“No need for that. I’ll spend the night there. Have a good visit. Charlie will be glad to take me to the airport tomorrow. He’ll welcome the money for storing my car and playing chauffeur. You ladies can just drop me off and be on your way.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”
“Positive.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
The ditch was shallow, and a couple of yards ahead there was a good spot for getting back on the highway. I engaged the four-wheel drive, maneuvered back and forth until I eased onto I-70, and then I gunned it. His “couple of miles” down the highway were more like six. Ferguson didn’t have any trouble finding the rural road, which seemed to be well traveled, but then he guided us down a bush-laden back trail and then another.
The last turnoff was bumpy and irregular. I hoped it was clear of the kind of trash that would puncture tires. It zigged and zagged and there were a couple of ditches that gave us a good jolt. “It’s over the hill,” he said.
The farm had a couple of small outbuildings and a fair-sized barn. The white clapboard-sided house was closed in by a sagging wire fence. An old-fashioned storm cellar with an angular door stood far enough from the house that occupants wouldn’t have to worry about falling debris if a tornado destroyed their home. No doubt canned fruit and vegetables were stored there during the winter. There was a wisp of smoke coming out the chimney, but no car in front and no dog to check us out.
Ferguson went up the walk and knocked on the door several times. He pushed on inside and then reappeared and called back to us. “He’s in the barn. She’s in the basement watching TV. Says if you ladies need to use the bathroom before you go on, come right on in.”
Dorothy got out at once and I was close behind. I was suddenly exhausted from pent-up tension and wanted to get back on the road and check into a motel. I had a good book with me and Dorothy had her knitting. Good pasta, I decided. That’s what I wanted for supper. And cheesecake. A sugar stupor.
I hoped the Holiday Inn Express in Junction City had a vacancy. In addition to all the standard stuff I carried in my car, there were a number of items in my pre-packed travel bag that I was never without. A swimsuit so I could loosen my tense muscles if a motel had an indoor pool. I imagined a hot tub with pulsing jets. Yet my top priority was a dependable in-room safe where I could store the commonplace book and the handkerchief.
We entered the galley kitchen directly from the porch. The linoleum had a painted-on design and in spots was bare, down to the black underlay. On the opposite wall was an all-in-one sink with built-in drains on either side. Below the sink was a red gingham curtain that closed off the area storing cleaning products and dish detergent. Renovators paid a hefty price for antique sinks and this one was in perfect shape.
“Are those sad irons? I’ve heard of them, but have never seen them.” Dorothy gazed at a shelf above the burners of an old-fashioned stove.
“Yes, they are.” Sad irons weighed a ton and were heated on top of a stove then used to iron starched laundry which had been dried on a clothesline. I knew the routine from oral histories I had collected from octogenarians. But even the ladies I interviewed had electric irons. They were talking about visiting their grandmother’s soddy.
“The stove burns either wood or coal. Or cow patties.”
“How very strange.”
“Strange” didn’t begin to cover it. A brand new microwave sat on a shelf adjacent to the sad irons. Bewildered, I peeked into the combination dining-living room. The areas were separated by identical narrow ceiling-high glassed-in cupboards on opposite walls. They contained a collection of depression glass and salt and pepper shakers. “I think she collects antiques.”
I glanced at my watch. We needed to get going, but I was very curious about Louise Harrison. “Dr. Ferguson?” I called.
He stuck his head out of a door just off the kitchen. The TV volume could wake the dead. “Down here with Louise. Watching the news. You’ve got to see this. It’s all about this godawful weather we just went through. It’s a wonder we came out alive.”
I used the bathroom while Dorothy waited in the hall. Then I started down the stairs. The steps were narrow and the basement smelled damp and musty. When I rounded the landing I could see an old black-and-white TV set sitting on a rickety cart. But the room was cold. Freezing cold. I pulled up the hood on my down parka.
There was a rush of air. A prick. No warning. Just that.
***
When I came to I was lying next to Dorothy, whose face was so waxen I was afraid she was dead. I edged toward her across the concrete floor and felt for the pulse in her neck. It was strong and even.
Dr. Ferguson. It didn’t even make sense. Why?
I passed out again and when I roused for the second time I lay there with my eyes closed in case he was watching. I needed to collect my thoughts before I did anything.
Why? Why would he do this to Dorothy and me? And how could be possibly believe he could get away with it?
My head ached and my stomach churned but at least my brain was beginning to engage. I opened my eyes and looked at Dorothy again. She hadn’t stirred. Still out to the world unless she was playing dead.
Dead. I was sure we would be if I didn’t figure something out.
I replayed the whole trip in my mind from the moment we left Fiene’s Folly. There was a series of unpredictable events. The ground blizzard. My being on the road. Running into him. It was all random. Every bit of it.
He could possibly have planned in advance to waylay Dorothy and me? Was his head injury causing this behavior? Some sort of brain trauma? Yet this place. How did he know about this place? But why? Why would he do this?
I ran through the conversation in the car. Had we said anything? Done anything while in the car? But even so, this was crazy.
Think, damn it. I started from the moment I hit his Volkswagen. That was an accident. Unplanned and unavoidable. What had set this man off? During our wait for the blizzard to subside he had been chatty. He’d even joked. Shared a few war stories.
And when I got to Dorothy telling him about the handkerchief, I knew. Knew in my gut. That’s when he stopped talking.
He was the man who killed those little boys. The monster who destroyed the little Duck Boy. Of course. He had to stop us from getting that handkerchief to Topeka. He was in the Army. Reserve status, but his blood type and DNA would be on file.
He was the one who had killed those little boys.
Dr. Ferguson. Of course he couldn’t let us get to Topeka. Had he even been around here ten years ago when Duck Boy made the last entry in the commonplace book? I couldn’t remember. Damn the shot.
Those little boys. Those terrified tragic little boys. My tongue felt like cotton. I tried to swallow. I recalled Dorothy’s words that did us in. Sick. Pervert. Deserves a lifetime prison sentence.
There was a soft moan. I edged closer to Dorothy. I wanted her to continue lying immobile although I couldn’t see any way he could be watching. It was still daylight and although visibility was faint there was light leaking around the edges of the steel door leading into our room. The walls and the floor were solid concrete.
High up on one wall toward the ceiling was a small iron door which I estimated to be no more than two-foot square. It swung open from the bottom and rotated from a rod at the top. The door to a coal chute. I recognized it from illustrations in old Sears Roebuck catalogs. We were in a coal room, where years ago homeowners shoveled in the winter supply of fuel.
There was a way to get outside.
Cautiously I rose to my feet, then realizing that staying quiet would not do us a bit of good, I rattled the door leading to the basement room where he claimed Louis Harrison had been watching TV. Only now I knew there was no Louise. No Charlie, either.
Dorothy rose up on her elbows. She still had on her long Ch
esterfield coat but our purses were missing. No gun, I thought bitterly. And no iPhone.
“Ferguson. You can’t possibly get away with this.” I pounded and hollered.
At first there was no sound at all. Then on the other side of the coal room I heard a weak voice cry out. I turned away from the door to the TV room and walked to the wall opposite. I felt for hinges and found another padlocked opening.
“Lottie?”
My blood turned to ice. I knew that voice.
“Merilee?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God you’ve come for me.”
I drew a deep breath and told her. Fast and brutal. “He has us too.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Us? Why did you say ‘us’? Is someone there with you?”
I closed my eyes and struggled with the words. “Dorothy. Dorothy Mercer. We were going to Kansas City.” I told her the bare bones of how Ferguson had abducted us. “But you’ve got reinforcements now, Merilee.” I faked assurance. “Other people to help you think. How are you, physically?”
“Cold. Just freezing. There’s no heat down here, but he brought a lot of blankets. And I got to keep my coat.”
“We have ours too. Kind of the bastard. But we don’t have any blankets.”
“You won’t need them. He’s going to kill us,” she wailed.
“Merilee, I can’t get in. Your room is padlocked. Ours is too. He has to walk through this one to get to yours. How does he get food to you? And water? You’ve been here over a week now.”
Then all I heard were ragged sobs. Then, “Blood. Blood all over. The mattress is covered with blood. Joyce Latimer’s blood. She died having a baby. She was dead when I got here. Stinking. I saw her face.” Minutes passed before she could control her hysterical weeping. “Two nights ago he came and took her away.”
Blood. All the blood. No doubt postpartum hemorrhage. No way to control it outside of a hospital. I took a deep breath but had forgotten how to exhale. Reeling from shock I tried to construct a timeline but I couldn’t focus. Joyce abducted a year ago. Died ten days ago. Baby put in arms of Reaching Woman. Brent murdered. Marilyn abducted. Then Dorothy. And me too. None of the “when” mattered, so I quit thinking.
“We know where he took her baby,” Merilee said. “But I don’t know where he put Joyce’s body. Buried her here on this farm, maybe.” Her voice caught again. “He lured Brent to the Garden of Eden by telling him that Joyce was alive and he could see her.”
“How did he know Brent would answer the phone?” Dorothy asked.
“He told me when he saw my parents’ car in town he was sure my brother would answer.”
Sick at heart I was speechless. He had killed his own baby. His own daughter. Left her to freeze in the arms of Reaching Woman. Ferguson wasn’t only the rapist and killer of little boys. He was the Ghost Baby Killer. He had done it all. All of it.
Dorothy struggled onto her feet with the help of her walking stick.
A weapon. We had a weapon. Dorothy’s walking stick. Obviously he should have taken it away but no doubt was focused on forcing us both into the coal room. All it would have taken was for him to say “Lottie is through that door” and Dorothy would have checked, out of curiosity. He probably even held the door open for her, I thought bitterly. “Come join her.” And then he stabbed her with the same needle that had done me in.
Tears stung my eyes. Like lambs to the slaughter all of us.
Her walking stick. A lot of good that would do us with a combat soldier. Right, Lottie. Just whack him a good one.
He would be back.
Merilee fell silent. I sank to the floor and wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my head. We had to get a plan together before he got back. My eyes had adapted to the faint light in the room. I looked around.
“Do you have a flashlight stowed on you somewhere?” I asked Dorothy, hoping for one of her subtle concealed devices.
“No. There’s one in my purse. On my key ring.”
“I use the one on my iPhone. But he’s the one who has it all. Purse, key rings, phones. Everything.” What was in that shot? I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t plan. I think better when there is more light.
“You’re wearing yourself out, Lottie. Rest until the shot wears off.”
“This room isn’t set up right,” I mumbled. “He didn’t plan for us. Merilee says she has blankets. And he has to get food to her somehow. Provide a pot for body waste. He has to come here to this farm. Every other day, at least.”
“He comes here, Lottie,” Dorothy said gently.
I was slow. Blame it on the cold. Blame on fright. Blame it on my tendency to whitewash ugly situations. You can sure as hell blame it on the shot. I stared at her. “Oh, no. Oh no, oh no.” I buried my head in my hands and slid against the concrete wall until I was resting on my thighs.
“Oh, Merilee.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
At some point during the night, I startled awake. There was an eerie voice coming from Marilee’s room. “Merilee, Merilee. I’m coming for you.” Haunting, low-pitched, straight from a Halloween horror movie.
I wobbled to my feet and felt around the wall until I was next to her door. Terrified, I stood there listening. In a minute the words were repeated.
“Merilee?” I whispered.
She moved close enough to the door for me to hear her ragged voice. “It’s another recorder, Lottie. He said he figured I would miss my little friend. He wanted me to have some company.”
“How? When did he get in your house?”
“The same way he got me here. He walked in the front door. He told me he was on the regional team and asked to see my room. I suppose he put it under my pillow then. And when he wanted me to go into town with him, I said ‘Let me get my coat.’ Worked slicker than hell.”
“Merilee. I’m so very, very sorry.”
“I’m cold. I’m going back to bed.”
Stunned, still thick-tongued and woozy, I slid down the wall again. I thought of David Hayes telling Sam and me about the torment he had endured as a student. He’d sworn there were persons who lived to ruin people. Who enjoyed torture. Raised it to an art form. Yes, David had been right. It’s what that recorder was all about from the beginning.
I dozed again. Sometime toward morning, I think, the door to the coal chute opened at the bottom and I heard a thump on the floor, the door clanged shut.
“Don’t touch anything,” Dorothy ordered. “Wait until daylight so we can see what we are doing.”
Neither one of us could get back to sleep but when the sun came up we opened the plastic sack lying on the floor and found apples and high protein candy bars and crackers. There were bottles of water and the kind of female urination device used by campers and an empty gallon jug for our waste.
***
He came back two days later.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called cheerfully. His footsteps thudded down the stairs. “Miss me?” he called through the door.
Fully recovered from the medication now, I gasped and then tore into him. “You’ll never, never get away with this. Never.”
He laughed. “Actually, I’ve gotten away with quite a bit for a very long time. In fact, I’m quite certain I can do just about anything that comes to mind. Wouldn’t you say?”
“They’ll find us. Fast. Do you think for one minute that Sam and my husband won’t track us down in a flash?”
“They’ll try. Just like they tried to find poor little old Merilee. A lot of good that did them. But let’s face it, neither of them are too terribly bright. People just think they are.”
“Are you nuts? They’ll track my Tahoe right away. Your Volkswagen. You might as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel.”
“They’ll track it, all right. And here’s what they will find. The tracks on the county road wi
ll be covered over by the school bus tomorrow. And that’s just one of the vehicles that travels that road regularly. There are many, many more.”
“The tracks on this little side road leading up to the house. No one else goes here. They’ll identify the tires in an instant.”
“Well let me enlighten you. After I eat, that is. Upstairs, where it’s warm.”
He was teasing us. Enjoying tormenting us. I could hear it in his voice. Jeering. Taunting us with his cleverness. Twisting us like puppets in his control. My stomach roiled with hatred and I shivered from the cold.
In a half hour he came back downstairs. I decided not to give him the satisfaction of explaining how he would deal with the Tahoe tracks. I wouldn’t ask. But he couldn’t resist flaunting his brilliance.
“Like I was saying…as to the Tahoe problem. There’s no reason for them to look for tracks out here. I simply drove it on to Junction City the other night. As planned. As you told your sorry-ass husband you intended to do. I used my credit card to get two rooms at the Holiday Inn motel. The clerk will remember me because I made it a point to ask for one with a king-sized bed and the other with two double beds ‘for the two women,’ I said. ‘They’re in even worse shape than me,’ and joked about my clothes.”
“You bastard.”
“Then I drove to the mechanic shop Keith recommended and made arrangements for them to tow my Volkswagen and repair it while I was at the conference. So, as far as everyone is concerned, we all made it to Junction City just fine. No problems at all. Pretty clever, don’t you think?”
I was torn between wanting him to keep talking on the chance I could spot a hole in his plans and wanting him to shut up and stop tormenting me. I clenched my fists. My iPhone. They would be able to use the Find My Phone function on my iPhone. I’d told Keith I would call him when I arrived. He would have been worried when I didn’t.
“No comment? Don’t you have something so say?”
I gritted my teeth. There was more light in the room today. No sounds from Merilee’s room, but no doubt she could hear me.
Fractured Families Page 26
