave. All those years working in the dependency courts? She must’ve seen hundreds of cases, a lot of them worse than what she went through. I doubt it was much of a stretch for her to believe she was doing them a favor. She probably rationalizes even their murders this way. She helps herself while she helps them.”

  Amy asked, “If she thinks this is all coming to an end, what is she doing right now?”

  “She won’t see any way out. Her rational side knows the law. Multiple accounts of murder and kidnapping—and who knows how many more than what we’ve uncovered—is going to lead to a dozen life sentences.”

  “That’s her rational side. What about her deranged side?”

  “She would never let her brothers and sisters go back into a system that would return them to a broken home,” Dave said, staring straight ahead at the road. His voice was flat, emotionless. “She’ll kill them rather than give them back.”

  45

  Charlotte

  The choice was obvious, which is why Charlotte didn’t take it.

  She’d been at the top of the stairs when Sister had made her explosive entrance and had seen immediately that the woman had forgotten to lock the door in her haste to get all of them into the kitchen. It was a shame Tina had been sent with her, but it was easy enough to take a fake step into her room and back out. With Tina busy in her room gathering blankets, she’d flown down the steps with her heart hammering in her chest and right out the door.

  As she had snuck down the porch steps, each board squeaking like a mouse, with the sun sinking over the woods, she glanced past the aging Cadillac at the driveway beyond. She knew that, almost certainly, it led to a road, and that road led to a street or a boulevard or another road, and eventually to people and homes and safety.

  But what if it didn’t? She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Charlie and how they’d never heard a car pass by or a knock on the door. What if the driveway was a mile long, with nowhere to hide? What if the road it led to was deserted or went on forever? Any minute now Sister would discover Charlotte was missing. She would dash out of the house with her keys in hand, jump in her car, and catch up to her in no time.

  When she’d seen the door cracked open, she knew she had to go now or, instinct told her, she’d never get another chance. With her arms wrapped around the blanket and a pillow she’d pretended to get for Sister, she’d gone right out the door—no plan, no thought except freedom.

  If she could hide in the woods for a day or two, three at the most, Sister would have her hands full with work or taking care of the others—there’d be no time to worry about Charlotte, by which time she’d have a chance to look for a way to escape for good.

  Her stomach turned over on itself at the thought that she was abandoning the others. But maybe, if the track in the woods led somewhere where she could get help, she might still be able to help them. If not . . .

  The dark thought disappeared as soon as her feet hit the ground. A shaft of light hit her full in the face, and a piercing, deep cold breath plumbed the bottom of her lungs—she was outside, she wasn’t a prisoner anymore. A giggle started deep in her belly that raced through her chest and up through her head. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she ran to the back of the house, across the yard, and through the gate she’d spied so many times through the knot in the plywood, not noticing the pillow as it dropped to the ground.

  Tina

  With her arms full, Tina could barely see over the mound of linens and nearly tripped down the steps. Her heart was hammering in her chest. The look on Sister’s face had been a terrifying blend of panic and peace, certainty and hopelessness—more frightening by far than the fury that twisted her features during her temper tantrums. Something terrible was happening, something final.

  When she got to the bottom of the steps and caught the piercing smell of gas, she knew what it was.

  A memory from her early childhood hit her, a vision of sleeping on the couch in their tiny apartment after school. Mom, having given up on dinner, was passed out at the kitchen table. Canned soup, bubbling gently. The stink of natural gas filling the apartment. A neighbor, pounding on the door until he finally gave up and kicked it in, then dragged them both outside, slapping the two of them awake. Tearful thank-yous and promises to never do it again, because the phrase you could’ve died was repeated so many times it began to sound like the lines from a song. Her mother, true to her word, had made sure it never happened again. She didn’t always keep things together, herself most of all, but she’d never put them in danger that way again.

  But now, the smell, the request for blankets and pillows, the look on Sister’s face—it all made sense.

  Charlotte had been right. She was going to kill all of them.

  Even as the thought coalesced in her brain, she suffered another shock as a cool whisper of air brushed her face, pushing the stink of gas away. She turned, and froze. The foyer, normally cavelike and dim, was lit by the thinnest crack of sunlight coming through the front door.

  Tina dropped everything in her arms and walked forward, step by step, as though she had a fever. With a trembling hand, she put her hand on the knob and pulled on it. The door swung open and she stepped cautiously onto the porch, eyes watering as fresh, chill air washed over her. She blinked away the tears and gazed at the scene in front of her.

  The front yard was a collection of crab grass and dirt, with a gravel drive disappearing down a hill to her left. A car, an old clunker, sat just feet from the front porch. She turned and scanned the side yard where she gasped softly as she caught sight of a pillow on the ground. From around the side of the house came a squeal followed by a wooden clack. A gate or a door, swinging in the breeze.

  Charlotte. She’d actually done it, she’d run.

  She ran her hands up and down her arms, fidgeting and staring into the forest beyond the gate. There wasn’t much time before Sister came looking for them. If only Charlotte hadn’t talked back so often, hadn’t forced Sister’s hand, none of this would’ve happened.

  Then again, she’d thought sometimes that her mother’s drug use was her fault for being bad, but no matter how good she tried to be, her mother still used them. It had been her mother’s choice to keep doing the wrong thing. Like maybe Sister was unable to do the right thing.

  Tina chewed her lip. No matter how bad she was, though, her mother never blamed her the way Sister blamed the child
ren. For the briefest moment, she imagined herself running after Charlotte, joining her in escape, seeing her mom again, being part of the world again. Maybe she missed her mom more than she’d been willing to admit. Did her mom miss her? Was she looking for her right now? Or had she given up and moved on with her life?

  She glanced back into the house, at its comforting closeness, the walls and floors and ceilings that had become so familiar to her. The house that, no matter what Sister had in store for them all, was now her home.

  Why was she even asking herself these questions? It didn’t matter. There was no escape for her, no real escape for any of them. She could hope and dream all she wanted; she would never see her mom again. But maybe . . . maybe if she caught up with Charlotte, dragged her back, redeemed them all, there would be a chance to put Sister’s mind to rest, maybe reverse the terrible decision she’d been forced to make, and they could go back to how things were before.

  Tina ran down the steps, around the house, and into the woods.

  Sister

  Minutes passed and eventually the wrenching feeling eased inside her. She released Maggie and led her to a blanket on the floor. “Lay here, Maggie.”

  Wiping her eyes, she looked around. Charlie and Buddy were lying down, ramrod straight, pretending to be asleep. What was taking the two girls so long? Weary and drained, Sister pushed herself to her feet. Although the smell of gas had dissipated, she knew that carbon monoxide was slowly filling the room. It wouldn’t be long now, but they had to be together or it would all be for naught. A surge of fury rolled through her. Why, of all the times, do I have to follow up on them now? “Close your eyes, everyone, and try to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

  Stepping daintily over the children, she flew out of the kitchen, ready to rip strips off the girls, when she froze.

  Late-afternoon light spilled into the house through a wide-open front door.

  Shock ran through her like she’d been dropped into an icy sea. Betrayed. Not just by Charlotte—that was almost to be expected—but by Tina. Tina, her favorite. One of the few sisters she’d ever wondered if she could save, not for a few years, but forever. And, now, both were gone. They must’ve plotted their escape together, kept it secret from her and the others for months, even faked a rivalry with each other, just waiting for the right moment to flee.

  With a scream, Sister bounded out of the house and tripped down the steps, her heart in her throat and a pounding in her neck like there was something in her veins trying to get out. Pulling out her keys, she raced to the car and jumped into the driver’s seat. In her mind’s eye, she saw Charlotte and Tina trotting down the drive, their eyes full of hope, completely unaware of just how far freedom was. She grimaced with some slight pleasure as she imagined plowing into the girls, driving them under the grill of the car, smearing them into the road.

  She hauled on the wheel to make the U-turn down the driveway, then froze.

  Something in the yard, a lump or a bump on the ground, caught her eye. She slowly got out of the car, her long shadow falling across the yard, and walked to the object.

  It was a pillow. She turned it over and over in her hands, a vision of her mother plumping it before placing it back on the couch, seeing the children who had slept on it, seeing her own face pressed against it to blot the tears. Seeing it falling out of the hands of one of those little bitches as they ran away.

  All the fear and pain and hatred swelled up from her chest, through her throat, bubbling out of her mouth. “You won’t make it,” she screamed into the woods. “You will never break up our family! I won’t let you.”

  A breeze rattling the dead brown leaves on the beech trees was the only answer. Poor man’s wind chime, her mother used to call it. The pillow fell from her hands onto the ground. In a daze, she walked to the gate, then broke into a run as she entered the woods.

  46

  Elliott

  Amy pointed from the back seat at a green and white road sign leaning at a thirty-degree angle and nearly hidden by a low-hanging oak branch. “There, that’s it.”

  Split Ridge Road was a loosely packed dirt lane. Dave took the turn fast, and the car spat gravel before he got it under control and followed the road cut through the hillside. Rusted barbed wire and the husks of fence posts lined the embankment to either side. An occasional break in the berm marked where drives and trails may have once been, but all were overgrown and weedy. Shafts of late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the sweetgums and tulip poplars, the leafless trees throwing long, thin shadows across the road and highlighting motes of dust hanging in the air like sprites.

  “She just passed through,” Elliott said, pointing to the dust. “How far are we?”

  The detective kept his eyes on the road. “A quarter mile.”

  “Should you call for backup?” Amy asked from the back seat.

  Dave looked in the mirror. “You’re still fugitives, remember? This one’s on us.”

  The road dipped into a cracked concrete swale with an inch of water in it, the washout for a tiny creek, then climbed a hill for a long minute. Dave slowed as they crested the top of a ridge and the forest opened into a clearing, revealing a ramshackle four-square farmhouse. Pallet-size chunks of shingles had blown free of the roof and were scattered around the modest yard. A rotting wooden fence ran along the perimeter, doing little to hold back an overgrown copse of brambles, snags, and leaning trees. Inside the fence, weeds and thistle swayed knee-high.

  Uneven wooden steps led up to a decrepit porch. A broken porch swing dangled from a single intact chain. Plywood panels had been nailed to the outside of every window. Dave swore.

  Sitting at an angle at the foot of the steps, as though ready to drive up onto the porch, was a dusty brown Cadillac from a different era. Its driver’s side door hung open and the headlights were on, pointing to the back of the yard. Dave stopped short of the Cadillac and threw the cruiser in park, but left the engine running.

  “Oh god,” Amy groaned. “Lacey’s here, I can feel it.”

  “Stay put,” Dave said, his voice strained as he got out of the car and ran to the house.

  Amy popped open her door. “There’s no way I’m going to sit in this car.”

  “Amy!” Elliott called, then cursed and jumped out after her.

  Moving gingerly, Dave mounted the steps along their outer edge, then approached the door from an angle. Keeping the thick brick wall between him and anyone inside, he reached out with his off hand and banged on the door, shouting something at the same time. The door, apparently unlatched and unlocked, swung open.

  His face turned stormy as he noticed Amy coming up the steps with Elliott trailing. “Get back in the car!” he said.

  “I can’t,” Amy said. “Lacey’s here, I know it.”

  “Do you smell that?” Elliott said, interrupting whatever Dave was about to say. The other two started as the smell reached them: the sharp tang of natural gas.

  Dave swore and pushed into the house, reared back as the fumes hit him head-on. “Cover your mouth with your shirt.”

  Elliott shoved his nose and mouth into the crook of his elbow and pushed in after Dave, getting a quick impression of hundred-year-old furnishings and musty wall hangings barely lit in the gloom of the boarded-up home as he ran after the detective.

  Dave charged down the length of the hall without pausing, then turned right. Elliott followed him into an old-style farmhouse kitchen, complete with soapstone sink and a rough-cut plank table shoved up against the wall. In the far corner was an ancient white porcelain stove. The door to the oven was open; a hissing noise emanated from it. Lying on an impromptu bed of couch cushions and throw pillows were three small bodies, seemingly asleep.

  Elliott pushed past Dave, who had frozen at the sight of the children, then vaulted over the bodies to kick the oven door shut. He frantically spun the fat dial to its OFF position.

  “Amy,” he barked. “Get them out of here!”

  As Amy bent to scoop up a tin
y girl no more than five or six years old, Dave turned to an interior door and opened it, revealing a set of rickety steps leading down into darkness.

  “Dave, what the hell are you doing?” Elliott called as he watched the detective flick the light on and start to descend the steps.

  “You two get the kids out of here,” he called back. “We haven’t cleared the house. That lunatic could be loading a shotgun right now.”

  Elliott reached for the nearest child, a pale redheaded boy with arms like sticks, and heaved him over a shoulder. He loped out of the kitchen and down the hall, trailing Amy, who had her hands full with the other two.

  Dave

  Dave moved around the cellar carefully but confidently. The single bare bulb did little to illuminate the place—it was really just to keep you from breaking your neck coming down the stairs—but he pulled out a flashlight and scanned the gloomy, dirt-floored level. It was just like he remembered it. A washing machine and dryer in one corner with a soapstone wash sink nearby, the accumulated debris of five generations stacked neatly in another.

  Some of the junk had obviously been piled and propped up to form little traps, the kind he used to make when he played fort with his brothers, but more dangerous. Near the steps, the broken shaft of a yard rake had been threaded through the springs of a child’s hobbyhorse—it had been Maggie’s, he remembered—like a lance, its vicious point aimed precariously upward. A few feet farther on, a jump rope had been stretched across the narrow gap of junk at ankle height, obviously meant to trip unwary explorers. Beyond that, an evil conglomeration of spikes, baling wire, and corroded utensils were balled together in a box carefully set for the tripped person to fall into.

  Above him, he could hear the quick, erratic steps of Elliott and Amy as they moved the kids out of the house. He didn’t have much time. With something like a sigh, he lowered his hand and rested it on the butt of his gun. “Kim? You there?”