The Girl in 6E

by A. R. Torre

  Blood. I want it. I need it. My hands shake, barely controlled. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I spit out.

  He reaches backward, stumbling till he finds the door handle, his red hands slipping on it, then turns the knob, falling backward into the store, his hand returning to his face. I lean over, take my items, and walk through the store. I hesitate briefly by the register, grab a plastic-wrapped prepaid cell phone, and walk out the door to the parked truck. The words come again, louder. GO. Annie.

  CHAPTER 66

  THAT NIGHT, IN my childhood kitchen, surrounded by carnage—my mother dying in front of me—the screams that came from my mouth weren’t cries of mourning. They were because when I stabbed her, when I shoved that knife in, again and again, when her blood soaked my hands and hit my face, I had experienced relief. I had taken her soul, extinguished her life. My mother, the person whose shoulder I had leaned on, who had packed my lunches, kissed my cuts, and been my inspiration, was dead. I had killed her.

  That long, agonized scream was for the life I had taken, both hers and mine. It was a scream for what, in that instant, I had become.

  It is 6:04 a.m. when I pull off the highway, turning down the two-lane road. The road curves around on itself, taking me back parallel to the highway. The GPS indicates that I turn left, and I look in vain for a quarter mile till I see a thin dirt road. I turn down the road, the ruts causing a vibration throughout the cab. Fog is heavy in the air, blanketing the fields in white clouds, all but obscuring my view of anything beyond the clay road with deep ditches on either side. I almost miss my destination, slamming on the brakes beside a white metal gate that is chained closed with a shiny new combination lock. A NO TRESPASSING sign is visible, hanging from rungs on the gate. Bingo.

  I get out of the truck, leaving the door open, and look around: nothing but fog, trees, and empty road. The closest house is about a half mile behind me, a small clapboard frame set flush against the road, acres of fields surrounding it. I need to leave the truck somewhere and advance on foot. I get back behind the wheel and call Mike.

  “God, I’ll be glad when this shit is over.”

  “Yeah, earning money’s a bitch. Pull up a map, and tell me how Ralph would get from his house to this place. I need to know which direction he’ll drive down this road.”

  “What road?”

  “The fucking road I’m on!” I fumble with buttons on the GPS, pressing the wrong thing and zooming out to a map of the world. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Damn, you are bitchy in the morning. Are you on the road that the trailer is on?”

  “Yeah. I’m looking at a white gate right now.”

  “Okay, I am pulling you up on GPS also. Just an update, lights are on in Ralph’s house, but no one has left yet. The cops watching the house are leaving at seven.”

  “Going where?”

  “Getting off shift. They’re not watching him today.”

  “Fuck. His cell still puts him in the house?”

  “Yeah, unless he’s sleeping at the neighbors’. He’s in the area of the house, so yes.”

  “A simple yes will do.”

  “Again, bitchy.” He breathes loudly into the phone. “Okay. If he heads to the rental, and follows any type of normal thought process in driving there, he’ll take the quickest way, which would have him traveling west down that street.”

  “I don’t have a fucking compass, Mike. I don’t know which way is west.”

  He laughs, ridiculously chipper for being up all night. “You came from the east.”

  “Okay.” I put the truck in drive, backing up, my taillights illuminating only fog. Then I hit the brakes. “How do you know which direction I came from?”

  “Uh…what?”

  I speak slowly, certain that my anger seeps through each word. “How. Do. You. Know. Which. Direction. I. Came. From?”

  “Just assumed.”

  “Bullshit. You know where I live?”

  “Uh…yeah. You think I can track Ralph’s cell but not yours?”

  I try to control my panic, not comfortable with where this is going. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Uh…yeah.” In those two words he is able to communicate both wariness and pride.

  “How easy was it to find out?”

  “Not easy. I followed your—”

  “Stop. I’ll bitch you out about it later. Fix whatever gap you crawled through so no one else can follow suit. Now. And keep an eye on Ralph’s cell.”

  “Will do, boss. You know that bullshit security package you paid for doesn’t cover shit. A few months ago I hacked in and amped up your firewalls. But there’s still more I can do. I—”

  “Mike,” I interrupted him, “just fix it. You can upsell me on more services later.”

  “Sheesh. Just letting you know. You’re welcome for the free security upgrade. Don’t forget, you know I gotta leave soon. Like in an hour.”

  “Protect my privacy. Watch Ralph. Please.” I end the call and look over my shoulder, putting the truck into reverse and accelerating backward, looking for a place to turn around.

  I find a place to pull over and park the truck, then grab my backpack and lock the vehicle behind me. The parking spot hugs a curve of trees, far enough off the road to avoid unwanted attention. If someone comes from the west, it’ll be hidden unless they look in their rearview mirror. If someone comes from the east, the gray truck will stick out like a sore thumb. I say a quick prayer as I trudge through thick dirt toward the locked gate and, hopefully, toward Annie.

  As I walk, I think, trying to prepare for what is ahead. I have only ever thought of my demons as constricting—heavy chains that I drag around, trying constantly to wrestle myself free of—their cumbersome weight restricting me in daily movement, stopping me if I try to reach too high or go too far. The thought that I could actually put this personality quirk to good use—to help someone instead of hurt them—has put a glimmer of hope into my heart. A glimmer that I am trying my best to ignore. Hope is dangerous. Hope leads to expectations, which lead to disappointment. Disappointment in others is tough. But disappointment in yourself is far worse. I’m not expecting others to disappoint me. No—I am my own dream killer. That hope, that spark of expectation that I might aspire to something greater than evil? That hope will learn the taste of disappointment. Others letting you down is ice cream and cookies compared with the rejection of your own soul. I don’t know what is sadder, expecting myself to fail or being too scared to dream of success.

  CHAPTER 67

  THE GATE’S SOLE purpose seems to be keeping out cars: there is a two-foot gap on either side of it. I walk through, starting to jog as soon as I hit the road, a curving, rutted path—cutting a tight hole through the heavy woods. Google Earth had shown the trailer about two hundred yards down this road. With the sun already peeking through the trees, I need to move quickly. My feet work their way over the ruts, visions of a twisted ankle sashaying mockingly through my mind. My legs tire quickly, not used to cardio, and I have a stitch in my side by the time the trailer finally comes into view. I slow, ducking into the woods. Crouching over my backpack, I unzip it.

  I pull the gun out first, switching off the safety and setting it softly on the ground beside me. I check my sweatshirt pocket, closing my hand briefly around the stiletto knife, reassuring myself of its presence. I finger the ski mask I had packed but decide not to use it. I want him to see me. I want him to recognize me, to know that he was the cause of his own demise. My cell buzzes, quiet against the fabric of the mask. I flip it open and speak quietly into the receiver.

  “Yes.”

  “Police escort just left Ralph’s.”

  “It’s early!” I fumble for my sleeve and pull it back to reveal the watch face: 6:16 a.m.

  “There was a report of kids spraying graffiti at the local high school. They needed someone to check it out. You’re talking about a small town here. There’s only one deputy out right now.”

  “Fuck.”


  “I can hack into his financial grid, which will tell me if he uses his credit cards, but that has a bit of a delay. I got no eyes on his vehicle, just his phone. But I can’t see him leaving the house without that. And you know I gotta—”

  “Yeah. You gotta leave soon. I know.” I hang up the cell and stuff it in my pocket, carrying the gun in my hand. I leave the pack and step out of the woods, staring at the sad excuse for a trailer.

  All trees have been cleared from the patch of land it sits on. It’s a shame, really, because it makes the shabbiness of the trailer even more apparent. It just slumps there, dingy and neglected, damaged flashing around its base. It had originally been white but is now a yellowed gray, either from pollen or mildew; it’s essentially one long box with only one window visible. Two concrete blocks sit beneath the metal front door, a diamond peephole at eye level. No cars are in sight, but there are fresh tire tracks on the dirt.

  Crunch. My steps, taken as gingerly as possible, make the noise of an entire marching band on dead pine straw. I avoid the tire tracks and walk around the side, my steps quickening as I move to the back of the trailer.

  The doors are locked, and I knock on the back door—hoping, wishing that for once it will be easy. That Annie will come bounding to the door, put her hand trustingly in mine, and we will go skipping out to Jeremy’s truck together—my mind free of murderous thoughts—her innocence intact, spirit unbroken. No one answers the door, so I move to the first window and use my knife to pop the screen, then try to pull up the uncooperative glass.

  The third and last window to the trailer is my salvation. It slides up stiffly, dirt in its tracks, and my gut clenches in excitement and anticipation. I place both hands on the sill and heave my body up and into the dark space.

  The interior of the trailer smells of emptiness, stale old cigarettes, and wet towels. I know, standing in the empty bedroom, pale green wallpaper peeling off the walls, that the trailer is empty. The structure is too still, too quiet. Nevertheless I move, stepping into a hall, through another bedroom, a bath, living room, and finally a kitchen.

  I search the trailer twice, first with careful trepidation, then in desperation, but the minimal furniture makes the task depressingly simple. No one. There is no blood, no signs of a little girl. No Annie.

  I sink onto the couch, an orange floral disaster that practically bends in half under my weight. Could I have been wrong? I had never made a physical connection between Annie and Ralph. I had found this rental in his computer, verified his depravity in his computer, and assumed that his fantasy Annie was the same girl as the missing Annie. What if he just fucking hunts? Has no little girl tucked away? What if he satisfies his sickness with our Internet chats? What if I had killed him and he had been, in terms of Annie, an innocent man? The stress and adrenaline of the last twenty-four hours come hurtling down on me, hard stones on my fragile sanity, and I sway from the gravity of the situation. A second possibility enters my mind, one I had fought to ignore the entire drive. I might be too late. I stand, looking at the window through which I had entered, facing the fact that I might be leaving empty-handed.

  I do another sweep of the trailer, looking for bloodstains or splatter, a pair of pink jelly sandals, or a glitter bow, or a big fucking ANNIE WAS HERE sign. Then I leave, ignoring the window, unlocking the front door, and stomping down the stairs, despair filling every step. I stand against the mildewed side of the trailer, trying to figure out my next course of action, when I hear an engine.

  My eyes flip open as I crouch, a ridiculous action when there is nothing to crouch behind. I run, around the back of the trailer, my eyes searching the surrounding woods, looking for cover, listening to the sound growing louder, closer. It has to be close to the gate. It would take a moment for him to stop, unlock the gate, and come in. My feet trip, stuttering in their step when my eyes catch on the outbuildings, on the wooden framework that is probably a deer hang, a small shed behind it.

  It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.

  So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.

  I run for the shed, cursing my stupidity with every step, excitement growing as the truck engine roars.

  CHAPTER 68

  CAROLYN THOMPSON

  CAROLYN THOMPSON WAKES up alone in bed, the first time this has happened in more than three years. She lies still in a moment of quiet solitude before reality hits and the tears come. She closes her eyes tightly, swallowing sobs and suppressing the emotions that threaten her sanity. She needs to be strong: for Henry, for Annie, and for herself. Annie is still alive. She knows that, needs to believe that. She feels that if Annie has passed, she would feel it. Surely a mother would know. For now, she prays that wherever she is, whomever she is with, she is not in pain, and she is not scared.

  Finished with her prayers, she rises and pulls on her bathrobe. She walks down the empty hall to the living room, then pauses at the entrance, watching her husband. His neck slumps at an odd angle; he has slept in his chair, his hand resting on the phone in hopeful anticipation. She knows without waking him that a call has not come. She moves forward, grabs a small pillow from the couch, and places it gently underneath his head, moving his neck into a more comfortable position.

  She steps quietly through the kitchen, wanting Henry to sleep as long as possible, prolong his peace. Once she has a cup of coffee in hand, she returns to the bedroom, picks up the corded phone, and presses the buttons for the police station.

  Five minutes later, she hangs up the phone and makes her way back to the living room, cradling the warm coffee cup in both hands. There are no updates. Michael stayed home all night, and their interest in him is now waning. The most likely scenario is that Annie has been taken out of town, possibly out of state. Calls had come through on the AMBER Alert hotline reporting sightings of her as far as six hours north. But the calls always came too late—the police were always fifteen minutes behind, the trail cold by the time they arrived. Her hand trembles around the coffee cup, her mind filled with horrific images of the possibilities. If Annie’s abductor is on the run, if they’re moving north, maybe that is better than her being locked away somewhere, alone with a madman.

  Michael. Her thoughts focus on the possibility that she has tossed and turned all night over. She has examined every piece of their upbringing and cannot find a hint in those memories of anything sinister. If only she could talk to this girl who had called the hotline. She had pressed John for more information, but he had only repeated the same things over and over. Sexual conversations. Centered on a young girl named Annie. She had told John that it must be a mistake—the girl had referred to him as Ralph, after all. No one referred to Michael by his first name. But John had stayed firm. The girl had provided his address. It was Michael. She watches her husband sleeping, his chest rising and falling in uneasy breaths. He is an extension of her soul, a partner in life as well as by law. And they share, more than anything, a love for their little girl. Her mind returns to Michael, and she has a sudden thought. She sets down her coffee and hurries to the bedroom, shedding her robe and yanking open the dresser drawer.

  Becky. If anyone will know this about Michael, it will be his wife.

  CHAPTER 69

  THE GUTTING BARN has a huge new padlock on it. It is the first observation that gives me any hope. I press my eye and then my good ear to the crack between the doors, hoping for any sign of what is inside. I’m met with darkness…silence. I turn, listening as the engine in the distance continues, without pause, past the front of the property, its grumble fading as it moves farther away. My phone vibrates, the movement startling me, and I crouch, tugging at my pocket until I get the phone in hand, then sliding my finger along the screen when I see Mike’s name.

  “This better be important,” I breathe.

  “Problem. Ralph’s credit card dinged thr
ee minutes ago at a BP station eight miles north of you. I don’t know the delay in posting…it could be anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes. But Jess, you need to get out of there now.” Mike’s voice is breathless, strain evident in his words, the rapid click of keyboard strokes sounding in the background.

  “Fuck. What’s his cell phone say? Why didn’t you see him leave?”

  “It’s still pinging at his house.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “He must have left it at home. It’s a stroke of luck the prick used his credit card.”

  Urgency now coats my movement. I end the call and stuff the cell in my pocket, feeling a drip of sweat run down the side of my face. I tug at the lock in vain, then move to the window, trying it and then stepping back, measuring the distance before striding forward and kicking the glass. Visions of it splintering beneath my foot, an explosion of power, are overimagined—the only result of my kick is a spiderweb crack. I step back and try again, putting everything I have into it. My foot goes cleanly through, jagged edges of glass catching my leg as I pull my foot back. I tug my sweatshirt sleeve over my fist and knock out the sharp pieces, then hoist my body up and into the dark hole.

  Fear.

  It is a strange feeling, one I haven’t experienced since that night in my family’s kitchen. It invades me now, cutting off my breathing and finding its way into my heart, its grip reaching around and squeezing it tightly. Fear of the perversion inside that man. Fear of failure to protect Annie. Fear of wasting the homicidal rage within me.

  I hang for a minute—half in the window, half out—my eyes trying to adjust to the room. There is a low table beneath me, and I bring one foot up to the sill and crawl down, stepping gingerly on the table until I am sure it can hold my weight. The room smells of death, a smell that brings me instantly back to my childhood kitchen. The flashback causes an uneasy curl in my stomach, and I try to table the emotion, to save the desire for a time when it will be best served. I hear something and freeze, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I hear it again. A whimper—small and muffled. And it is in the room with me. Annie.