Daddy's Little Girl

by William Malmborg

  Following that, he went to wipe off his mouth but couldn’t, his wrists having been cuffed behind him to a rough wooden post.

  He used his shoulder instead.

  Water splashed all over him, the sensation similar to what he had felt in the darkness.

  Norman blinked several times and looked up, the girl from outside standing before him, the terror she had tried to mask earlier easily visible upon her face. Anger was there as well.

  She held a metal bucket, one that she dropped now that he was awake.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “What?” he replied, voice ragged.

  “Why are you here?”

  Blood tickled the back of his throat, and for a moment he didn’t dare speak, the sensation that he was about to vomit again overwhelming.

  And then it passed.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again, voice growing agitated.

  “I saw the van in the field and thought someone might need help.”

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Are others on their way?”

  Hesitation arrived.

  The answer was no, but he didn’t want to reveal that. At the same time, if she feared more officers might be on the way, panic could cause her to do something they would all regret. He had never before been involved in a hostage situation, but from what he understood of them, it was best to keep the captor calm.

  “They know the—” Blood ran down his throat, and this time he couldn’t stop his body from forcing it back up.

  Pain followed, his shattered nose feeling as if it was being ground down by some unseen force.

  The girl waited, arms crossed.

  He took a deep breath through his mouth and then choked out a final glob of snotty blood.

  “Water,” he voiced.

  “Is anyone else coming?”

  “No,” he gasped.

  “Do they know where you are?”

  He gulped down another breath of air and said, “They know the area I’m in.” Another breath. “I radioed in damage and downed power lines near here.”

  She considered this and then grabbed the bucket and walked over to an area of the barn to his right that he could not see without shifting his entire body. The sound of pipes groaning and water hitting metal echoed.

  He waited, his eyes scanning as much as they could without making himself sick, trying to spot something that might help his situation.

  Nothing.

  She had him facing a wall, his back to the rest of the barn.

  The sound of water shut off.

  She returned, the bucket obviously heavy given the way she strained once she was within his line of sight. Bucket placed, she retrieved a rag that was in it and stepped up to him.

  “Lean your head back,” she instructed.

  “I can’t,” he said. Doing so would cause more blood to run down his throat.

  She sighed and held the rag over his head, squeezing it.

  Water rained down on him.

  He tilted his head back just a bit, mouth open.

  Water landed on his tongue, though it wasn’t much, and then, without warning, he was gagging, the slight tilt enough for the blood to run back from his shattered nose.

  The girl let out another sigh and tossed the rag into the bucket.

  “Do you know who lives here?” she asked.

  Deep breath.

  Then, “No.”

  She eyed him for a moment and then asked, “Did you see a young girl in a dress wandering around?”

  “Young girl?”

  No reply, just an impatient look.

  “No,” he said.

  She sighed, a look of concern appearing.

  Who was the young girl she was worried about?

  What had been going on in that van?

  “Who is she?” he asked, Hollywood having taught him that one should always keep the hostage taker talking. Trying to identify with them was helpful as well, or so he had been led to believe.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Is she your sister?” he pressed.

  “No,” she said.

  “And who are you?”

  “What?”

  “Who are you? I know most of the young people around here”—he didn’t, but she wouldn’t know that—“but I don’t think we’ve ever met.” He took a breath, the lack of being able to breathe through his nose making it difficult to complete longer sentences without choking. “My name’s Norman.”

  “Misty,” she said after several seconds of hesitation.

  “And the girl you’re asking about?”

  “Bitsy.”

  “Bitsy?” he questioned. It had to be a nickname.

  “Well, her name’s Elizabeth, but I call her Bitsy.”

  “And you’re worried she might have been hurt when the van flipped?”

  “I’m worried that—” Her face changed. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  He gave a slight shrug and said, “I’m just trying to understand why you attacked me.” He paused for a mouthful of air. “And why there is a young girl somewhere behind me tied up.”

  She didn’t reply to that.

  “What is going on?” he asked.

  Nothing.

  “You were in the van that was flipped over, right?”

  Still nothing.

  “Who else was in it?”

  Still nothing.

  “There was a lot of blood. Whoever was driving was hurt pretty bad.”

  Her lip quivered, which caught him off guard, and then she started to walk away, disappearing behind him.

  “Misty,” he said. “I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it is, I can help you.”

  His head was yanked back by a fist in his hair, the rough wooden edge of the post snagging his ear and tearing the flesh.

  Blood ran down his throat, choking him, some of it bubbling to his lips.

  “You don’t know anything about me or why we’re here, and if you don’t stop asking questions I’ll cut your throat.” Spit rained down on him as she spoke. Tears as well. “Understand?”

  “Y-y-yes!” he gasped, his voice barely audible amid the gurgle of blood.

  She released his hair, his head quickly snapping forward to choke out more bloody mucus. While doing this, he noticed a slight weight in his front pocket, one that seemed to bounce with his movement.

  At first, he didn’t know what it was, but then he realized it was the keys he had grabbed from the mud.

  She had failed to notice them while stripping him of all his equipment.

  All he needed to do was get them out and onto the ground near his fingers and he could free himself.

  He glanced down at his shirt pocket, which was closed with a button.

  Reaching it with his hands would be impossible, and trying to bounce the keys out would be a fruitless endeavor.

  He would need to use his teeth.

  And he would have to do it while the girl was not in the barn.

  Misty was on edge and decided to step out of the muggy barn to try to calm herself. While out there, feet on the gravel of the parking area, she looked up at the sky, which was now blue with a sun that was getting ready to begin its decent toward the horizon.

  How could things change so quickly?

  Blue sky, to stormy sky, to blue sky, followed by what will likely be a calm starry night.

  It was surreal.

  Equally surreal was the fact that they’d had to flee their home, which they had set fire to once they had gotten everything they couldn’t spare into the van.

  It was just like the weather.

  One moment she had been in the family room going through the new schoolgirl’s backpack while her daddy made smiley-face pancakes, the next he had been in a complete panic, pancakes forgotten, telling her she had ten minutes to pack her things—all because she had gotten excited about finding an Apple Watch in the side pocket of the schoolgirl’s backpack and sh
owed it to him, stating how she could now see how many steps she and Bitsy walked when they went exploring in the fields behind the house, her fingers fiddling with the buttons so she could start tracking.

  It was crazy.

  She had never before seen him freak out like that.

  And it didn’t seem to go away.

  He had tried to mask it once they were on the road, voicing statements on how it was time for a change of scenery anyway and how he had been considering purchasing a summer home for them to head to during his vacations, but beneath the words she could hear the terror.

  All because of the Apple Watch.

  If she hadn’t shown it to him, everything would have been fine, but show him she did, her excitement too much to contain.

  It had ruined everything.

  And then, as if things hadn’t been bad enough, they had gotten caught in the storm, her daddy screaming as he tried to get them away from it, nothing but open farm roads and empty fields stretched out before them, the roar of the storm intense, power lines sparking, tree branches flying, and then they were tumbling, the impacts as the van bounced across the ground jarring her brain until she blacked out. The next thing she knew, she was hanging on her side, seat belt digging into her breasts and stomach, a faint thumping sound from the back of the van echoing.

  Daddy was dead.

  It was the first thing that registered, his lifeless eyes staring at her from where his body was crumpled against the driver-side door, seat belt unlatched, a stiffening left hand tight against his throat, which she had later discovered had been pierced. By what, exactly, she couldn’t tell, but it had opened his throat and caused him to bleed out, his hand unable to stop the flow.

  Bitsy?

  Would she have killed him while he was stuck?

  No.

  Bitsy wouldn’t hurt a fly, of that she was certain.

  But where had she gone?

  In her mind, she had a visual of Bitsy shaking her over and over again and then saying something about going to try to find help, but she had no idea if that was real or just something her mind had created following the storm. One thing she did know, Bitsy was not one to act upon her own intuition, so for her to make a decision to go and get help, things must have seemed pretty bad.

  They were bad, her mind noted.

  Still are.

  Daddy was dead, Bitsy was missing, and a police officer had already come to investigate—all because something had happened while Daddy had been hunting, something with the schoolgirl who had been in the box while they were driving, a box that had seemed to protect her better than the seat belt had protected Daddy. It was unreal.

  And unfair.

  Up until now, her daddy had seemed…

  She didn’t know, but she had never before considered the possibility of him being dead. It just didn’t seem possible. It had to be a dream, needed to be a dream, one that she would wake up from, her body curled around the pillow in her bedroom, the sounds of her daddy coming home with his latest schoolgirl echoing, Bitsy bringing her coffee…

  No.

  Bitsy wouldn’t be able to bring her coffee when she woke up, not after Misty had lifted her off the ground by her wrists in the dungeon as punishment for what she had done the other night, punishment that wasn’t really fair given that Misty had demanded such actions from her.

  Was that why Bitsy had left?

  Was she upset by what had happened?

  Had she decided she no longer wanted to be Misty’s toy?

  Could she decide such a thing?

  Misty put a hand to her head, a dull pounding still present from when she had cracked it against the passenger window during one of the tumbles, all the various thoughts and questions not helping.

  This wasn’t a dream.

  She wasn’t going to wake up come morning and find her daddy enjoying himself in the cellar dungeon with a new schoolgirl, his video camera rolling, the electronics within capturing the activities so that he could watch them over and over again once the girl was beneath a peach tree in back, body helping it grow. Or would this one be apple? Or pear?

  Misty didn’t know.

  Never would.

  Nor would she get to watch the video while Daddy was at work, her fingers popping the lock on his door so that she could sit on the carpet before the TV, eyes glued to the screen, watching as he dressed the girls up in school uniform outfits and had his way with them, their mouths screaming against the gags as he put himself inside of them, his body thrusting and grunting until he let out a loud moan and then heaved with exhaustion. Sometimes she couldn’t help but laugh, his face and the sounds he made tickling her funny bone. Other times she simply watched and studied, questions building, ones that she would sometimes address with him, though only if she could figure out a way of asking without him realizing she had violated his bedroom space.

  Most would now go unanswered.

  With this realization came the sadness, tears once again welling in her eyes.

  First her mother and now him.

  Both gone, never to return.

  And Bitsy was missing.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  She had never been alone before, and soon it was going to be dark.

  A shiver raced through her.

  She was scared.

  Though he couldn’t see her given that his back was to the barn, Norman could hear the girl struggling against her bonds, the clink of the handcuffs unmistakable.

  Several minutes passed, and then, “Hello?” she asked, voice dry and crinkly. “Are you awake?”

  “I am,” Norman said, somewhat surprised that she had been able to get at the tape given that her hands had been cuffed behind her back. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Abigail Abbott.”

  He did not recognize the name

  “You’re a police officer?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Are more coming?”

  “I don’t know,” he said after a few seconds.

  She didn’t reply to this.

  Norman wanted to ask her questions, but before doing so he decided to shift himself around so that he could see her and she him. It took several minutes, the squared wooden edges difficult to work around as pieces dug into his back and arms, but eventually he succeeded in the endeavor and found himself facing into the barn rather than a wall.

  Abigail was against an old wooden livestock stall about ten feet to his left, her wrists now threaded through one of the rails behind her head rather than being locked behind her back, the tape that had been around her mouth earlier now dangling around her throat, the new position having allowed her to work at it with her fingers until her lips were free.

  They stared at each other for several seconds, an odd awkwardness present.

  “Were you in the van?” Norman asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  She shifted herself a bit, a wince escaping. “I have no idea. One moment I was in this wooden box that he had put me in, the next I was bouncing all over the place thinking I was going to die.” A weak laugh escaped. “I thought the girl was helping me when she finally opened the box, but I guess not because she simply dragged me all the way over here into the barn.”

  Norman considered this, trying to figure out what to ask, but then she asked her own question.

  “Where are we?”

  “Smallwood,” he said.

  “What state?” she asked.

  “Illinois.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Where did you think we were?”

  “I had no idea. He grabbed me while I was walking home from school in Casewell, North Carolina.”

  “When was that?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Tuesday then.” She shook her head. “He snatched me right off the road and put me into the box, and then we drove for hours and hours until he finally got to wherever it was
he was taking me, his home, I guess, and then he pulled me out of the box.” She wet her lips. “I thought he was going to rape me or something right there, but instead he dragged me into this house, into a cellar, and chained me to a wall and left me there.”

  Norman waited.

  “I think it was my Apple Watch that freaked him out.”

  “Apple Watch?” Norman asked.

  “It’s like an I-phone, just it’s a watch. I had one in my backpack since I’m not allowed to wear it during class.”

  “Why did it cause him to freak out?” Norman asked.

  “I guess he thought the police could track it or something.” She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe they can. All I know is he came down with it to where I was chained and started demanding to know if it was making a map on Facebook. He kept saying ‘like those penis outlines students do’ and shaking me to answer, and then eventually he unlocked me from the wall, dragged me back into the van, and put me back into the box.”

  “Penis outlines?”

  Another shrug. “People do things like that with activity trackers. You just turn it on and start walking and it will map out your route, so if you want to make a design you simply walk a route that will create it.”

  “And your watch could do that?” Norman asked.

  “Probably. I never used it like that, but I’m sure it could.”

  “And would it map out a route from North Carolina to here?” Norman asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  “But he seemed to think it was possible.”

  “I guess.”

  “And it has some sort of GPS or tracking in it?”

  “Yeah, just like a phone.”

  Norman considered this and then asked, “Any idea where the house was, the one with the cellar you were chained in?”

  “No.”

  “How long do you think you were in the box this second time?”

  She thought about this and said, “I really don’t know. Not as long as the first time. And we only stopped once, I’m thinking for gas.”

  Norman nodded and then regretted it, the movement causing blood to run down the back of his throat, choking him, which in turn caused pain to flare up within his broken nose.

  She decided to bury her daddy, which was what she had been planning to do when the policeman had shown up, the old shovel she had found in the barn having worked well as a weapon when he had gone inside and spotted the schoolgirl on the ground. The only problem, she didn’t know where Daddy would want to be. If at home, she would have put him next to her mother, who had been buried beneath the second peach tree not far from the old well, her sweetness seemingly having an influence upon the peaches that grew from that tree because they always tasted far better than the ones from the others. But now that wasn’t possible, her excitement over the Apple Watch having made it so she could not bury him near her mother, or anyone else he knew, the spot she eventually picked, wherever it ended up being, one that would produce nothing but loneliness from here on out.