Island of Lost Girls

by Jennifer McMahon

  “I don’t know yet,” Rhonda said, standing. “You want a candy bar?” Warren shook his head, started doodling on the paper in front of him. Birdie, he wrote.

  Rhonda walked over to the rack of candy, picked out a Snickers bar and brought it up to Pat at the register. Pat looked up from the latest Ernie spread in the newspaper (in which a photo of Pat herself featured prominently) and gave Rhonda a huge smile.

  “It’s on the house, Rhonda. It’s the least I can do to thank you for all of your work here. You know, what Trudy said wasn’t fair and I’m sorry.”

  Rhonda shrugged.

  “You keep your chin up, now,” Pat ordered. “We mustn’t start to lose hope. We’ve got to stick together and bring this little girl home.” She gave Rhonda a robust pat on the shoulder. Maybe Warren had spoken up for her, and she was off Pat’s list?

  Pat came out from behind the counter and walked over to Warren.

  “FYI, we have a new volunteer, Cecil Lowry, coming in around two. He used to be the fire chief but he’s been retired for years now. He’s still got a lot of connections, knows everybody. He’ll bring a real sense of order to things here. He’s a character alright—I think you’ll like him.”

  Then she bent down and said something in a low voice to him. He glanced over to Rhonda, then away. He whispered something back, looking a little frustrated.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Rhonda muttered to herself. So much for being off the suspect list.

  She walked down the hall past the bathroom, office, and storeroom, and into the garage, where Jim was doing an oil change while he listened to the Red Sox game on the radio. There was no sign of Peter.

  There was a metal desk in the corner, with a large appointment book taking up most of the surface. Rhonda saw no harm in wandering over and taking a look. It was opened to today’s date, June 7. Peter was the one supposed to be doing the oil change. There were two inspections and a brake job scheduled for later that afternoon: things she knew Jim wasn’t qualified to do. She flipped back through the greasy pages, glancing at the schedules over the past three weeks. Laura Lee’s car had been in three times. Peter had installed a new fuel line and fuel filter back on May 15. The VW was in again on May 25 to have the rear brakes replaced. Then, on June 1, last Thursday, Peter had replaced some clamps and hoses. There was also a list of things he hadn’t gotten around to: replacing the fan belt (he had to order the part) and fixing the latch on the passenger side door (a note in the book said Laura Lee reported the door only stayed closed if it was locked). Peter had penciled her in again for next Friday to finish the work. Doubtful she’d come now that the car had been impounded.

  But it had been in last Thursday, which was, according to Katy, when the rabbit had given Ernie a ride home in his submarine.

  Shit.

  Rhonda closed the book.

  “You doing our scheduling now?” Jim had come up behind her.

  “Huh? Oh, no. Sorry, just looking. I was wondering when Peter worked next.”

  Jim nodded grimly. “Supposed to be here now. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Shows up when he feels like it, I guess. Must be nice.”

  “I guess he’s got a lot on his mind,” she said.

  “No excuse,” Jim said.

  “I guess not,” Rhonda answered. “I better get back to the phones.”

  On the short walk back to the tables in the corner, Rhonda made up her mind not to tell Warren about seeing Laura Lee’s car in the scheduling book. Like it or not, the evidence was stacked against Peter and proving his innocence was going to be tricky. She needed more clues. Rhonda peeked into Pat’s office as she went by—empty. She stepped in and glanced at the clipboard on the wall next to the desk: the employee schedule. She flipped back to the week before and scanned the schedule for Thursday. Pat was working, along with someone named Carl. And Peter. Surely, if Peter drove off in Laura Lee’s car for any length of time, someone would have noticed. She couldn’t very well ask Pat, who would just see it as more evidence of Peter’s involvement (and possibly Rhonda’s too), so what she needed to do was find this Carl guy. She saw his name on the schedule later in the week. Perfect.

  Rhonda hurried out of the office and back down the hall, and there he was: the suspect of the hour.

  “Hey, Ronnie,” Peter called.

  He was standing next to Warren, holding the hair back from his forehead, showing off his scar. Warren, apparently, had remembered Laura Lee’s instructions and thought to ask about the scar. Beside Peter was Suzy, dressed in a tie-dye shirt and cutoff shorts. Rhonda scanned the store quickly: no Tock. She practically bounded up to them.

  “Aunt Rhonda!” Suzy said, “Daddy says I can come see Sadie again soon.”

  “Of course,” Rhonda said. “Any time you like.”

  “Can I bring her some apples?”

  “Of course, sweetie. She’d love that.”

  “What, you have a horse or something?” Warren asked.

  Rhonda and Suzy giggled.

  “A pig,” Suzy told him.

  He looked shocked.

  “A guinea pig,” Rhonda explained.

  “Hey Ronnie, can you keep an eye on Suzy for a minute?” Peter asked. “I’ve gotta go patch things up with Pat and Jim. Tock and I screwed up our schedules and I’ve got Suzy all day. I had to bring her to the doctor’s this morning.”

  “I had another storm,” Suzy said.

  “They changed her medication again. Freaking doctors. You’d think they’d have a clue what would work here. That’s her third seizure in a week.” Peter was already on his way across the store and into the garage. Suzy sat down at the table, flipped over a flyer with Ernie’s picture to the blank side and began to scribble.

  “So what’s this guinea pig like?” Warren asked, directing the question more at Suzy than Rhonda.

  “She’s albino,” Suzy said. “She’s all white with red eyes. Like a ghost.”

  Suzy began to draw an octopus, counting the legs carefully.

  “No kidding,” Warren said. “How cool is that? When do I get to meet her?” Now he looked in Rhonda’s direction.

  “Anytime,” Rhonda said before she had a chance to think better of it.

  “Today? When we get out of here?” Warren suggested.

  “Why not?” Rhonda said.

  “She likes apples,” Suzy told him.

  “Well then I better go see if I can find one. I don’t want to make a bad first impression by arriving empty-handed.” He got up and walked over to the coolers to search for an apple.

  “He’s funny,” Suzy said.

  “Yeah, he is,” Rhonda agreed. Had she really just invited Warren home? What was she thinking? Why did he even want to come? Maybe he was just an animal lover.

  “Daddy says you’re helping to find Ernie,” Suzy said, looking up from her drawing. The octopus now had eight legs and had been joined by a smiling starfish.

  “We’re sure trying,” Rhonda said. The reality was, they weren’t doing shit. It seemed no one was. Forty-eight hours later, there was no sign of the little girl. It was like they disappeared into thin air, she and the rabbit in the submarine.

  It could so easily have been Suzy, Rhonda thought as she stroked the little girl’s hair. It could have been any little girl.

  “Hey, Suzy? Did you know about the rabbit visiting Ernie?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yep. He came to school.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No. Only Ernie. She said she was lucky. That Peter picked her because she was special. I only met the other Peter.”

  Was Suzy drawing a rabbit there, hopping through her underwater scene?

  “What other Peter?” Rhonda’s heart began beating double-time.

  No, it wasn’t a rabbit. Suzy was drawing an angelfish.

  “The stuffed one. Like a toy? Ernie said the real Peter gave her the stuffed Peter to keep her company. So she wouldn’t be lonely when he couldn’t be with her.”

  “So he ga
ve her a stuffed rabbit?”

  “Uh-huh. White and fluffy but it got dingy quick.”

  “Come on, Suzy Q, time to jump back in the saddle!” Peter called.

  He was walking stiffly toward them.

  “That was fast,” Rhonda said.

  “It doesn’t take long to get canned,” Peter said, trying to sound casual, but Rhonda heard the faint tremor in his voice.

  “What?” Rhonda asked.

  “They fired me. Said my working here was bad for business.”

  “They can’t do that!”

  “Sure they can,” Peter shrugged. “It’s a small town. People talk.” He drew in a breath, blew it out slowly, calmly. Only someone who knew him as well as Rhonda could read his face: he was seething.

  “About what?” Suzy asked.

  “A lot of nonsense, that’s what,” Peter said. “Now grab your latest masterpiece and come on. We’ve gotta get the shopping done and dinner cooked before your mama gets home.”

  “I DIDN’T KNOW guinea pigs were so talkative,” Warren said as he kneeled on the floor of Rhonda’s living room, stroking Sadie, who was showing off with whistles and coos.

  “I think she’s got a thing for you.”

  “She just loves me for my apple slices.” He reached into the aquarium and fed her another. “Her pink eyes are kind of freaky.”

  “Some cultures believe that albinos have magical powers,” Rhonda said.

  Warren raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me: that’s why you chose Sadie, to help with your mojo?”

  “Nope.” Rhonda leaned in and stroked Sadie’s head. “No magical powers here. Just a distinct lack of melanin. I rescued her from the lab at school.”

  Warren tossed in another apple slice, then stood up, wiping his hands on his shorts. Rhonda found herself staring at the fine hairs on his legs and wondered, for an instant, what it would be like to run her fingers lightly over them.

  Get over it, she told herself.

  Rhonda had dated in college. Not much, but enough to know that it always ended in disappointment. She’d gone out to the movies, dinner, even fooled around a little, but it never amounted to anything. No matter how nice the guy, how well he treated her or how much they had in common, he still wasn’t Peter.

  “You want a drink or something?” Rhonda asked, turning away from Warren and his legs. “I’ve got Diet Coke and beer. Or I could make tea.”

  “Beer would be great.” He followed her down the hall toward the kitchen, stopping to study the dissection drawings.

  “Did you do these?” Warren asked, finger hovering over the eviscerated rabbit, tracing the outline of its lungs and heart.

  Rhonda nodded.

  “They’re really good. Kind of a sick thing to put up on the wall of your home—animals all taken apart like this—but they’re excellent. Beautiful, even. You’re an artist.”

  Rhonda shook her head. “I just draw what I see. An artist interprets and manipulates—I don’t have that kind of imagination or ability.”

  “Yeah and I just film what I see too and they call it art. It’s all about perspective, Rhonda.”

  She shrugged and led him to the kitchen, where they settled in at the table with a couple of beers and some mildly stale pretzels Rhonda dug out of the back of a cupboard.

  “I’ve been thinking about this thing with Peter,” Rhonda said.

  “I think it’s shitty that Pat and Jim fired him. And it’s probably not even legal.”

  Warren nodded. “Probably not.”

  “So I thought maybe you could talk to them. Convince them that firing him isn’t the right way to handle things. It’s just going to make everything worse. People are looking to Pat as a key player in this Ernie thing—she’s had way more media exposure than Trudy and she’s pretty much become the star of Pike’s Crossing overnight. If she fires Peter, it makes him look even more guilty.”

  “I don’t know, Rhonda. Jim’s pretty easy. But Pat, once she makes up her mind about a thing, it’s like trying to stir dried cement.”

  “Will you try?”

  “Okay. I’ll try. If you’ll do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Consider that Peter might not be what you think. I’m not saying he’s the one who took Ernie, I’m just asking you to look at the evidence and realize he might be involved in some way. He might not be the person he seems.”

  “I’ve known Peter since I was born!”

  “I know. I know you have. But everyone has secrets.”

  She was about to open her mouth to say that she knew all of Peter’s secrets, and he all of hers, but she was interrupted by the ringing phone. She excused herself and grabbed the cordless phone from the table in the front hall.

  “Ronnie? It’s Tock. Listen, Suzy just told me she was talking to you about Ernie this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, a little.” Rhonda began to pace back and forth across the hall, studying the dissection drawings.

  “She said you asked about Ernie and the rabbit.” There was an edge to Tock’s voice that made Rhonda cringe.

  “I just wondered if she’d ever seen the rabbit,” Rhonda explained. She looked at her own rabbit drawing, the layers of fur, skin, and tissue peeled back to reveal the bright, jewel-like organs inside.

  Tock blew out a breath, hissing into the phone like some far-off snake. “She had one of her worst seizures ever last night. Did Peter tell you that? God, I can’t believe he brought her into Pat’s in the first place, all that Ernie stuff around…it’s too much. She’s a little girl, Rhonda. A very upset little girl with a serious medical condition that isn’t being controlled very well at the moment.” Tock’s voice was strained. She sounded like she was on the verge of either crying or screaming.

  “I’m sorry, Tock. God, I would never do anything to hurt or upset Suzy. I was just making conversation. I’m so sorry. I’ll be more careful in the future.” Rhonda stood with her back against the wall and let herself sink down, back sliding, until she was sitting on the floor.

  “Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Of course,” Rhonda said. “Thanks for calling, Tock. Thanks for telling me.” She started to stand.

  “Wait, there’s something else. Did you stop by my mother’s trailer yesterday?”

  Rhonda took in a breath, let herself fall back to the ground. Shit. “Yeah. I just wanted to see how she was.”

  “And you brought some guy…some movie director or something?”

  “I brought a friend. My friend Warren. He’s not really—”

  “My family’s been through a lot these last couple of days. I don’t know what it is you hoped to find by interrogating a sick woman and a little girl, but you’re not the cop, Rhonda. It’s not your job to go digging around in other people’s lives. You’re just a witness. A witness who did nothing, which, let’s face it, is pretty fucking suspicious, isn’t it?”

  Before Rhonda could respond, Tock slammed the phone down, sending a smashing shriek across the lines, echoing inside Rhonda’s already rattled skull.

  MAY 31, 1993

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE his birthday, Clem began sleeping in his study. There was a love seat there, and he’d lie down with his long legs draped over one armrest, his head forced up at an unnatural angle by the other. When he woke up in the morning, he’d emerge from his new lair in the rough shape of a question mark, hobble his way to the kitchen, and make coffee. By the time he was into his second cup, he’d straightened up again.

  “Why are you sleeping in the study?” Rhonda asked after it became clear that this was to be an ongoing arrangement.

  “My snoring was keeping your mother awake,” he said.

  “You snore, Daddy?”

  He shrugged, turned the coffee mug in his hands.

  Rhonda would watch him get ready for work (Clem was the boss at the sawmill those days—Dave Lancaster had retired) after one of his nights on the love seat, wondering what was really going on. She heard bits and pieces of arg
uments through the walls. Hushed conversations. She never picked up enough to know what the fighting was about—only that her mother seemed very angry with her father. And Rhonda knew enough to realize it sure didn’t have anything to do with her father snoring.

  She made up her mind to do something extra special for his birthday. She’d make him a drawing. A really nice one. She’d take her time and do a sketch of something he’d really love. But what? She made a mental list of the things her father loved: black coffee, unfiltered Camel cigarettes, German beer, and the Civil War. The war seemed like the best candidate for a good picture.

  Her father spent nearly all his free time reading about it, studying battle plans and maps. One weekend a month, he got together with a group of other Civil War enthusiasts and planned reenactments. Clem had a scratchy wool costume and marched in parades with a musket, camped out at fairs, and reenacted battles all over the east coast. Rhonda didn’t get her father’s fascination, obsession even, with a war he’d had nothing to do with. She felt a little embarrassed for him when he dug his Union Army uniform out of storage and put it on, marching off to war in his Dodge pickup, Camel cigarettes and a cup of coffee by his side.

  Maybe, Rhonda thought, she could do a drawing of one of the generals. She just needed to find a good photo to work from and she could draw just about anything. She resolved to sneak into his study when she got home from school, before he got out of work, and find a picture.

  GRANT AND LEE stared up at her, along with endless photos of young men in uniform. None of them were right. She thought about trying to draw an old map depicting a battleground, but that seemed silly—a map is a drawing, anyway. Then, she found it. There in the pages of one of her father’s books, her subject stared up at her: the Hunley.

  The Hunley was a Confederate-built submarine powered by eight men turning hand cranks. While it was not the first submarine, it was, Rhonda knew from her father’s Civil War rants, the first sub ever to sink a ship in battle. The Hunley itself sank in the waters near Charleston in 1864 after tearing a hole in the side of a Union ship. The Confederate camp nearby saw the blue light from the Hunley signaling that they’d been successful in their mission and were returning to shore, but something went wrong along the way. The submarine, and the crew that went down with it, were never recovered. What happened to the Hunley and its crew was, according to Clem, one of the greatest mysteries in United States history.