The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  Angie Waltz scarcely resembled the girl he’d tangled with at the gas station and looked even less like the rainswept specter who’d scared the living crap out of him last night by conducting her vigil in the middle of Hillcrest Road. But despite the fact that she now looked quite sultry—if a bit cheap—in her too-short white tank top and her skimpy Daisy Duke jean shorts, those dreadful feelings of the night before returned to Joe like symptoms of a terminal disease. Angie moved toward him like some inexorable force of nature, and though Joe had only been acquainted with her less than twenty-four hours, he already felt like she was an albatross he was unable to escape.

  Shaun took a few backward steps, the young guy’s face showing plainly he wanted no part of Angie Waltz. Did Shaun know the girl already? Joe hadn’t thought to ask him, mainly because he was trying to forget about her. But if he thought of it later, he would ask. The two couldn’t be more than four or five years apart in age.

  “Hi, Joe,” Angie said, and the way she said it, with that white smile and languid complacence in her eyes, it was as though they were old friends rather than two people who’d needed to be physically separated yesterday. As though she weren’t the reason he wore white tape and gauze pads on his throat and jaw.

  Joe nodded and held his ground, but he’d be damned if he’d return that smile of hers.

  Her eyebrows went up in mock bewilderment. “You told me he was busy, Shaun. All he’s doin’ is having himself a drink.”

  Shaun kept his eyes studiously trained on Joe. “I told her we were busy. I told her we had to be outta here by the end of the month so Harold and Sadie could enjoy their new addition.”

  Angie planted her hands on her shapely hips and nodded toward the back of the house. “Harold and Sadie must have a fair amount of money to build on like that.”

  Joe said, “What can we do for you, Angie?”

  Angie cocked a hip. “That all you’re gonna say, Joe? After you get my baby taken away from me?”

  Here we go, Joe thought. “I told the police exactly what happened.”

  For just a moment, the yesterday Angie resurfaced. The tight lips. The flashing eyes. The tendons in her neck straining like some tethered mare.

  Then her expression changed into one of hurt. “He’s all I’ve got, Mr. Crawford. Little Stevie’s my whole life.”

  Little Stevie, Joe mused. Now where have I heard…

  Little Stevie Wonder, a familiar voice spoke up. We used to listen to him all the time, Joey.

  With a start Joe realized who that voice belonged to—his dad, Joe Crawford Sr., who along with his mom and little brother were the only people who ever called him Joey. Joe’s flesh began to crawl.

  Angie took a step toward him, just out of arm’s reach. Joe’s hands hung at his sides, but if the girl drew any closer, he’d have them up and ready to fend her off. He’d seen how quickly Angie Waltz could strike.

  “Mr. Crawford,” she said, one hand massaging her throat, the other cupping her elbow, “can’t you do something for us? I know what I did was wrong.”

  She must’ve seen Joe’s expression change because a deeper desperation seeped into her voice. “I’ve got a temper. I know it’s a problem, and I’m already calling around to get help for it. I saw what it could do yesterday. I saw—” Her eyes filled with tears, which looked genuine enough to Joe. She swallowed. “The last person in the world I’d ever want to hurt is Little Stevie. He’s…he’s everything to me, Mr. Crawford. Please don’t let them take him away from me because of one mistake.”

  And listening to the tremor in her voice and seeing the heartache in her eyes, Joe was almost convinced.

  Then a stern voice spoke up. Remember what Copeland said last night. The bruises on that kid’s body weren’t just from the gas station. There were old ones and new ones, bruises of every shape and color.

  Joe shook his head. “I don’t see what I can do, Miss Waltz.”

  She leaned forward a little, her eyes incredulous. “You don’t see, Mr. Crawford? What do you mean you don’t see?”

  “I mean what’s done is done. You beat the crap out of that child, and the authorities had to act.”

  “‘That child’?” she demanded, the gas station Angie appearing again like some sort of deep-sea monster emerging from the depths. “You mean my child, Mr. Crawford. You mean Steven Patrick Waltz, the only child I have and the only thing in this shit stain of a town that means anything to me.” As she spoke, her arms shook, and a little fleck of spit arced out of her mouth. But she didn’t advance on Joe. Not yet.

  He cast a glance at Shaun, who was watching the girl with a look that reminded Joe of a child watching the coming of a bad storm through a basement window. Shaun was scared to death of Angie, and Joe couldn’t blame him. Truthfully, Joe was too. He was still damned glad the kid was here. Who knew what kind of crazy story Angie Waltz might spread if she got Joe alone?

  Joe took a steadying breath, met Angie’s fierce glare, and said, “I didn’t pull into that gas station with the intention of breaking up your family, Miss Waltz.”

  “But you sure did it, didn’t you, Mr. Crawford? You sure as hell broke up my family, you took it right away.” And now she did advance a step. All kinds of warning bells went off in Joe’s head, and he saw that Shaun’s expression had gone from trepidation to outright terror. Joe knew why. The tornado had come, and it was worse than Shaun could’ve imagined.

  He had to get her away from this house, had to move them all three back toward the driveway, where he might stand a chance of talking her back into her van or broomstick or whatever she’d ridden here. But something deep down in him, some primitive instinct perhaps, told him he’d have to stand his ground here in this shadowy backyard. Because if he didn’t, if he showed any weakness at all, it would haunt him later on. Or cause her to attack right now.

  Joe said, “What should I have done, Miss Waltz?”

  “Quit calling me that,” she said, and now Joe smelled something on her, something that reminded him of mouthwash, but almost certainly wasn’t. It reeked of hard alcohol, Jagermeister or some such thing. And now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t detected it earlier. She was swaying a little. That unsteady lilt to her gait, he’d taken that for a seductive saunter. But it wasn’t. It was inebriation.

  “Okay,” Joe said. “What would you like me to call you?”

  “I dunno,” she said, her voice a little slurry. “How about Sweet Tits or Hot Buns? You keep lookin’ me up and down enough, you might as well talk to me how you want to.”

  Get out of here, Joe, the voice in his head ordered, and though Joe knew this was sound advice, something held him back. Stubbornness? Gentry would’ve said so. But Gentry was off today. It was just Joe and Shaun, and Shaun wasn’t going to be worth much in this situation. It was up to Joe to deal with it.

  So deal with it, he told himself.

  “You need to sober up, Miss Waltz. If you want your boy back, you’re going to need to show them you’re willing to change.” He paused, then forced himself to add, “Drunk and angry won’t cut it.”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. None at all. “You really think that’ll make a difference? You really think some judge or that fucking social worker’s gonna care if I stop drinking or take a few classes?”

  “Look, I don’t—”

  “It’s your story that has to change,” she said, and all of a sudden she was grasping the front of his flannel shirt. “Can’t you see that, Mr. Crawford? It’s your story. You and your wife, you two were the main witnesses. If you guys change your story, they’ll give me Stevie back.”

  The booze smell had enveloped him like a sinister aura. Beneath that he could smell the woman’s body odor, a scent that was at turns beguiling and repugnant. Like sweat and sex and unwashed bedsheets.

  And something else, he realized now. The
reek of ashes. Unaccountably, the flesh of his arms began to tingle.

  “Miss Waltz, you should probably go.”

  “Angie,” she breathed. “Please call me Angie.”

  “Okay…Angie, I don’t think what you’re asking’s possible. Besides, I only told the truth. Same with Michelle. Why would we lie about it? What could we possibly have to gain?”

  It was as if Angie hadn’t heard him. She continued to gaze up at him with that imploring look, her forearms hot against his chest, her alcohol breath puffing over him in steamshovel waves.

  “Look,” Joe said, “I wish yesterday had never happened. But—”

  “It didn’t,” Angie said, shaking her head vigorously, her eyes huge with hope and irrational faith. “It didn’t happen, Mr. Crawford! We can just make it go away. We’ll tell the cops and that bitch from CPS it was all a misunderstanding, and I can get Stevie back. They’ll drop the charges and everything’ll go back to the way it was before.” He didn’t think it was possible, but she drew even closer, standing on her toes now so their faces were only inches apart. “You didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Crawford. I can see that in your eyes.” She stared deeply into them. “They’re kind eyes. Handsome eyes. You’d never do a woman wrong on purpose. Would you?” Her breath wafted over him, through him, insinuating its way up his nostrils, and making him a little dizzy. Her body had pressed against his, and her tight belly and the fabric of her jean shorts were melding into his midsection.

  My God, Joe thought. Does she actually think she can confound me with sex?

  He put his hands on her shoulders as gently—and platonically—as he could and moved her away. But she bit her lip and clung to him, a teardrop streaking down one cheek and more of them queuing up in her big blue eyes. “Please, Mr. Crawford,” she whispered in a choked voice. “Please help me. I’ll never touch Little Stevie again, except to love on him.” She clutched his shirt harder, pulled their bodies together. “I’ll do anything you want, Mr. Crawford. Anything at all.”

  Joe swallowed. “Please let go of me, Miss Waltz.”

  Angie watched him for a long moment.

  She exhaled trembling breath, the embers of hope in her eyes guttering. She let go of him, took a couple swaying steps backward.

  Her hands clasped in front of her mouth, she whispered, “You won’t help me, Mr. Crawford? Please?”

  Joe suppressed the urge to puke. “I’m sorry, Miss Waltz. I’ve done all I can.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides, her expression going dead. Uncanny, he thought. Just like that. Just like a jack-o-lantern candle extinguished by a frigid October wind.

  Her dead eyes locked on his. She said, “So that’s it?”

  A tremor of fear passed through him. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him with such ancient hatred that he felt cold all over. “So am I, Mr. Crawford. I’m sorry too.”

  Chapter Four

  Neither Angie Waltz nor her mother showed up at the worksite again that week, but the maroon van must’ve passed by Joe’s house twenty times a day during that span. While Joe was lifting weights. When he and Lily were reading.

  Now, as he sat across the kitchen table from Michelle, with Lily in her highchair flinging SpaghettiOs in every direction, Joe heard the rusty muffler buzzing up the street again.

  Michelle dropped her fork on her plate. “Goddammit. That’s the third time since we sat down.”

  Frowning, Joe glanced at Lily to see if she’d try to mimic the cuss word her mommy had just uttered. Thankfully, the girl was too busy slathering her cheeks with orange sauce.

  Michelle said, “Can’t you call Copeland?”

  “And say what? That the Waltzes are using a public street again?”

  “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

  “I’m not,” Joe said. He tried to enjoy a forkful of the Thai salad leftovers they were eating. The stuff still tasted good, though the lettuce was a bit slimy. “That’s what he said the other night. ‘Unless they set foot on your property, there’s nothing we can do.’”

  Michelle motioned toward the front of the house, where the rusty muffler was burring by. “So by that reasoning, I could go stand in front of their house and just stare at them?”

  Joe chewed his salad. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to do that.”

  “I’m just making a point.”

  Joe kept quiet.

  “Couple of white trash rednecks,” Michelle muttered. “Probably live in a trailer park.”

  “My parents and I lived in a trailer when I was little,” Joe said. “Nothing wrong with it.”

  “Stop defending them.”

  “I’m not. Anyway, they don’t live in a trailer. They’re over there on Crosser Street.”

  Lily chattered about five little monkeys. It was currently her favorite book.

  But Michelle was frowning at him. “How do you know where they live?”

  Joe shrugged, sat back. “I followed them the other day.”

  Michelle gaped at him. “Joe. Are you crazy?”

  He could not suppress a grin. “I love it when you say my name like that. Making it two or three syllables.”

  “This isn’t funny! Those women are bad news.”

  Joe eyed Lily, noticed she was watching Michelle with trepidation. “Take it easy, hon.”

  “I won’t take it easy. I’m scared. It’s been a week already. How long do they plan on stalking us?”

  Joe got up, wetted a washcloth from the drawer, and began the job of removing the patina of orange glop from his daughter’s face, hands, and hair. The clothes were a lost cause. When he’d gotten some of the SpaghettiOs off, he removed Lily from her highchair and patted her diapered behind. “Go play with your trains, honey. Daddy will be along in a minute.”

  Lily squealed and jogged to her room to play on her train table. Joe plopped down in his chair. “I imagine they’ll keep on bothering us until they get tired of it.”

  Michelle’s brow knitted. She was gazing out the kitchen window, maybe listening for a recurrence of the muffler. “Maybe if she gets her boy back she’ll forget about us.”

  Joe sat forward, interlaced his fingers. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  Michelle looked at him. “How do you know?”

  “I talked to Copeland the other day. When you demanded we get a restraining order on the Waltzes?”

  The seams in Michelle’s forehead grew more pronounced.

  Joe sighed. “Copeland said there’s no way she’s ever getting that boy back. In fact, she’s lucky to be out of jail. He says the judge would have set bail higher if he actually thought there was a chance of Angie making it.”

  “How can they do that?”

  “Do what?”

  Michelle made a vague gesture. “Take her child away. Permanently, I mean.”

  Joe grunted. “You want Stevie back in that house?”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “Angie said it.”

  As soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d never told Michelle about Angie Waltz’s visit to the Hawkins worksite.

  “You talked to her?”

  Joe knew he couldn’t make up a passable story—he’d always been an abysmal liar and knew he’d never be able to fool Michelle—so he explained how Angie had shown up. He told her pretty much everything, minus the part about how Angie had pressed her supple, half-naked body up against him as part of her persuasion.

  When Joe finished, Michelle shook her head. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Well, I am worried. I’m worried those bimbos are going to do something violent.”

  “I haven’t heard the word bimbo for probably ten years. I’m glad you’re bringing it back.”

  �
��It’s not funny, Joe.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What did Copeland say?”

  “That between the bruises on the kid, the incident at the gas station, and the drug paraphernalia in the Waltzes’ house, there was no way Little Stevie was going back to live there.”

  Michelle seemed to crumble, her arms dropping to her sides. “Do you have to call him that?”

  “It’s his name, isn’t it? Besides, I feel sort of responsible for the little guy.”

  Something new seemed to creep into her eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  He paused. “What are you worried about, Michelle?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Everything?”

  Outside, the ragged buzz of the van’s muffler sounded again.

  “Goddamn them,” Michelle whispered.

  Joe pushed away from the table. “Nothing we can do, honey. I’m gonna play trains with Lily.”

  “You own a gun, Joe?”

  Joe stared at Darrell Copeland. The big cop had his forearms planted on the side of Joe’s truck bed, which was parked in the graveyard. Joe was leaning against the rocker panel, arms folded, facing the woods. “Why would I need a gun?” Joe asked.

  Copeland shrugged. “Might not hurt to have one.”

  Joe studied the cop’s profile. “That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

  “Don’t read too much into it.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “You think so? You think Angie and her drug friends are big fans of mine? The cop who came and took her baby away?”

  “Has her van been doing laps around your block?”

  Copeland didn’t answer. He looked around apprehensively. “You sure this was a good idea, Joe? Meetin’ in a graveyard?”

  “It seemed like it at the time,” Joe said. “Now it feels a little macabre.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Why do you think I need a gun?”