The Forgotten Girls

by Owen Laukkanen

  Hurley was tired. Exhausted. He was hungry, famished, and the FBI was chasing him down. But he was a hunter, too. He’d abandoned his last girl to the forest, and the deputy’s death had been fast. It had been too long since Hurley had killed, really killed—and this picture, this girl, had awoken the need.

  Hurley set the food aside. Left it on the kitchen counter. Propped the rifle against the fridge, reached into his coat for the Indian girl’s knife. This was a bad idea, he knew, but he was doing it anyway. Had to. He couldn’t resist. This girl was a gift.

  He crossed the kitchen toward the front of the house, a living area, a doorway in shadows that must have been stairs. He crept, easing one foot to the floor, then the other, his whole body tense. Made the base of the stairs and looked up into darkness. Listened to the stillness, heard nothing but his beating heart. The house was asleep.

  He began to climb.

  98

  The landing was carpeted. Hurley stopped at the top of the stairs, let his eyes acclimate, sense his surroundings. A long corridor. Empty doorways. Someone snoring softly at the end of the hall.

  The first room was the bathroom. Hurley could hear the faucet dripping. He continued down the hall, slowly, slowly. Eased his foot down, chose the wrong place to do it. The floor creaked beneath carpet, a loud, telltale groan. Shit.

  Hurley froze, gripping the knife tight. Pressed himself against the wall and waited. Listened. Heard nothing, no movement. The snoring continued.

  This was wrong. This was foolish. But it was so goddamn necessary.

  He continued. The next doorway. The door half ajar, blackness beyond. Hurley pushed the door open wider. Saw posters on the wall, a stuffed animal in the window. Heard the sheets rustle, some muttered dream language.

  Here she was. Here she was, waiting for him, and now he would have her. He slipped farther into the room. Felt the back side of the door, found no lock. He would have to be careful. So be it.

  He crept closer. He could sense the girl now, could hear her breathing, could smell her shampoo, her perfume. He was at the foot of the bed, leaned against it. Looked around the dark room and wished for more light. More time. Wanted the girl to see him, to know why he’d come.

  This would have to do.

  Hurley began to circle the bed. Trailed his fingers on the edge of the bed frame, the smooth sheet, the comforter. Reached across the blanket, searching with his hand for her, heart pounding, drunk on the thought of what he was about to do.

  Then a door opened slowly, somewhere behind him. Hinges protested, so softly as to be almost inaudible. But Hurley heard them. Felt the footsteps in the hall, the house so still every movement seemed to reverberate to the foundation. Someone was coming this way.

  The footsteps came closer, and Hurley knew he couldn’t escape in time. Knew his only hope was to hide. He backed into the shadows beside the girl’s bed. Thumbed the hilt of the knife and held his breath as the person in the hallway came closer. Waited.

  Keep walking, he thought. Just keep walking.

  The footsteps stopped outside the girl’s door. Hurley could feel the person’s presence in the doorway, though he couldn’t see anything. He stood still in the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, eyes straight ahead, breathing shallow. Knew if he moved, his hunt would be over.

  The figure in the hall stepped into the girl’s bedroom. Hurley could see a silhouette, a man’s form—her father? He stared in at the girl for what seemed like an eternity. Hurley watched him, prayed he didn’t reach for the light switch. Tensed his muscles to fight, to leap at the man with his knife. He would damn well get out of this house.

  But the man didn’t turn on the light. He shifted his weight, backed out of the room, and Hurley let himself breathe again. Listened to the man’s footsteps recede. Heard another door open, close again, firm. Heard a toilet flush, running water. The door opened again.

  Nature calls. No big deal. Now go back to bed, Dad.

  Go back to bed, and let me teach your daughter the lesson you couldn’t.

  The footsteps returned. Hurley braced himself. Waited for the man to pass the bedroom, to return to his own room, fall back asleep. Ten minutes, maybe, and all would be still again. Patience, and quiet. Hurley had waited longer for worse.

  But the man wasn’t coming back down the hall. Hurley heard his feet fall on hardwood, the stairs. Heard the steps diminish again as the man descended to the first floor of the house. Hurley let himself relax, figuring Dad was likely checking the doors and windows, reassuring himself. Figured as soon as the man convinced himself his house was secure, he would come back to bed.

  Fifteen minutes, then. Maybe twenty.

  It was just as the first light switched on downstairs that Hurley remembered the food he’d left on the counter. The rifle he’d propped up by the fridge.

  Damn it.

  Hurley pushed off from the bedroom wall. Hurried across to the door, as quiet as he could, made for the stairs.

  The man would notice the food. He would find Hurley’s rifle. He would know Hurley was here.

  99

  Light glowed up through the stairwell from some lamp around the corner in the living room. Hurley could hear the man’s footsteps, louder now on the hardwood, as he followed him down the stairs.

  The man was still in the living room, best as Hurley could figure. He hadn’t moved to the kitchen yet. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would turn around and come back up the stairs.

  No matter. It was too late. The man’s fate was sealed the moment he’d walked down those stairs. Hurley would have to kill him, and he would have to do it quietly.

  Hurley reached the bottom of the stairs. Touched down on the first floor, stepping lightly, praying the floorboards wouldn’t groan underneath him and give him away. He raised his knife, held it in front of himself, a fighter’s stance. Peered around the corner, scanned the living room for the man.

  But the living room was empty. And there was a light on now in the kitchen. The man stood in the space between the two rooms, his back to Hurley. He was of medium build, black hair turning gray. He was staring in at the kitchen. Wasn’t moving.

  Hurley knew that wouldn’t last. The man’s sleepy brain would wake up fast once he’d realized what Hurley’s rifle must mean. He would take action, reach for a weapon or the phone, and Hurley couldn’t afford to wait around to see which.

  He crossed the living room, knife at the ready, speed the objective now, not silence. The man didn’t hear him at first. He just stood there, scratching his head, mind struggling to compute. By the time he heard Hurley coming, and tensed, half turning, he was already too late.

  Hurley closed the distance fast. Reached his free hand around the man’s head, covered his mouth, wrenched his head back. Brought his knife to the man’s throat and cut across, fast. The man struggled. He screamed through Hurley’s left hand, wrenched against Hurley’s grip, kicked, fought for his life. Hurley held firm as the man’s fight diminished, his anger turned to panic. As his arms abandoned Hurley’s grip and went to his own throat, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

  Hurley guided the man deeper into the kitchen, his eye on a pantry closet opposite the back door. The man’s blood pooled beneath him, lakes on the hardwood. His struggles were weakening. He kicked out uselessly now and then, but Hurley held on. Half pulled, half dragged him to the pantry, opened the door with his knife hand, and backed the man inside. Laid him down gently, the man’s fight all but gone. He’d stopped screaming, even, lay back and made dying noises, his eyes wide and staring beyond Hurley, staring at nothing. Hurley waited until he was sure the man was past help. Then he stepped out of the pantry, closed the door behind him. Left the man inside to die in darkness.

  The kitchen was an abattoir. Blood spattered the counters, the cabinets, the buzzing fridge. Tracked a grisly trail to the pantry door. There was no hiding this, no c
leaning it up. There was only escape before anyone saw.

  For the briefest of moments, Hurley indulged the idea of returning to the girl, now that he’d dealt with her father. It was a pleasant idea. But it was foolish as hell. He couldn’t afford the temptation.

  Time was wasting. Hurley circled around the kitchen table, dodging the pools of blood at his feet, and retrieved his rifle and the food he’d left out. Spared a glance at the pantry door, the bloody trail, wondered if the man had died knowing he’d saved his daughter’s life. Wondered if the daughter would ever realize just how much she owed her dad.

  He crossed to the back door, the keys hanging on the coat hook—Dodge, Toyota, Volkswagen. Hurley lingered over the keys, thinking. Three cars. Three choices.

  He decided on the Dodge. American muscle. Was just lifting the keys from the hook when he sensed something behind him, turned, and there she was, in the doorway, the daughter herself, the pretty, wicked beast.

  (And she was pretty, in her pajamas, her hair mussed. She looked younger than Hurley had expected, innocent—but he knew her innocence was an illusion.)

  The girl stared in at him. Took in his presence by the door, his face, his rifle. Took in the blood on the floor, the counters, the fridge.

  Hurley stared back, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the girl screamed, loud, and ran.

  100

  The girl disappeared into the living room, pounded up the stairs, her screams echoing everywhere, bouncing off the walls and straight back at Hurley, until his ears rang and he was sure even the police could hear her crying, miles away.

  Hurley chased her, his boots slipping in the dead man’s blood. Dropped his rifle. No matter, he still had the deputy’s pistol. He still had the Indian girl’s knife.

  He took the stairs two at a time. Energized now, adrenaline pumping. Made the top of the stairs, the carpet—dark, bloody footprints leading down to the end of the hall. A door slammed. The girl didn’t stop screaming.

  Hurley drew the pistol. Hurried down the hall to the door at the end. There was screaming behind it. Another voice, too. Hurley tried the handle. Locked. No matter. He stepped back. Aimed his pistol. Fired through the lock, kicked the door open.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not one of your pussy boyfriends,” he called through the open doorway. “I don’t back down that easy, girl.”

  Beyond the doorway was darkness, another brief hall. A light at the end in an open room—soft, a night-light. Hurley advanced, carefully now, thinking the girl or her mother might jump out at him, try an ambush, hit him with something heavy. But nobody ambushed him. The girl’s screaming had died. In its place, Hurley heard muffled sobbing, someone else whispering.

  He reached the end of the short hall, the open room. The master bedroom, a queen-size bed, a dresser, matching bedside tables. The shades drawn on the windows, one lamp by the bed. And in the corner, as far away from the little hall as possible, the girl and her mother, huddled up close together, the girl crying, the mother trying to calm her.

  The girl’s mother was even prettier than her daughter. Hurley could see the resemblance, but the girl’s mother had aged into her looks, outgrown girlish innocence, matured into a woman. She was beautiful, so beautiful that Hurley was instantly suspicious. How had a woman like this wound up with the farmer he’d dispatched so easily downstairs? Why had she settled for such an ordinary man?

  Maybe the farmer had inherited wealth, Hurley thought. He hadn’t seemed like a brute; he hadn’t tamed this woman.

  The girl and her mother watched Hurley from the floor, the girl’s cheeks lined with tears, her nose runny. She looked away when Hurley met her eyes, sobbed again. The girl’s mother didn’t look away, though. She looked up at Hurley, calm, took in the knife and the gun.

  Hurley ran his eyes over her body, his excitement building. He would have this woman, and her daughter, too. He would teach them both lessons. He would work slowly, enjoy himself. And he would ask the woman how her farmer husband had brought her here. He would ask her all sorts of questions, ask them both. And he would keep asking, until they’d run out of answers.

  —

  Hurley bound the girl’s wrists tight with panty hose. Bound her mother’s. Pushed them both onto the bed and bound their ankles, too, hobbling them. Stood back and admired his handiwork, enjoyed how they struggled.

  The girl was hysterical; she hadn’t stopped crying. Her mother seemed to be fighting to keep calm. “Let her go,” she told Hurley. “Please. Do what you want with me, but please, let my daughter go.”

  Hurley grinned down at her. “I don’t think so.” He was shaking, he was so excited, the thrill of the chase, the triumph. “What I have to teach you applies to her, too.”

  “She’s a girl,” the mother said. “She doesn’t need to—”

  “Oh, yes, she’s a girl,” Hurley said. He set the pistol down. Drew the knife. Circled around to the girl and held the blade to her cheek, relished how she squirmed underneath him.

  “I bet you’re a popular one,” he said into her ear. “I bet all the boys love you. And I bet you just love breaking their hearts.”

  The girl didn’t move. Whispered no through her tears.

  “Liar.” Hurley stood. “What’s your name, girl?”

  The girl waited until he showed her the knife again. “Shae,” she said finally. “Shae Fontaine.”

  “You’re a slut, aren’t you, Shae?” Hurley said. “You’re a slut, just like your mother.”

  Shae shook her head no. Mom made to speak. Hurley backhanded her, knocked her near off the bed. Sent the girl into another round of hysterics.

  “You’re a fucking liar.” He couldn’t help the anger. “You’re a liar,” he said, forcing himself to calm down. “I’m going to show you what happens to every slut, Shae. And then I’m going to show your mom, too.”

  But Mom wasn’t listening anymore. Wasn’t looking at Hurley, her eyes cast back at the bedside table. Hurley followed her gaze to a photograph, a snapshot in a pewter frame. Picked up the picture and caught the meaning immediately.

  It was a family picture. Mom and poor, dead Dad, sweet Shae. But there was a fourth family member, too, six or seven years old, and in pigtails, hugging her dad tight as she ate an ice cream cone.

  Another girl. A witness.

  A goddamn problem.

  101

  Sadie Fontaine ran through the snow as fast as she was able, barely feeling the cold and the wet seeping through her thin socks. She’d been asleep when her sister screamed, thought she was dreaming at first, then sat up in bed and thought maybe Shae was the one dreaming.

  But Shae had been running, too; Sadie’d heard her feet on the stairs as she ran up from the living room. Heard the muffled thump thump thump as she ran down the hall to Mom and Dad’s room. Sadie pushed the covers to the floor, stood. Started to the bedroom door, to follow her sister, to climb into bed with Shae and Mom and Dad and let Shae tell them all what was the matter.

  But then she’d heard the other footsteps. Heavier, on the stairs, the whole house shuddering under their weight. Slower down the hallway carpet in the direction Shae had gone. And Sadie had known, instinctively, that this wasn’t Mom and this wasn’t Dad. This was something else, something bad.

  Then she’d heard the gunshot. It was louder than anything she’d ever heard in her life. She heard the bad person kick open the door to Mom and Dad’s room, heard his voice as he called in after Shae.

  Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not one of your pussy boyfriends. I don’t back down that easy, girl.

  This was no voice that Sadie had ever heard before. This was a bad man. This was a living nightmare.

  So she ran.

  She’d waited until the man had disappeared into Mom and Dad’s room. She’d listened to Shae crying and Mom trying to comfort her. Then she’d snuck away, as quiet as she cou
ld, in the other direction. Skipped the creaky step and padded down to the first floor.

  But the first floor was awful, too. There was blood in the kitchen, so much blood, everywhere, and no telling whose. Sadie stopped in the entryway, couldn’t make herself walk any farther, couldn’t step over the blood, definitely couldn’t step in it.

  There was a phone in the kitchen. Sadie could see it across the bloody pools, on the opposite counter by the microwave. She could make her way over there and call the police. She couldn’t remember the number, but she could ask the operator or something, right?

  She had to do something. Shae and Mom were upstairs. And maybe Dad, too—though looking at all this blood gave Sadie a bad feeling about Dad, and she instantly wanted to sit down and hide somewhere and cry.

  But then Shae had screamed again upstairs, loud and plaintive. And Sadie blacked out. Her instincts took over. She bolted through the kitchen, through the blood. Shoved open the back door and ran into the night.

  But the night was cold and empty. Sadie’s socks were soaked through times infinity, and her thin pajamas didn’t provide much protection from the freezing air. She was at the end of the driveway before she realized she didn’t know where she was going; there were no other houses nearby, no one on the highway. There was nobody to save her, and no warmth but back in the house with the man.

  She should have phoned the police. She could have found the number somewhere. She should have snuck up on the man and attacked him. She should have done something. But every time Sadie slowed, she heard Shae scream again in her head, and she just couldn’t make herself turn around.

  She ran instead. Ran until her toes were numb and her teeth were chattering, until she’d nearly doubled over from the stitch in her side and her lungs screamed for breath as she gulped down cold air.