I let it slide. I had more important things to do than roust a bunch of goofs.
With a sweep of my dark coat, I turned north and kept walking.
I pulled the Cosseli girl's Missing flyer from an inside pocket and unfolded it. Though it was still posted on stores along the main drags—Tacoma, Milwaukie, Powell—I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to remind people.
I showed it around, stopping parents doing their Halloween duties. I was met with sympathizing frowns and shaking heads and bewails of “Isn't it horrible?” Many voiced the opinion that they wished the little girl home safe and sound with her parents, but the public's hope was fading as quickly as that of the police. Parents out here clung tighter to their children, secretly thankful that it wasn't their own son or daughter who was missing. Selfish perhaps, but all too human.
I passed nearly an hour that way, gaining nothing but new blisters on my feet.
I skirted a group of black-suited Reservoir Dogs, their sunglasses bouncing streetlights back at me as they marched toward a trio of oncoming Droogs. Crossing the street to bypass their collision, I heard a little boy screaming, “No! Let me go!"
I raced around the corner to see a familiar unmarked police car parked at the curb pointing the wrong way, the red light on the dash no longer dormant but glowing like Dracula's eyeball. The driver's door hung open and on the sidewalk an undercover cop in a grey suit gripped the arm of a boy no more than eight, wearing a red Superman cape. It appeared to be the same blond cop that had passed me earlier.
As the boy continued his protests, tugging to get away, the officer opened the rear door and shoved him in the backseat, little Superman bawling like he just swallowed a hunk of Kryptonite.
The cop got behind the wheel and slammed his door, a little too angry. He cranked the key to start the ignition, but as he threw it into drive, he looked up to see me blocking his way.
His eyebrows collided in the middle as he powered down his window, irked but cop-polite. “Get out of the way, ma'am."
I have to admit, the “ma'am” tweaked me off a little. I said, “The boy doesn't want to go with you."
"Of course he doesn't. Because he knows he's in trouble."
"Can I see some ID, officer?"
His head twirled around like Linda Blair's. “Can you see my ID?!"
"I have a right to ask. We've already had one little girl go missing in this neighborhood."
He turned off the ignition, swung the door open, and climbed out, standing half a foot over me. “I know that. I'm a police officer."
"I just want to make sure. As a concerned citizen, of course. You have to admit, tonight would be the perfect night for a disguise, like maybe that of one of our men in blue ... or in your case, grey."
He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it to flash his shield so I could get a good look at it. Those badges can be faked, but I've seen enough Portland PD buzzers to know the difference. I read his ID card in the opposing flap.
"Thanks ... Officer Windows."
He snapped the billfold shut, cracking the air. He opened his coat and shoved it home.
"Now how about I see your ID, ma'am?"
"Please stop calling me ‘ma'am.’ I told you, I'm just a concerned citizen, out here looking for the missing girl.” I showed him the Cosseli girl's flyer.
"That still doesn't tell me who you are,” he said.
I told him my name.
He considered it a moment, nodding. “I've heard of you."
He didn't grin or glower, giving no indication of whether what he'd heard had been fair or foul.
"Well—whatever you've heard—you should know I'm not trying to jam you up. I just wanted to make sure the boy was okay.” I jabbed a finger at Superman in the backseat, breathing heavily after bawling so hard for the past two minutes.
"He's going back to his dad's place, up off Holgate. Kid was grounded, but decided to put on his cape and fly the coop."
I nodded. “Sorry about holding you up."
He sucked in a deep breath and waved it off. “Don't sweat it. At least I got him before anything could happen to him. And thanks for being out here, looking for the Cosseli girl. We don't really have the manpower."
"I figured you guys were probably stretched thin."
"Besides, after she's been missing this long..."
He left the rest of the dark thought unspoken, then continued in a different vein, “Tell the truth, I'm off the clock. Don't have any kids of my own at home—though I hope to someday—so I thought the least I could do was come out and lend a hand. Until we know for sure what happened to her."
The car radio squawked. Windows leaned in to turn it up: “All units be advised. Child missing around six-thirty p.m., near Twenty-eighth and Colt. Female, five years old, blond, wearing a white dress and angel wings, name Daniela Dixon..."
I flashed on the little girl I'd met earlier, with her mom and brother. “Daniela ... Danni..."
"What?” asked Windows.
"Her name. Danni. I thought she was saying the boy's name—Danny—but she was saying her own. I've seen this girl. With a woman."
"What time?"
"Seven ... seven-thirty..."
"She'd already been snatched by then."
"I saw her near Harold Street...” I took off running.
"Wait! I'll give you a ride!” shouted Windows, but I was already cutting through a backyard, on my way.
I hit the next sidewalk at a full run, weaving between scattered werewolves, Frankenstein monsters, and five too many Borats. I cut the corners of two front yards, zipping down side streets. More than one car honked as I cut them off, and finally reached the corner near Harold where I'd met little Danni the angel and her abductor.
There was no sign of her. I didn't expect there to be, but I had to start somewhere. The woman had told the boy they were taking the girl home and they'd moved off to the west.
I walked that way, keeping eyes peeled.
A few stragglers remained trick-or-treating, laughing happily a block away. Homes were mostly quiet; some jack-o'-lanterns flickered orange, others had been snuffed, their eyes black caves. Through a picture window a big-screen TV showed one of the Friday the 13th movies, little heads crowded around it.
Dead, wet leaves and sticks piled along the sidewalk like dark snowdrifts. A torn page of newspaper and a Three Musketeers wrapper crowded the base of a garbage can, as if waiting to be let in.
Something white and fluffy poked up from inside the trash: Little Danni's angel wings, no doubt discarded by her abductor to help her blend into the crowd. Dammit.
I kept moving, quickening my pace but not too quick; I still didn't know where I was headed. Little Danni couldn't be far, because they were traveling on foot. Unless the woman had a car parked nearby.
I couldn't think about that right now.
I moved in ever-widening circles like an old-school tracker, until a bright, lime-green bug on the ground caught my eye. I stepped over to it. It wasn't a bug, but a fallen candy, maybe an M&M.
No. A Skittle.
I remembered Danni's tiny hands tearing into that bag of Skittles.
I quickened my step. Fifteen feet down the walk I found a bright yellow Skittle, this one stomped on, flattened but still vibrant.
Not only had Danni been trying to tell me her name earlier, but now she was leaving me a trail to follow. Smart girl.
I kept moving. Found a blue one, then another green one, partially covered by a wet leaf. Leading me west-southwest.
I circled out ten feet, fifteen, then twenty. No more Skittles.
Windows rolled up next to me, the blood-red lamp on his dash still blazing. Superman was asleep in the backseat.
Windows got out. “I almost lost you. What are you doing?"
"Tell everybody she's not wearing the angel wings anymore. The woman ditched them. But the boy's still got the gorilla mask."
"What boy?"
"There's a boy with them, ten or twelve
. He's part of it. Somehow."
"Jesus."
"The little girl—Danni—she left me a trail. See?” I opened my palm to show him the Skittles. “But there's no more."
"Think the woman figured out she was dropping clues and stopped her?"
I looked around the quiet street. “Or maybe the trail ends here."
Windows surveyed the housefronts. “That means she's in one of these houses."
I nodded. “The woman wouldn't want any company. So it'll be shut down for the night."
We both took note of the homes with snuffed-out lanterns, TVs off, dark windows. Only a couple on either side of the street fit the bill.
Windows said, “You take the north side, I'll take the south."
"Let's pound on some doors."
I tossed the Skittles and crossed north. Stepped up to the first dark door and rapped on it. After a minute or two or three, a middle-aged guy answered in a T-shirt and pajama-bottoms.
"What is it?” he said, irritated. “I got an early morning."
"Looking for a missing girl.” I gave him a wide grin, which seemed to cool him off. I'm good with guys that way.
"Oh,” he said, but I was already off the porch, moving three houses down.
I took time to glance across at Windows. He circled the corner of a little blue cottage, as if he'd seen something inside. He reached under his jacket and yanked a service revolver from his clip-on holster as he disappeared around back.
I crossed the street to join him, reaching under my arm to draw my own silver-plated friend. Before my boot hit the opposing sidewalk, I heard a gunshot pop like an M-80 with a short fuse.
I ran the rest of the way.
I skirted the corner of the blue cottage, ducking under low branches into a rear yard clouded with trees that blocked moon and stars. I waited for my eyes to adjust, making out a fallen form on grass as black as onyx.
Keeping an eye on the dark house, I crept to the body in the yard, knowing it had to be Windows. Flat on his back, revolver still in his fist.
I've read many a detective yarn where the author waxed poetic about the victim's “staring vacant eyes,” but eyes can't stare if there's no one left at home to receive the images beaming to the back of the brain.
And Windows was no longer home. I suspected he had vacated through the black hole in his chest, the bloodstain shining like motor oil in the gloom.
I put two fingers to the side of his neck, purely a formality. He was gone.
I peered at the rear of the house. An errant streetlight down the block broke through the trees, gleaming dull off the back-door glass. It had a jagged hole busted through it, courtesy of a bullet fired from inside. She hadn't even let him open the door.
I had to be careful to avoid the same fate.
Creeping up to the house, I crouched below that hole in the window. Gripping my .45 like a Baptist minister would his Bible, I shouted inside:
"That was a cop you just shot. The police will be here in minutes."
Only silence from inside.
"Send the girl out and this will go better for you. Send Danni out."
After a long beat, when I thought silence would again be my answer, the woman yelled: “Her name is Suzie!"
"Okay. Suzie. Just send her out, okay?"
"No one is taking my daughter. I won't let you break up my family!"
I looked back at Windows on the grass. Cold.
"Okay,” I told her. “No one wants to hurt your family. Please, don't shoot."
I reached up and gripped the back doorknob. Slowly twisting it, I pulled the door open just enough to get the latch bolt free of the plate. I nudged the door slowly open with the barrel of my gun.
I leaned back against the outer wall, fully expecting another gunshot. But none came.
"I'm not a police officer ... just a neighbor. We met earlier, when your boy bumped into me. You admired my coat, remember?"
More silence.
"I'm coming in, okay?"
I took a long, nervous breath, peeking around the doorjamb into the dark back porch. A washer and dryer stood dormant, a pile of dirty clothes inside a plastic laundry basket. Insulation wrapped a hot-water heater in the corner like a down coat on an old man.
Staying low, pistol at the ready, I crawled past the washer to the open kitchen door; a swath of moonlight blue across the table, a couple of bowls, a small stack of mail, and an open box of Cheerios.
I duck-walked past the refrigerator to where the kitchen opened up into the dining room or living room or whatever it was. Shapes of furniture, cabinets, an entertainment center.
"Please,” I kept my voice soft. “Send the girl out."
I thought maybe I could hear the woman breathing somewhere in the dark.
"Well, if you're not going to send her out, at least tell me why you took her."
"Because she's mine."
Her voice was louder than I expected it to be, closer than I'd thought, hiding somewhere behind that old recliner about ten feet away.
"She looks just like me and my husband. Didn't you see it in her face? When we met earlier tonight ...?"
She trailed off.
"I thought you told me your husband was dead."
After a long pause, she replied, “She looks just like us. David does, too."
David. The boy. Where was he?
As if he'd been signaled, David lurched out from hiding in the space between the fridge and the wall. I turned as he swung a baseball bat at me, still wearing his King Kong mask.
I ducked, but I was already low and couldn't go much further. The blow glanced off my shoulder and hurt like hell; I'd have a bruise in the morning like a purple grapefruit.
I shoved the kid, hard enough to cause him to trip up on his own feet and drop over backwards, landing with a whump on his rear. His mom—or whoever she was—came out from behind the recliner, face folded with concern.
"David!” she cried as she rushed to his side, a revolver still clutched in one hand.
I hopped toward her, twisting her gun out of her hand, still warm from when she'd shot Windows.
"Ow!” like a child she moaned, pulling little Kong to her breast and clutching him.
"Where's the girl? Where's Danni?"
"Get away from us! Leave us alone!” she spat.
I heard a thump. Looked around the dark room, listening. Then another little thump, coming from behind a ceiling-high bookcase.
I leaned my ear to the case. “Danni? Are you back there?"
After a long pause, another thump. She was back there.
I swept my fingers up the sides of the bookcase, along the shelves and underneath them. I was sure there was a Batcave switch or some other sort of nonsense hidden somewhere, but didn't have time to look for it.
Instead I gripped the back of the shelf and heaved to get it rocking. The heavy thing creaked and moaned and went over with a great sound and fury. Wood cracked and books tumbled everywhere, fluttering open like big dead birds.
In the wall behind the case was a small hidden door, padlocked.
I leaned against it. “Danni?"
I heard the thump once again, louder now without the bookcase acting as a buffer.
"Honey, if you can, I want you to get away from the wall. Move as far as you can and get behind something, okay?"
To answer me, she thumped again, which might or might not have meant yes, or okay.
I aimed my .45 at the padlock, angled so the bullet would hopefully pass through to the floor instead of deflecting into this room or puncturing through to the next.
The shot was a loud crack in the confined space, Cyclops clapping his hands. The busted padlock clinked to the floor in pieces.
I looked back at the woman still clutching David. She scowled at me. The Kong mask lay deflated on the floor.
I yanked the small door open and bent to peer inside a hidden room lit by a lone hanging bulb, with all the amenities of a young girl's bedroom: a tiny TV/DVD combo, a bed with
fluffy pink covers, and sad, wilted dolls on a little shelf.
Danni looked up at me from near the bed, her wrists bound and a gag in her mouth. I motioned to her to come to me.
Then I saw the pink bedcovers move as another little girl, slightly older than Danni, rustled out from underneath them. She regarded me with sad eyes.
I couldn't believe it. “Cheri? Cheri Cosseli? Is that you?"
Though she wasn't gagged, she didn't answer. No doubt she'd been hollering for help the past week and was tired of hollering, especially since no one had answered her before.
"It's okay, hon. Everything's going to be okay."
Her brain finally remembered the proper response to relief and happiness, sent the signal through the ganglia of nerves to the muscles of the face, commanding the corners of her little mouth to turn up in a grin.
* * * *
By the time the police arrived, the woman had told me her name was Jenny. Jenny Candles, her married name. The husband was not dead, but had left her some years ago because—she said—of her infertility. No doubt there were other issues at play.
After the black-and-white crew interviewed the woman, a detective arrived and let me stick around to add or subtract my two cents. With the children taken away by social services, the woman sobbed angrily as she answered his questions.
We were able to deduce that even though Mrs. Candles’ husband had left her, she was still infatuated with the idea of building a family with him, something they'd intended to do until her infertility got in the way. Finding adoption difficult for a single woman of limited means, she'd snatched David from his front yard not eight months after her husband left her. (The boy's real name was Chris. Police were tracking down his parents, formerly of Gresham.) The boy had reminded her of her husband, looked like the kind of son they would have had together, and that was all she wrote.
Once she had David, nee Chris, brainwashed into believing she was his mother, she let a few years go by before kidnapping the Cosseli girl, who also bore a resemblance to her departed hubby. But the Cosseli girl was already too old and stubborn for the brainwashing to take. Her resistance drove Mrs. Candles to lock her away and go out in search of a replacement. She'd tried to snatch Danni tonight, a younger version of the imaginary daughter.
EQMM, September-October 2009 Page 9
