Christopher clutched his father’s hand. “Help him, Dad!”
“He’s okay. There are people behind curtains who reach out and touch you, that’s all.”
Indeed, Gordon was now laughing. “This is insane. Wait’ll you guys get to this next part.”
A bright light flashed, revealing a noir tableau: a man in a grave, covered by writhing snakes.
This time John choked back a scream. He hated snakes, even fake ones. His heart rate ratcheted up; beads of cold sweat broke out on his neck. “How are you doing up there, Grace?” he asked when his blood stopped pounding in his ears.
“I’m fine.” Her reedy voice sounded steadier than anyone else’s.
Next the solid floor gave way to something squishy that sucked at their shoes.
Christopher reared back. “What’s that?”
John nudged him forward. “Soft plastic. You’re imagining something worse. That’s what makes it scary.” John congratulated himself on sounding so calm. Truth was, he hated not knowing what would happen next, hated feeling out of control. Whoever designed the House of Horrors knew what they were doing. He was afraid.
Bang! Another brilliant flash revealed a leering face and a smoking gun.
“Aieee!”
Miriam, screeching like a banshee. John wondered how close they were to the end. He listened for sounds of the teenagers ahead of them, but heard nothing. Maybe it was almost over.
More grasping hands, more slimy surfaces. They felt their way across a rocking bridge, squeezed though a passageway where growling animals exhaled on them, and finally turned a corner into the light.
“We made it!” Christopher shouted as he stepped into the lobby.
“Awesome! That rocked!” Gordon said.
“Yeah, it was really cool.” The daylight restored Christopher’s bravado. “What was your favorite part? I bet yours was the snakes, Dad.”
“Oh, definitely the snakes.” John put his hand on Grace’s shoulder. “How about you, honey? Are you mad at the boys for taking you into that awful place?”
She looked up at him soberly. “I’m not mad. None of it was real.”
“Let’s see our picture,” Christopher shouted, running over to the computer monitors.
John followed his wife and children, passing the group of now-quiet teenagers waiting restlessly near the exit. The blond boy wasn’t with them. The prettiest of the girls complained to the others. “Oh my God, can we just go? Shane’s stunts are getting so old.”
“There we are. Number seven.” Gordon pointed out their group.
They studied the monitors, laughing and pointing out their ridiculous expressions.
John stood silent. There was something off about that picture. Then it clicked.
Grace wasn’t in it.
MIRIAM and Grace napped in the back of the minivan; Christopher played with his Game Boy; Gordon rode shotgun with John, controlling the radio as they drove home.
John still stewed over Grace’s absence from the House of Horrors photo. “Why does it bother you so much?” Miriam had asked as they packed to leave. “We weren’t going to buy the picture anyway.”
“I just don’t understand how she could have gotten cut out. She was right in the middle of the group.”
“She must’ve slipped ahead of Gordon at one point.” Miriam’s voice held no concern. “It was so dark, and things kept brushing up against me. I wouldn’t have noticed.”
John wanted to accept the logical explanation, yet remained troubled. Of the five of them, why did it have to be Grace who was omitted from the family photo? It was as if the House of Horrors knew she was a foster child, not a real Harrigan. She didn’t act like it bothered her, but who knew? She held her emotions close. No drama queen, Grace.
Is that why he had trouble warming up to her? Because she was so unlike his image of what a little girl—a daughter—should be? Where were the giggles and hugs and silly songs? The tears and pouts and stomped feet? Maybe that’s the daughter he would have gotten if he had let Miriam go through another pregnancy as she pushed forty. But John was a student of statistics, and he simply couldn’t accept the risk. Down syndrome ... prematurity ... respiratory failure ... cerebral palsy—the “Advanced Maternal Age” chapter in the pregnancy handbook offered twenty pages of nightmare scenarios.
They had argued for months about having a third child. And Grace had been the compromise. Perfectly healthy, obviously bright, in need of a home after enduring some hard knocks. A chance to save a life instead of create a new one that might go horribly awry.
John remembered how she looked when they first brought her home: hair that seemed to have been cut by a blind man with a dull penknife, pathetically skinny ankles sprouting from outgrown jeans, her only toy a mournful one-eyed stuffed dog. Of course he felt compassion for her—anyone would. But love? Even after Miriam spruced the child up and made her look, outwardly, like every other little girl in the neighborhood, there was something off-putting about Grace. Something that kept John at bay.
“Hey, Dad, listen to this,” Gordon’s excited voice brought John out of his funk. His son cranked up the radio, and a newscaster’s voice filled the minivan.
“New Jersey State Police are investigating the disappearance of sixteen-year-old Shane Malone. The teenager was last seen at a popular tourist attraction, the House of Horrors, in Seaside Heights. According to authorities, Malone apparently entered the dark, mazelike haunted house and never emerged. A search of the building revealed no signs of foul play. Pretty strange stuff, folks. Please keep an eye out for Shane. He’s five ten, one hundred fifty pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. And now, here’s the Red Hot Chili Peppers ...”
“DID you see how much Grace ate for breakfast this morning?” John said as he helped load the dishwasher the following Saturday morning. “Three big pancakes and four strips of bacon, and she’s still as thin as a rail.”
“It must be a holdover from her babyhood. Do you think she remembers being hungry?” It wasn’t the first time Miriam had asked this. She was plagued by what she knew of her foster daughter’s past. The five days Grace had spent as a toddler alone in her apartment with Mittens the cat, sharing dry kibble from a bag Mittens had resourcefully clawed open. CAT SAVES ABANDONED TYKE—John and Miriam remembered reading the headlines six years ago, never suspecting at the time that the traumatized child in the story would one day live with them.
If Grace remembered, she never spoke of it. She acted as if her life began when she walked through their door.
“Just keep pumping her full of food, honey,” John told his wife. “Buy her a hot dog at the game today.”
“I don’t like baseball,” a light voice piped.
John spun around to find Grace standing the in kitchen doorway.
“Can I please stay home?” she asked.
“Not all alone.” John grabbed the Windex and started spraying the counters.
Miriam and Grace both stared at him quizzically. “She wouldn’t be alone,” Miriam said. “You said at breakfast you were staying home to do some yard work.”
“Oh. Yeah, right.” John scrubbed at a sticky spot. “I just meant she wouldn’t have anyone to play with, since I’ll be working.”
“I don’t want to play. I’ll help you work.”
“Isn’t that nice! Daddy’s little helper!” Miriam beamed.
“Great,” John said.
“There you are.” Christopher charged into the kitchen and grabbed Grace by the arm. “Let’s go out to our clubhouse until it’s time for me to go to my game.”
“Grace is so good for Christopher,” Miriam said, watching the kids run out to the patch of woods behind the house. “She gives him a chance to be the leader, instead of following Gordon around like a lost lamb.”
“Do you think they should be out there alone?” John asked. “Is it safe?”
The police had called earlier in the week looking for any information the Harrigans could provide about the House of Horror
s and the group of teenagers with Shane Malone. John had answered all their questions, even put Gordon on the line since he had been the first person to follow Shane’s group. The detective had seemed disappointed in what little they had to offer.
Miriam gave him a quick hug. “I know. I’ve been feeling overprotective lately, too. I keep thinking it could have been one of our kids, snatched away in the dark while we were right there beside them.”
John stared through the kitchen window. “You’re right. It could just as easily have been Gordon or Christopher.”
“Or Grace,” Miriam said. She shivered. “I can’t imagine how horrible it would be not knowing where your child is.”
John put his arm around Miriam’s shoulders. “You’re right. Nothing is worse than not knowing.”
JOHN got so absorbed in trimming the ivy in the side yard he didn’t notice when the boys and Miriam left for the baseball game, and he forgot about Grace’s offer to help him. Then he ripped up a particularly ornery vine, staggered backward, and there she was, staring at him expectantly from the edge of the lawn.
“Do you want to load the ivy clippings into the garden cart?” was all he could think to offer.
She didn’t answer, didn’t even smile, but ran off to get the cart at lightning speed. They spent the next hour working as partners. He showed her how to use the garden shears; she stopped him from chopping down an azalea. Grace’s keen eyes missed nothing—she pointed out a bird’s nest in the rain gutter and a praying mantis eating aphids off Miriam’s roses. And as skinny as she was, she was strong, wheeling cartloads of clippings to the curb.
While Grace was off with the last load, John admired the manicured border. Some ivy leaves trembled, and a garter snake came slithering out. It crossed inches away from his sneaker and curled on the flagstone path to soak up some sun. As John stared at it, the tiny snake lifted its head and shot its forked tongue out at him. John felt a revulsion so deep the trees and lawn seemed to melt away. The whole world was the snake. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t force a sound from his constricted throat.
Then a fragile hand slipped into his. “Don’t be afraid,” Grace said.
John smiled down at their clasped hands. When he glanced back at the walk, the snake was gone. He scanned the ivy. No movement there.
“Where did it go?” he asked Grace.
The doors of the minivan slammed, and running feet pounded down the driveway.
Grace’s pale green-gold eyes met his without hesitation, and she smiled. Then she pivoted and scampered off to meet Christopher, shouting the answer over her shoulder.
“Away.”
JOHN rolled through the channels after the kids went to bed, while Miriam stretched out beside him reading a book. The Mets were busy blowing a lead. He’d seen this episode of Friends so many times he could practically recite the dialogue. Despite Miriam’s dirty look, he kept clicking until a sound bite brought him up short.
“... missing teen, Shane Malone. Authorities are calling this a true locked-room mystery,” the voice-over said as the camera zoomed in on the House of Horrors. “There are only three doors in the building, and all three were manned on the day of the disappearance. No one saw Shane leave, and the honor student and high school quarterback remains missing even as police work round the clock to find him.”
The screen flashed to a yearbook photo of Shane in a shirt and tie, hair neatly trimmed, smiling confidently at the camera.
“Kid was kind of a jerk, wasn’t he?” John asked as he stared at the TV. “He made fun of his friends and mocked Christopher, a kid he didn’t even know.”
“He was rude, that’s all,” Miriam said. “No worse than Gordon can be.”
No worse than Gordon, except Gordon was here, and Shane had disappeared.
John studied his wife. Her hands, still so slender and delicate, were never still, even when she was reading. Absently, she looped a strand of honey-colored hair behind her ear. The summer sun had brightened it, but some of the highlights were silver, not gold. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated on her book. How much Christopher looked like her! How similar was Gordon’s nervous energy! Suddenly John felt crushed by the love he felt for Miriam and for his sons. No harm could ever be allowed to come to them. Never.
John flung back the covers.
“Where are you going?” Miriam asked.
“To check on the boys. And Grace.”
GORDON slept flat on his back with his hands at his sides, a carving on a royal tomb. He was as tall as his mother; his feet were as big as his father’s, but to John, Gordon looked as innocent as he had the day they’d first laid him in his crib. Christopher sprawled diagonally across his bed, one foot dangling, one arm hugging the pillow. John rearranged the blankets and listened to the sweet harmonic breathing of his sons. Reassured, he backed out of their room and opened the door across the hall.
Miriam had gone off the deep end with the princess motif. Bubblegum-pink walls, frothy white curtains, pink shag rug, and, in the center of the floor, a canopy bed. He squinted, trying to make out Grace’s tiny form in the midst of all those pink covers. Finally he spied her curled on the far edge of the bed, as if she were sharing it with a sumo wrestler, so insubstantial she barely dented the pillow.
As John watched, Grace rolled over and slowly sat up. Her eyes were wide open, and although she faced him, John could tell that she didn’t see him. When Christopher had episodes of sleepwalking, this was what he looked like—awake and asleep at the same time.
Grace stretched out one arm, palm flat like a crossing guard stopping traffic. “You can’t come back,” she said distinctly. She was quiet for a moment, as iflistening. John felt an irrepressible urge to look over his shoulder. Then Grace spoke again. “He’s not like you, that’s why.”
Who? Who was different? Who was she talking to?
“Grace!”
The sharpness of John’s voice jolted the little girl. She blinked, and her eyes came into focus. She yawned. “Is it time for school?”
“No, it’s the middle of the night. You were talking in your sleep, so I came to check on you.”
“What did I say?” she murmured as she sank back into her pillows.
John shifted his weight. His bare feet felt terribly cold, even standing on the fluffy rug. “You were saying someone couldn’t come back.”
“That boy.” Grace burrowed into the covers. “He’s been asking, but I won’t try.”
John lowered himself onto the foot of the bed and rubbed his sweaty palms on the quilt. “Try what?”
Grace rolled onto her side and drew her legs up. She was wearing pajamas printed with a pattern of cats and mice having a tea party. Her voice was soft and groggy. “To bring him back.”
John leaned closer to hear. A sweet smell of shampoo and fabric softener and sleep enveloped Grace. “Back from where?”
A hand touched John’s shoulder. He leapt off the bed, wild-eyed.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, honey.” Miriam patted his arm. “What’s going on?”
“Grace was dreaming,” John said, trying to steady his breathing. “She’s going back to sleep now.”
“GOOD news!” Eyes shining, Miriam flung her arms around John the minute he walked in from work. He danced around with her, enjoying her happiness without knowing its source.
“I just got the call from Social Services,” she said. “Grace has been cleared for adoption!”
John froze.
“Honey? Isn’t that great?”
He slipped out of Miriam’s embrace. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t think it would be so soon. I thought they needed to get her biological parents to sign something.”
“The police weren’t able to track them down. Why even try? They were drug addicts—the social worker says their parental rights have been terminated.”
“What about the aunt who Grace lived with for a while?” John asked.
“She’s not claiming Grace, either. She’s so stressed out by her
financial problems since her husband abandoned her and her kids, she can’t cope with another child.”
“Doesn’t he pay child support?” John asked.
Miriam shrugged. “If the government doesn’t know where you are, they can’t make you pay.”
John was silent, staring at a spot somewhere to the left of the refrigerator. All he could see was the brown and green garter snake.
There, and not there.
THE sinking sun cast long shadows over the backyard. John sat in the family room nursing a beer. A cool breeze blew through the sliding doors, carrying voices into the room.
“I shouldn’t have done it. I made a bad mistake.”
John cocked his head to listen. That was Grace.
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”
Christopher was reassuring her about something. What wasn’t her fault? What didn’t she know?
“Well, I know now,” Grace said impatiently. “It’s not the same as when I sent my parents away. I have to try to fix it. Otherwise it’s just not fair.”
“Don’t worry,” Christopher said as he slid the screen door open. “I’ll help you.”
“Don’t worry about what?” John’s newspaper trembled in his hands.
Christopher and Grace stood side by side. “Nothing,” they chorused, and ran off.
Watching their sneakered feet pumping in unison, John felt a strangling vine of dread twist around his heart.
He went into the kitchen. All Things Considered played on the radio. Five yellow plaid placemats waited on the table. Miriam stood at the counter chopping vegetables.
Where to begin?
“Honey? I’m ... I’m a little worried about Grace.”
Miriam stopped chopping.
“She seems to think... I mean, I just overheard her tell Chris that she ... she sent away—”
“Oh, that.” Miriam waved a carrot. “Lately she’s been telling me all about how she sent away her parents.”
Crimes by Moonlight Page 11
